“You know who I mean. He has a lot of names. Mooney. Gold. Flood. Giancana. Frank calls him Momo. What kind of name is that for a man-Momo?”
“I’m surprised you know him by any name,” I said.
“I don’t know him, really. But he’s a friend of Frank’s. So I’ve met him. He’s not supposed to be here, is he?”
“No.”
“Did Frank invite him?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he just showed. The guy is a co-owner of this place.”
“He’s also a killer, isn’t he?”
“He used to be.”
“Why, can you stop being one?”
Damn good question.
Suddenly she put on the brakes and clutched my arm even harder. “I need you to stay with me tonight.”
“Well, sure.” Some men might turn down an offer like that from Marilyn Monroe, but I wasn’t one of them.
“Only… we need to stop by your cabin first. Isn’t that your cabin? Right there?”
My nod affirmed that.
“Well, I want you to go get your gun.”
“What?
“I want you to go get your gun and you’re going to protect me.” She wobbled. “You’re my bodyguard, aren’t you?”
“Sam Giancana isn’t going to come shoot you, honey. Or send anybody, either.”
Her inebriation had her overenunciating, the way she did in comedy roles. “I am a threat. I am a threat to ev-ery-body. Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“Sweetie, the last thing Giancana or your friend Frankie would want is a dead body turning up here on their premises. A famous dead body would be even worse. Your famous dead body, particularly.”
She had started shaking her head halfway through that, her platinum tresses struggling to free themselves of their hair-sprayed helmet. “Get your gun. Get your gun. Get your gun.”
I got my gun.
She came in and peed while I traded my formal wear for a polo and chinos and sandals. The nine-millimeter, extracted from my suitcase, I stuffed in my waistband. My toothbrush I stuck in my pocket. A man with a gun and a toothbrush can go anywhere.
We made it up the stairs onto the balcony of her chalet, despite her stumbling a little. She found her key in the purse and let herself in, and I followed. It was a fairly standard if nicely appointed motel room, similar to mine, somewhat larger, same beige walls and rather small bathroom. The only extra touch was a round bed, like Hefner’s (minus the gizmos), with a pink satin bedspread. In the corner, angled to face the door, was a white, overstuffed chaise lounge.
She pointed at the lounge. “That’s your post.”
“Okay.” But I didn’t take my position just yet. “Gonna hit the hay?”
It was about 1:00 A.M.
She was over by the foot of the bed, or where the foot would be if the thing weren’t round. “I think so. I’m reading some scripts.” A pile sat on her nightstand. “I may take a few sleeping pills.”
“Just so you don’t overdo.”
She headed toward the bathroom. “I’ll be fine. Just a little chloral hydrate.”
“In my business we call that a Mickey Finn.”
“In mine,” she said, pills in her mouth, water running, “we call it Marilyn’s little helpers.”
I went over to the chaise lounge and stretched out. Comfy. Nearby, a floor lamp provided the only illumination. The nine-millimeter nudged me in that half-sitting position, so I placed it on the floor to my right.
She came out in a sheer bra and nothing else, her amber tuft nicely unruly.
“If I’m not being ungentlemanly,” I said, “why a bra and no panties?”
She cupped her breasts. “Pussies don’t sag.”
Wasn’t that a mystery novel by A. A. Fair?
She clicked on her bedside lamp and suggested I switch my light off, unless I wanted to borrow a script to read. I declined, and she got under the covers and read for a while, and in maybe five minutes was asleep. I went over, put the script on the nightstand stack, turned off the lamp, and returned to my post.
I was fairly tired, and maybe a little drunk, though nowhere near as tipsy as Marilyn had been. So I might have fallen asleep quickly if my mind hadn’t insisted on tormenting me with various nasty thoughts, the first of which was that I had brought a gun into the motel room of a woman notorious for suicide attempts.
If Marilyn used my nine-millimeter, at some despairing point in the night, I might as well use it on myself, too, for how little career I’d have left.
Then there was Sinatra. I didn’t believe for a second that Giancana’s presence wasn’t his idea, to remind Marilyn just how deep and dangerous were the waters she was swimming in, and I didn’t mean Lake Tahoe or the kidney-shaped pool.
But Giancana’s presence could cost Sinatra his gaming license, and guaranteed a weekend presence at the lodge of FBI agents, male and female, racking up fun expenses on Uncle Sam’s account. This, at the very time Marilyn-a Communist sympathizer in J. Edgar’s view-and President Kennedy’s sister were also Sinatra’s guests at Cal-Neva.
I couldn’t imagine Pat Lawford had been thrilled to find her brother Bobby’s nemesis playing host. But she was complicit nonetheless-this weekend wasn’t about celebrating MM’s new Fox contract, was it? It was about Peter and Pat putting the pressure on Marilyn. A real three-ring circus, and Sinatra was providing the tent.
But confronting Frank was pointless. First, the damage was done-Giancana had shown his lizard-like face and spooked Marilyn, and whether he was still around tomorrow was a moot point. Second, Sinatra was my client, and while I was Marilyn’s bodyguard, the Voice was paying the freight.
Don’t think it wasn’t tough work for a guy, trying to get to sleep in a lounge chair with a mostly naked Marilyn Monroe a few feet away. She was snoring a little, but that didn’t help, because even her goddamn snoring was sexy…
When the knock came at the door, sunlight was edging around the drapes.
Mouth thick, I glanced at my wristwatch-ten o’clock.
The knock wasn’t insistent, sort of tentative, but I went to answer it fast, because Marilyn was still sleeping, stretched out on her tummy with her dimpled fanny up and uncovered, and I didn’t want to disturb her. Or spoil the view.
While I knew it was ridiculous, I took my gun with me. Stuffed in my waistband again, but in back this time.
I cracked the door and looked over the night-latch chain at Peter Lawford. He looked quietly sporty in a black pullover and gray slacks.
“Nathan? Is Marilyn all right?”
I undid the latch, slipped out and onto the balcony. The sun was bright and glancing off the lake in golden shafts that cut through the green of firs.
“She’s fine,” I said softly, almost whispering. “Sleeping. She had a lot to drink last night. Let’s let her sleep it off.”
Lawford was smoking, nervously. “Do you believe that guy?”
He meant Sinatra.
“You mean, you don’t think having Giancana drop by to goose Marilyn was a fun party idea?”
He sighed, shook his head. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
I took a wild stab: “Your wife tore you a new one?”
He rolled his eyes. “Did she ever. From now on, when I sit upon the throne, it will be multiple choice, which orifice to use. But at least Frank has shooed that creature away.”
“Mooney’s gone?”
Lawford nodded, dropped the cigarette to the balcony floor and ground it out with a sneaker toe. “I think
