Frank realized he’d taken things too far. Do you have any idea, Nate, the ramifications of that man’s presence?”
“Sure. FBI for one. Your wife’s reaction, for another. Irony is, I don’t think Marilyn, in the long haul anyway, scares so easy. You’d think Frank would understand that even though your brothers-in-law don’t.”
“How so?”
“Marilyn isn’t just another lay, Peter. That’s how Jack views her, and maybe how Bobby views her, although he’s got a naive enough streak to really fall in love with her, temporarily.”
Lawford was slowly nodding. “Actually, I agree. Marilyn is like Frank. She’s on that level of fame, of importance. As someone wise once said, it’s Frank’s world-we just live in it.”
“Right now he’s living in Marilyn’s world.”
“I can’t disagree.” The president’s brother-in-law lighted up a cigarette and flashed that winning smile of his. “All right, friend Heller-I’ll tell one and all that Marilyn’s doing fine. You were with her all night?”
“Yeah.”
“No excess pills?”
“Nope. She didn’t even order an extra champagne bottle from room service. She was a good girl.”
Lawford frowned as he exhaled smoke. “Are you doing her, too, Nathan?”
“Not last night.”
And I went back inside.
By the time she woke up, around 1:00 P.M., breakfast had long since passed.
I had watched a little television, with the sound way down, and on the news picked up on a tidbit of interest: Bobby Kennedy was in Los Angeles, giving an address to the National Insurance Association. Was Bobby’s being in LA this weekend another reason for spiriting Marilyn out of town? If Marilyn heard about this-make that when she heard about this-beauty would turn into beast…
Anyway, I managed to order up a light room-service breakfast for Marilyn, despite it being well into lunch hour, and had them bring me a Cobb salad. We ate on trays and said little, though Marilyn seemed in good spirits.
She got dressed, getting back into the lime-green top and white capris, tying a white scarf over her messy hair. All I needed was to brush my teeth, having slept in the polo and shorts.
On our way to the pool area, we made a stop at my cabin, where I returned the nine-millimeter to the suitcase and the toothbrush to a glass in the john. Marilyn was standing by my unused bed patiently, sunglasses on, looking less like a movie star than some tourist getting over a hangover.
I said, “That killer we spoke about has taken a powder.”
“You just love to talk like a private eye, don’t you?”
“Why, didn’t you know they based the guy on 77 Sunset Strip on me?”
She smirked prettily. “Who, the one who parks cars and combs his hair?”
As it happened, I was combing my hair, having wet it down since I had morning cowlick. “Don’t you know Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., when you see him? Anyway, Giancana is gone. Should be smooth sailing, rest of the weekend.”
Unless she found out about Bobby being in LA.
It wasn’t far to the pool area, a short walk up a gravel incline. Buddy Greco was swimming and being gregarious, and a bare-chested Sinatra in shorts was sitting quietly, maybe even sullenly, reading Variety. Lawford was perched on a higher stool near Sinatra, like a good-natured bird of prey, trying to prove to the world and himself that Frankie and Charlie the Seal were still best of buddies.
Marilyn posed for a few pictures and was in giddy good spirits. At one point she went over and kissed Sinatra on the lips, kind of a loud smack.
“What was that for?” he said, looking up at her with a grin.
“It’s because I love you, anyway.”
The grin went away and something vaguely hurt took its place. “I’m always looking out for you, Zelda. I hope you know that.”
“We shoulda got married, Frank. We really should. That would’ve given them something to talk about.”
The grin returned. “Yeah,” he said, “for the three or four weeks we’da lasted.” Then he waved her off and returned to his paper.
Soon Marilyn was over talking to Greco and a shapely brunette with a bouffant that made for a sort of Martian look. I was told the brunette was Roberta Linn, who was opening for Greco in the Indian Lounge, though I’d never heard of her. Not that she didn’t have a shape worth knowing.
Anyway, they were laughing and talking, and Greco was pretending he was going to throw Marilyn in the pool. I went over and took the deck chair next to Sinatra. Lawford had wandered away-maybe because his idol wasn’t paying any attention to him.
“I hear our friend Momo checked out,” I said.
“Yeah. He had another engagement.”
“Nice of him to support you like that, opening night and all.”
“Are you cracking wise, Charlie?”
“Not with Jilly and the other chipmunks around.” I nodded across to where several of Sinatra’s bully boys sat in bathing suits, in their own deck chairs, sunning themselves like big dead fish on a beach.
Frank gave me a foul glance. “You think I like this?”
“Being king of Cal-Neva? Sure. You love it.”
He grunted a non-laugh. “I mean helping these jackasses handle Zelda. She’s too good for them.”
“Then why help?”
His eyebrows rose. “You have any idea the trouble that broad could cause, with what she knows?”
“Sure I do.”
“Anyway, I couldn’t use the grief.” He shook his head. “Not that I haven’t about had it with these damn Kennedys.”
“You get asked to the White House, don’t you?”
“Through the side door.” He said “fuck” silently. “This is all Bobby’s fault. Snotty little prick. Why did Old Joe have to get a fucking stroke for Christmas, anyway? Gonna give me one.”
That comment resonated-it confirmed my suspicion that Sinatra had dealt with Joe Kennedy, not Jack and certainly not Bobby, when he arranged for Outfit help in the West Virginia and Illinois presidential sweepstakes. The old boy’s stroke last December had put his two oldest sons in charge of their own destinies. His reckless, arrogant sons…
Lawford and his wife, who wore a tan sport shirt and matching slacks, strolled onto the pool’s cement skirt hand in hand-and wasn’t that suspicious-and went over and spoke to Marilyn, who was sitting at the edge of the pool with her sneakers off, kicking idly at the water, her conversation with Greco and his opening act having passed.
Soon Lawford was leading Pat and Marilyn-chattering like schoolgirls-away from the pool area. The trio went into the lodge, to do what, I had no idea.
“Peter and Pat’s suite is in there,” Sinatra said, nodding toward the rustic main building that hovered over the pool area.
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know. I’m not in the inner circle, Charlie-are you?… Listen-something you should know.”
“What?”
“Marilyn’s ex showed up last night, trying to get in. How he knew she was here, I have no fucking idea. But we were booked up, and when I found out the bastard was around, I made sure he wouldn’t be allowed in, if somebody canceled.”
“Which ex?”
“Which do you think? DiMaggio.”
Sinatra and DiMaggio and I had a history together. Back in ’54, paisans Sinatra and DiMaggio were drinking
