Originally ensconced on the Ambassador’s lower level, the club had become so popular—after only four months!—that the management was sent scurrying to relocate the nightspot in the hotel’s grand ballroom, renovating it in keeping with the original’s tropical decor. Coconut palms (left over from the set of Valentino’s The Sheik) rose to a twinkling, azure sky, high above rococo Moorish furnishings in Deco-ish red, gold, and black. Simple cane chairs accommodated the ever-changing procession of famous backs and backsides, while a mural of island mountains and waterfalls added to the aura of a movie-set Pacific paradise.
No desert under a real starry purple sky could boast an oasis more dazzling, nor decadent. In the 1920s, Joan Crawford had won Charleston contests here, and John Barrymore brought his pet monkey to swing from the trees. In the 1930s Rudy Vallée headlined, Jean Harlow frolicked, and volatile lovers Lupe Vélez and Johnny Weissmuller slugged it out; and until ’36, the prestigious place even hosted the Academy Awards. Throughout the 1940s—even after the war when nightclubbing waned—the Ambassador thrived, and remained Hollywood’s acknowledged “Playground of the Stars.”
As the 1950s wound down, however, the Ambassador Hotel and its famed Coconut Grove were beginning to lose their luster…. If the grand old lady of Los Angeles wanted to continue to attract the ever-fickle Hollywood set, she would need a facelift at least as good as those of the older stars who still frequented the place. So in 1957 a $750,000 renovation toned down the palm-flung, Moorish ambience, a modernization appropriate to the likes of Jayne Mansfield, Jack Lemmon, Sophia Loren, and other modern stars.
In the fall of 1959—even as Los Angeles pushed itself west toward the ocean, threatening to leave the Ambassador straggling behind—the hotel remained the choice of many of the elite of show business and beyond.
It was not, however, the hotel that Jack Harrigan had chosen to house Nikita Khrushchev and crew—although the press had been told the premier was staying there, to throw the bloodhounds off the scent. Keeping tabs on the Russians at the Ambassador, along with all the other guests at the sprawling facility—not to mention the nightclub patrons—would have been a logistical nightmare… especially with the relatively small security team Harrigan had at his disposal.
Which was why the Soviet guests were staying at the more secluded Beverly Hills Hotel, where the main building was smaller than the Ambassador’s, and the landscaped grounds more friendly to Harrigan’s prowling security force.
But the dinner tonight would be held at the Ambassador, a fact that Harrigan deplored; this aspect of the dictator’s itinerary had not been his call.
After the State Department man had left Marilyn Monroe’s bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he’d returned to his own room, just down the hall from the Presidential Suite where the premier was billeted; the fat little man should be resting, at the moment, after a hard day of stirring the local shit. Khrushchev’s family was in a separate suite, away from the snorting snoring of their paterfamilias. The agent took a quick shower, and changed into another wrinkled suit—straight from his suitcase, there’d been no time to send the threads out for a pressing—and within minutes was striding through the Beverly Hills Hotel’s lavish lobby and out into the parking lot.
Soon Harrigan was driving along Sunset Boulevard in a government sedan, the California sun just beginning to set, casting soothing unreal shadows on the shabby reality of Hollywood. Traffic was on the slow side, giving Harrigan time to reflect on his meeting with the movie star.
He knew, from his first encounter with the woman, that Marilyn Monroe was no dummy—she had her scatterbrained side, yes, but that brain often scattered itself in most impressive and surprising ways. And certainly she had appeared sincere in her concern for the premier’s safety, and afraid of the ramifications his assassination might bring—she’d had tears in her eyes, for Christ’s sake!
But then, she was an actress, and like all of her ilk, prone to the over-dramatic.
One thing was for sure, though: her story, her concern, was no publicity stunt. After all, the woman had been cleared to sit in the balcony next to Khrushchev during the floor show at Fox Studios, and by her not being there, Marilyn had given up extraordinary media coverage, the kind any actress, or actor, would just about kill for.
Still, it seemed obvious to Harrigan that Marilyn Monroe was not exactly dealing with a full deck—not that he felt any guilt for taking advantage of her back in New York… she had manipulated him, hadn’t she? Any shame he felt was for the unprofessionalism of it. Not that he had minded her answering the door naked today—even now his trousers were tented with the memory.
By her own casual admission, the actress was under psychiatric care, and she’d even offered to play pharmacist for Harrigan. Not that any of this was news to the State Department man: extensive FBI files had been made available to him on everyone coming into direct contact with Khrushchev, including Marilyn, whose file mentioned the movie star’s daily trips to a shrink… and her heavy use of (and even possible addiction to) barbiturates and alcohol, which would naturally distort her perception….
The lovely actress had been correct about one thing, however, which had made the back of Harrigan’s neck tingle; in fact, the skin back there was tingling right now, as he tooled along Sunset. The agents guarding Khrushchev—besides being far too few—were burned-out cases about now, weary, bleary, not at the top of their game… himself included. Even if his boss Bill Larsen could arrange for more men tonight, they would be arriving pretty much after the fact: Khrushchev and his entourage were flying out of Los Angeles in the morning.
So.
Harrigan and his people only needed to make it through one more night….
On the third floor, just outside the banquet room doors, Harrigan found Sam Krueger, gazing in on where the civic dinner honoring Khrushchev was to be held in just a few short hours.
The round-faced, sandy-haired FBI man waved him over. “The hotel has been combed,” he reported. “Looks like we won’t be bothering the bomb squad. As we suspected.”
“Good.”
Krueger nodded to the nearby bank of elevators. “Only the one on the far right stops here,” he told Harrigan. “We have our own men acting as elevator operators on all three. And the other two cars will bypass this floor…”
Nothing of this was a surprise to Harrigan, who said, “Fine.”
“… and we have men positioned on the stairs to check everyone coming up.” Krueger gestured to the two wide carpeted staircases on either side of the elevators.
“Okay.”
“Wish we could have talked the hotel into closing down the Coconut Grove tonight. Those extra people make security all the tougher.”
“Yeah.”
Krueger grinned at him. “You’re a card, today, aren’t you? Are the rumors true, you dropped by Marilyn Monroe’s bungalow this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Well?… Get any?”
“Not this time.”
“Not this time…. You are a card.” Krueger nodded toward the banquet doors. “Come on inside.”
Harrigan followed the shorter agent into the dining room where massive chandeliers glimmered like icicles high above linen-covered tables set with gleaming sterling silver and sparkling crystal goblets… and where prominent businessmen and businesswomen of Los Angeles would soon have the honor of supping with the premier of Russia, and hear him speak in his less-than-dulcet tones.
Harrigan wondered what these poor bastards had in store for them tonight—raving, ranting, the pounding of a fist on linen-covered table, most likely. He could hardly wait… for it all to be over.
“There won’t be reporters at any of the tables,” Krueger was saying, gesturing around with a pointing finger. “They’ll be divided along the walls… here and here.” He indicated the right and left of the dais.
“I don’t want them crowding the platform,” Harrigan said.
“They’ll be told not to go beyond the fi
rst row of tables…. So what did the blonde bombshell want? To hold your service revolver?”
“She thinks somebody’s going to try to kill Khrushchev tonight.”
Krueger’s eyebrows climbed. “Really? Did she show you her Junior G-man badge pinned to her brassiere?”
“I don’t think she wears a bra.”
“You don’t think she… you’re a card, I tell ya.”
A swinging door to the kitchen opened and a man in his late fifties, wearing a black tuxedo, emerged carrying a pitcher of water that was a silver closely matching the color of his hair.
“Headwaiter of the Coconut Grove,” Krueger said. “Of course, you know that, from all the times you and Marilyn have been here.”
“We don’t usually go out,” Harrigan said.
“Just stay at home, huh? Quiet evenings.”
“That’s right.”
“Card.”
Following the headwaiter out through the swinging kitchen doors came a dozen or so other men, all younger, wearing black tuxedo slacks, white shirts, and stiff white aprons. They gathered around the older man, who began instructing them on the proper way to fill water glasses and serve dinner plates.
These were not ordinary bus boys, however, rather FBI men under Krueger’s command, whose eyes would be searching the seated guests for anything suspicious, as they waited on the tables.
Harrigan and Krueger returned to the hallway where other security men had taken their posts by the banquet doors and elevators, in anticipation of the soon-to-begin arriving crowd. A few reporters were already there, including William H. Lawrence from the New York Times—and Harrigan groaned when he saw him.
“Christ, Sam,” Harrigan whispered to Krueger, “who let that son of a bitch in?”
In New York, Lawrence had infuriated Khrushchev at a National Press Club conference, by demanding an explanation of the premier’s earlier statement, “We shall bury you.” It was safe to assume the reporter wouldn’t make life any easier on Khrushchev tonight—or Harrigan and his men.
“I did.” Krueger shrugged. “He had a press badge.”
“Is that all it takes to get in here?”
Lawrence was by the elevators, bending over a squat ashtray stand, extinguishing a cigarette, when Harrigan approached him.
“Lawrence,” Harrigan said.
Lawrence looked up, smiled unpleasantly, as he stubbed out the smoke. “Agent Harrison.”
“Harrigan. Get your facts straight.”
The reporter straightened. “I always do.”
“I hope you plan to behave yourself tonight.”
Lawrence gave him a mock-innocent smile. “Who, little old me?”
“Yeah. Little old you.” Harrigan thumped the man’s chest with a finger. “You cause any trouble tonight, I’m going to throw your ass out of here, personally.”
Lawrence’s expression turned lip-curl defiant. “Hey, pal, ever hear of freedom of the press? I can ask that commie bastard whatever I damn well please.”
“Of course you can.” Harrigan latched onto the reporter’s lapels and shoved him against the wall and went nose to nose. “’Course, you know what they say—freedom isn’t free.”
“Hey!” Lawrence bleated, wide-eyed. “You can’t do that!”
Harrigan let loose of the man and stepped away. “I must be imagining things, then—’cause I thought I just did.”
Krueger’s hand settled on Harrigan’s shoulder. “Jack,” the FBI agent whispered, “take it easy.”
Lawrence was smoothing out his suit coat, trying to regain his dignity, sputtering, “Somebody’s gonna hear about this! You don’t fuck with the press.”
“After foreplay I do,” Harrigan grinned and stepped forward, and the reporter jumped back and scurried off toward the banquet room doors.
Krueger was looking at Harrigan, who said, “What?”
“He might file a complaint.”
Harrigan shrugged. “His word against ours, buddy.”
“Suddenly you’re too much of a card.”
“S.O.B.’ll think twice before causing trouble tonight.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ve goaded him into bein’ a bigger bastard than he was planning on.”
Harrigan sighed. “Yeah. Well.”
Krueger patted Harrigan’s shoulder. “Jack, why don’t you go cool off somewhere? I got this covered.”
Harrigan grunted a laugh and gave Krueger a rueful grin. “Sorry, Sam. That guy gets under my skin.”
“Which seems to be pretty thin, right now.”
“Maybe so,” Harrigan admitted.
“A guy with Marilyn Monroe in his pocket oughta be in a better mood.”
“I suppose so…” He checked his watch. “… I guess I’ll go on down to the service entrance…. K should be arriving soon. You seem to have everything under control up here.”
“I did till you showed.” Krueger smirked. “Go!” He gestured to the small walkie-talkie attached to his belt. “I’ll call, if I need you to shake somebody down or something.”
“Okay.”
Taking one of the curving staircases next to the elevators, Harrigan trotted down to the second floor. As he neared the bottom, a beefy FBI agent with a blond crew cut was in the middle of his own argument with a journalist.
Harrigan knew the reporter, John Davis from Newsweek, a guy about as mild-mannered as Clark Kent but with absolutely no possibility of turning into a man of steel; Davis was also one of the few in the press who’d been giving Khrushchev a fair shake.
The slight Newsweek reporter spotted Harrigan. “Hey! He knows me. Ask him!”
“What’s this about?” Harrigan asked the brawny FBI agent.
“Guy doesn’t have a badge,” the agent said, frowning, jerking a thumb at Davis. “And he’s trying to talk his way in. I’ve told him ten times that’s not a possibility.”
The reporter spread both hands, palms out. “And I’ve told him ten times I must have lost the darn thing.” He looked pleadingly at Harrigan. “You’ve cleared me before… John Davis, Newsweek… remember? You’re agent Hannigan, right?”
“Harrigan. Yes, I remember.” To the FBI agent he said, “This one’s okay. Pass him through.”
But the agent shook his head. “Sorry, sir. No badge, no entrance—those are my orders.”
Normally, Harrigan would have agreed. But his recent altercation with Lawrence had left a sour taste in his mouth; he didn’t need any more bad press with the press.
“I’m the one who sent down those orders,” Harrigan told the agent. “Let him in. I’ll call Sam Krueger by walkie and Sam’ll meet him upstairs, and clear him.”
The FBI agent raised his eyebrows at this breach, but reluctantly stepped aside.
“Thanks,” Davis said to Harrigan, “I owe you one….”
“Then do me a favor,” Harrigan responded. “Take it easy on Khrushchev with the questions, will you?”
“Haven’t I always?” Davis replied, and hurried up the stairs.
Harrigan stepped away from the beefy FBI agent and got Krueger on the walkie-talkie, informing him of the Newsweek reporter coming up the stairs.
“And spread the word we may have an interloper,” Harrigan said.
“What?” Krueger’s voice crackled back. “What do you mean?”
“We may have an extra badge floating around.”
The first segment of the evening, the dinner, went smoothly, and for that, Harrigan was grateful and relieved. The three hundred or so businessmen and businesswomen of Los Angeles—much more conservatively dressed than their Hollywood counterparts—behaved respectfully toward the premier of Russia, giving him an enthusiastic round of applause when he suddenly appeared from an entrance behind the dais. The clapping continued until the beaming Khrushchev took his seat at the long banquet table.
The atmosphere of the room, while certainly not festive, did seem upbeat to Harrigan, even optimistic, as people chatted at their tables while the meal was served, even light lau
ghter occasionally sprinkling itself in.
Absent this evening were Nina Khrushchev and the grown children, who were being shown some of the local sights, an approved, highly controlled list that included Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the Santa Monica Pier, and one of those new outdoor shopping centers.
As Krueger had indicated, two groups of reporters were corralled at the left and right side of the dais—Harrigan noted, among those at left, the notorious William Lawrence of the New York Times, and on the right, Newsweek’s benign John Davis. Not that Harrigan was familiar with every reporter covering the evening’s event; some were new faces… others, members of the foreign press, possibly including a dark-haired, dark-complexioned fellow who seemed to be working hard to jockey his way toward the front of the pack, a camera in hand—though unlike his brethren, he hadn’t bothered snapping any shots yet.
Looking refreshed after his afternoon nap, Khrushchev—seated next to Henry Cabot Lodge—seemed to be enjoying himself. During the meal of garden salad, rare prime rib, and a large baked potato, the premier traded stories (through translator Troyanovsky, seated on Khrushchev’s other side) with the handsome, urbane U.N. ambassador.
As Harrigan made another slow pass in front of the dais, he picked up on Khrushchev saying to Ambassador Lodge, “You know, we had to force the people of Russia to plant potatoes—they were suspicious of them—and now we eat them all the time!”
Lodge leaned toward the premier. “Are they as big as this in Russia?” he asked with a smile, pointing to the huge potato on his plate.
“No,” Khrushchev chuckled. “Where I come from, we call that a Sputnik.”
Lodge’s laughter in response was genuine.
This was going so well that Harrigan was getting nervous.
As FBI waiters were clearing away the dishes, Norris Poulson rose from his chair down at the far end of the dais and approached the podium. Through narrow eyes, the State Department man watched the mayor of Los Angeles as if he were a suspect under surveillance. Harrigan had heard from Sam Krueger that Henry Cabot Lodge—in the lobby of the Ambassador—had given Poulson a dressing-down, over the mayor’s ill-advised, undiplomatic behavior at the airport.
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