Bye Bye, Baby

by Max Allan Collins

  We were ringside, and Marilyn—wearing a clingy black gown that showed off her current, more streamlined figure—drank a little too much champagne but was fun, laughing company. At our small table, tuxedo-sporting Lawford was on my one side and Marilyn on the other, next to Pat, who wore a lovely but simple blue gown. I had on a white dinner jacket and black tie. When comic Pat Henry came on to open, Lawford put a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Could we speak?”

  We left the showroom and found a corner of the lobby.

  He stood close enough for me to smell his lime-scented cologne. It was almost enough to put me off gimlets.

  “How does Marilyn seem?” he asked.

  “She seems fine.”

  “Have you seen her take any pills?”

  “No. She’s off the pills.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not rooming with her. She’s hitting the bubbly pretty good tonight, but isn’t it a celebration?”

  “Not entirely. Listen, old chum, are you aware of what she’s been doing?”

  “You mean taking Twentieth Century–Fox to the woodshed?”

  “Not that—she’s been calling Bobby, or trying to.”

  “I heard something along those lines.”

  He sighed; he was a handsome devil, but looked closer to my age than his own. “She’s phoned the Justice Department switchboard perhaps a dozen times, screaming at them when they won’t put her through. Then somehow she wormed Bobby’s home number out of Jerry Wald—he’s producing the Enemy Within picture, you know—and got Ethel on the line, and, well, Bobby is just furious.”

  “Want to know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “Bobby needs to deal with this directly. He needs to speak to Marilyn, probably in person, and treat her respectfully. Essentially apologize for his bad behavior, and Jack’s.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “Don’t knock it, it got me out of the Marines. But if what you’re planning is to sit her down this weekend, so you and Pat can do Bobby’s dirty work, well … how did that turn out for you with Frank?”

  His expression turned defensive. “I’m here,” Lawford said. “And Frank and I are like this again.” He held up forefinger and middle finger entwined.

  I did the old gag: “I bet I can guess which one is you. Is this the first time you’ve spoken since the Palm Springs fiasco?”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “No maybe about it. You and Frank and the Kennedy boys all know how lousy this will look if Marilyn goes public.”

  His eyes and nostrils flared. “You’re telling me! She’s talking to Sidney bloody Skolsky about this, and just about every other columnist—they’re being gentlemen about it, even the ladies, but what if she holds this press conference she’s threatening? What then?”

  “She’s not a baby. She’s not stupid. She’s not a bimbo, either, even if Jack and Bobby treat her like one. She’s a genius, in her way, and a very important person.”

  “I know.… I know.…”

  “They’re users, Peter. They’ve used me. And they’ve used you. But I’m just a two-bit private eye who lived long enough to get respectable. And you aren’t exactly Brando or Olivier, are you? So they can get away with using us. But you don’t use Marilyn Monroe and toss her aside like she’s Jayne Mansfield.”

  He looked alarmed. “How did you know that?”

  “What?”

  “That Jack and Bobby had Jayne Mansfield, too?”

  What could I say to that?

  I just held up my hands in surrender and went back in to hear Sinatra sing.

  And it was a great show—a fantastic big band playing so hard and loud, it enveloped you, with that living legend teasing, delighting, seducing, and beguiling an audience that was the real instrument he played, those mature pipes tossing off songs like he was making them up as he went: “Come Fly with Me,” “One for My Baby,” “Luck Be a Lady,” “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” the son of a bitch was a genius.

  Like Marilyn.

  But for that brief intermission with Lawford, the evening had gone well, I thought. Marilyn hadn’t really had all that much champagne—if she’d eaten more than just a salad, she might not have shown the effects of those three or four glasses.

  Then things got weird.

  Right after Sinatra’s closer, “Chicago” (had that been for me?), when we were still seated, after the lights had come up and before Frank could come out and join us, somebody else did.

  Standing between Marilyn and me, like an evil dwarf, was Sam Giancana, elegant in his continental formal wear, well-tanned and ugly as hell, his hair dark going gray and thinning, his oval face home to tiny dark eyes, a lumpy nose, and a sideways slash of a smile.

  “I just wanted to welcome you to the Cal-Neva,” the Outfit boss said to us all. “Mrs. Lawford. Miss Monroe. Nathan. Peter.”

  Nobody knew what to say.

  Finally I managed, “Pleasant surprise, seeing you, Sam. But I didn’t think you were allowed at Cal-Neva.”

  His smile could darken up any room. “Ah, but I’m on the California side, Nate. It’s Nevada where I’m persona non grata.… Don’t mean to interrupt.” He nodded to one and all, then looked right at Marilyn, who had a stricken expression. “Have a lovely weekend, Miss Monroe.”

  He was moving away. No bodyguards. I found myself following him, catching up with him halfway out.

  “Sam—what’s the idea?”

  “Nothing’s the idea, Nate.” He was still moving, but not that quickly. The showroom was crowded, and exiting took a while, though some guests lingered for an after-dinner, after-show drink.

  I was at his side. “Did Sinatra know you were going to be here?”

  “Why, did you think he sang ‘Chicago’ for you?”

  I pretended that didn’t deserve an answer.

  We kept moving.

  I said, “Is the point to scare Marilyn shitless? Because I think it worked.”

  “I hope it did. She needs to concentrate on what she’s good at. Posing. Acting. Fucking.”

  That was ungracious, but I didn’t point it out; I think he knew.

  “She’s not going to cause any trouble, Sam.”

  “You guaranteeing that, Nate? Putting your personal assurance on it?”

  “Well … no.”

  He stopped. He bestowed another awful smile on me, even put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Just know that I appreciate you being here,” he said, looking up at me in a fatherly fashion, “and helping us corral this crazy cunt.”

  He patted my shoulder, and moved on.

  I didn’t follow him.

  When I got back to the table, Sinatra was standing there, tux tie loosened, smiling, asking his seated guests if they’d enjoyed themselves. Lawford was forcing a smile—not his best performance—and Marilyn looked pale and sick. Almost as sick and pale as Pat Lawford. Apparently Pat had recognized Giancana, which was interesting in itself.

  I went up to Frank and he, too, put a hand on my shoulder. Gave me a grin so dazzling it rivaled Johnny Rosselli’s.

  “Dig the show, Nate?”

  I gave him my coldest look, which is pretty fucking cold.

  “Which one?” I asked.

  CHAPTER 12

  Nobody argued when Sinatra invited everybody to join him in the cocktail lounge. It was one of the resort’s most popular spots, with a big circular bar under a colorful stained-glass dome. Frank had reserved the section by the tall windows overlooking the lake, whose surface was playing mirror for the sickle-slice moon. There, on stools, sat the Lawfords, Sinatra, Marilyn, and I—no sign of Giancana, but then green-felt tables lined the periphery. Definitely the Nevada side.

  The drinking was heavy and the talk was light, dominated by praise for Frank’s show (Lawford’s fawning got fairly sickening). Resort guests who said hi to Frank would get nods and smiles, even if he was in the midst of conversation; he was a convivial host unless somebody overstepped.
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  One guy in his forties with a thirtyish female on his arm came right up and said, “Frank, I want you to meet my girl.”

  Sinatra gave him a snarl of a smile and said, “You want me to meet your girl? Does she want to meet me? Can’t she speak for herself? Who are you to do the talking? Is she deaf and dumb, this girl of yours?”

  The couple froze in shock, then melted away.

  Peter, finding a little spine somewhere, said, “For Christ’s sake, Frank, why do that?”

  Sinatra shrugged and returned to his martini. “I don’t know. I can’t help it. Some people are just so goddamn dumb.”

  A few celebrity types stopped by to pay their respects to the Chairman of the Board—a nickname bestowed on Sinatra when he thumbed his nose at Capitol Records, who’d revived his career, and started his own label, Reprise.

  The respect-payers included singer Buddy Greco, between shows in the Indian Lounge, and restaurateur Mike Romanoff and his wife, Gloria. Greco was a talented guy and cocky, and treated Sinatra like an equal, which was dangerous. Romanoff was that well-liked fraud who pretended to be Russian royalty, a dapper, homely little septuagenarian with a mustache and a beautiful brunette wife many decades younger.

  I knew Romanoff only slightly, from his restaurant, and his wife not at all; but they were close friends of both the Lawfords and Sinatra, because “Prince” Michael had been part of Humphrey Bogart’s original Rat Pack, of which Frank’s current crop was an extension.

  As they gabbed, Marilyn probably appeared bored or even in a haze to onlookers; perhaps that was why no one, famous or otherwise, came over to talk to her, just acknowledged her with a smile. Even resort guests didn’t speak to her or ask for an autograph, merely moved slowly by, gazing, as if at Mount Rushmore.

  I knew she’d been shaken badly by Giancana’s presence. And in forty-five minutes or so, she’d put away enough champagne for a small wedding party. She’d spilled some, and it shimmered on her black dress like embedded jewels.

  I whispered, “Want to get out of here?”

  She just nodded, and gathered up her little black purse.

  I went over to Sinatra. “I’m gonna walk Marilyn home.”

  “Walk her all the way to Brentwood,” he said unpleasantly, “far as I care. I hate a sloppy broad.”

  I gave him a look.

  He gave me one back. “You think I arranged that? I didn’t know Momo would be here. He comes to a lot of my openings. You’re not calling me a liar, are you, Nate?”

  “Not while you’re my client,” I said. “Maybe off the clock, next week, I’ll have a different opinion.”

  He decided to laugh at that.

  I went over and took Marilyn by the arm and walked her out into a warm but breezy night. The occasional splash of neon and the shrill sounds of gambling and drink were at odds with the beauty of the Cal-Neva grounds, the fir trees, the rocky hillsides, the shelves of granite, touched lightly by moonlight.

  “That awful man,” she said, and shuddered. She was clutching my arm as if afraid to fall from a height.

  “I don’t suppose you mean Romanoff,” I said. She might have meant Sinatra. But I didn’t think so.

  “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.”