The Caught

by Jon Jacks

  The Corridor of Memories, Westwood Village Mortuary Chapel

  You’d’ve expected the so-called stars to turn out, like it’s some wonderful social event. Everybody who’s anybody will be there darling!

  But Joe’s not having any of that, no sirree!

  They’re not invited. Been told to stay away. They’re not wanted here.

  Joe sees her Hollywood friends as being responsible for leading her into the lifestyle that led to her death.

  Even so, the slick suits are out amongst the chief mourners. Pants so narrow and shoes so pointed any step off a sidewalk looks like the first twirl of Chubby Checker’s Twist. Cigarette smoke forms its own veiling shroud.

  I begin to worm my way closer to where the service will be taking place. Wondering what Marilyn looks like in her casket. Hoping she looks okay.

  Way I heard it, the autopsy ain’t left her looking too good.

  Her hairdresser, Agnes, has had to use a wig. Combing it pageboy style, like she was going to look in the movie she was filming when she died.

  Whitey, her regular make up man, he’s been working hard on a flask of gin to help him through making her up as M.M. for one last time.

  He’d once joked he’d do this for her. Marilyn taking him at his word, keeping him to his promise with a gold money clip, inscribed, ‘Whitey Dear, While I'm still warm, Marilyn.’

  I’m wearing different clothes to the ones I usually wear.

  A dark suit. A thin white edging on collar and cuffs where it’s frayed. The best I could borrow from the other guys who help keep Marilyn’s place looking neat and tidy.

  I’ve even managed to drag a comb through my hair, the nearest Mom’s ever going to see me looking like Theodore Beaver.

  I figure it’s enough of a disguise to make sure any jerks watching out for me ain’t gonna work out who I am until it’s too late for them to do anything about it.

  The disguise ain’t so great it fools everyone, certain people here clocking me straight off. Turns out it’s for the best, gets me nodded through the crowd so I get closer and closer to the silver and bronze casket.

  It’s the ‘Cadillac of Caskets’ I hear someone whisper in awe.

  It’s strange to see her so still.

  She looks like she’s sleeping, waiting for a kiss to wake her up.

  Sleeping Beauty. Snow White.

  She’s in her green Pucci dress. A favourite of hers.

  She wore it at a press conference when she was down in Mexico City, looking out for things for the house. She wore it when she had photos taken of her and Maf.

  There’s a posy of pink teacup roses in her hands. A gift from Joe. Like she’s ready to walk down the aisle with him once again.

  He sat with her all night.

   

   

  *

   

   

  A green chiffon scarf curls around Marilyn’s neck, hiding the mortician’s scalpel cuts.

  She’s surrounded by folds of satin, like she’s already floating around in the clouds.

  There’s a lot of the music you expect at these occasions. All violins and guys sweating as they try and get a tune out of a few strings and polished wood.

  There’s the reverend or pastor or whatever you call him, talking about her like he really knew her.

  Lee Strasberg, her acting coach, now he really did know her.

  He stands up next, calling her a legend.

  Says something along the lines of how it’s hard to believe her zest for life (his words, not mine) has been ended by this dreadful accident (see, I wouldn’t have quite put it like that).

  Then he comes out with the sort of words I wish I could use to describe her. Words I tell myself I should try hard to remember.

  A luminous quality, a combination of wistfulness, radiance and yearning everyone wished to be a part of and share in. A childish naiveté, so shy and yet so vibrant.

  Fact is, people like that, they’re there, floating around in your mind, even when their body’s laid out right in front of you.

  But in a similar way, Marilyn’s Hollywood friends are here too, despite Joe’s refusal to allow them anywhere near. Even Joe can’t stop them flitting through the minds of everyone here.

  They’re always present, those stars.

  Especially here in Hollywood itself.

   

   

  *

   

   

  All the people here, they’ve all read the papers.

  ‘The hidden torment of Marilyn,’ that kind of thing.

  The famous line up she’s joined, a list of the Hollywood dead; Carole Lombard, Jimmy Dean, Jean Harlow.

  ‘My God, no,’ says Joseph Cotton, a guy she’d been in a movie with.

  Most of it though, it’s just dragging up the usual stories that her career was on the skids. All about how she was always turning up late and drugged up to the eyeballs on the set of her last movie, Something’s Got To Give.

  (Yeah, see I mentioned the title cos even I get the irony.)

  Heck, Dr Greenson had actually done something right for once and got her down to a couple of mild sedatives a night – it was the goddamn studio doctors who started pumping her full of methamphetamine shots once again.

  Three failed marriages. A tragic childhood. Quotes along the lines of ‘I was never used to being happy’.

  The coroner, something something Curphey, suggesting a ‘psychiatric autopsy’ is required here.

  Then there’s the pictures.

  The dishevelled bedroom where she was found. Stockings and shoes littering the floor.

  Captions talking of twenty to thirty bottles of medicine on the bedside table.

  She was holding a phone – was she trying to get help?

  The way the papers have it, she went to her bedroom to play records, Pat leaving after dinner, leaving Marilyn ‘in good spirits’.

  See, even Eunice is letting on how Joe’s earlier call had cheered Marilyn

  Mixed messages everywhere you look.

  Eunice had gone to bed at midnight, waking at three in the morning. The records still playing, the light still on.

  Eunice knocks on the door, cries out – no answer.

  So she calls Dr Greenson over, who calls Dr. Engelberg, who breaks a window to get inside Marilyn’s room.

  Dr. Engelberg pronounces her dead around four a.m.

  There’s nothing about the limey hero Lawford and his call, though he’s in there sure enough.

  ‘I loved her dearly. She was a marvellous, warm human being.’

   

   

  *

   

   

  Joe’s kneeling by the casket.

  He’s whispering ‘I love you’, over and over.

  His son stands nearby, his face as starched as his Marine uniform. The cap’s visor pulled low, hiding his eyes.

  What’s he make of it all, his pop wailing like this?

  It ends with the organist playing Judy Garland’s Over the Rainbow; betcha Marilyn requested that one.

  Know what? Frank even got his dog back, in a way.

  His secretary Gloria’s going to be looking after Maf from now on.

   

   

  *

  Chapter 8

   

  ‘Face it, she wasn’t all there kid. Her world was falling apart.’

  He refers to his notes, making sure he’s got it right.

  ‘Nervous breakdowns. Failed pregnancies. In and out of psychiatric clinics. Diagnosis “borderline personality disorder”.’

  He looks up again.

  ‘She’s getting treatment for severe addiction to barbiturates and alcohol kid. All of which she’s throwing down her throat to blunt all that emotional pain she’s suffering. Just to help her get to sleep nights. If ever I’ve seen anyone on the edge of destruction, this is it kid.’

  The goon’s here again, app
arently coming out of nowhere as usual.

  He’d recognised me sure enough, despite the suit. (‘What’d I tell you kid? Don’t you realise the danger you’re putting yourself in?’)

  I’m standing by him in my shabby outfit, looking like I’m some poor imitation. His son even, trying to emulate pop’s lack of dress sense.

  But there’s something strange about him today; like the way he isn’t permanently eyeballing me.

  His eyes are flicking from side to side, watching out for something. Like he’s nervous even.

  Now and again, his head turns to follow the direction of eyes that have become little more than slits.

  He focuses in on some innocent-looking guy, some no-hoper going about his normal business. As if he’s watching a suspect about to commit a serious crime.

  ‘Hey, Marilyn was my friend,’ I say. ‘You saying I can’t be there to see her one last time?’

  ‘That’s precisely what I told you kid! And you know it.’

  ‘Look, okay, but I came in disguise right. A suit f’ christsake!’

  ‘You think that’s a disguise? You think the guys after you can’t see a guy in a suit and ID them correctly?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Only guy I know who’s after me is you.’

  ‘I’ve told you kid; some people don’t like what you’re going around saying. You’re still going around shouting off that you don’t think this is either suicide or an accidental overdose. You know what that means you’re saying? That she was murdered, kid!’

  ‘I suppose, putting it like that, yeah.’

  ‘So who’s your suspect, Miss Marple? Who you fingering for the crime eh?’

  I shrug. ‘Dunno.’

  His eyes aren’t on me.

  They’re on some guy standing looking in a window. Like he’s wondering if the guy is going to up and run off with everything he can lay his hands on.

  Agent Jerk turns back to stare intently at me.

  ‘I’ve heard what you’ve been saying.’

  I glance towards the guy at the window.

  I almost jump when I catch the guy’s eyes, like he’s watching our reflections in the window rather than studying the goods inside.

  His eyes dart away from mine, like he’s as shocked as I am.

  ‘Yeah?’ I try to sound unfazed.

  ‘Like calling our little miss Eunice Murray a liar. Saying as how you can’t see as she knew Marilyn’s bedroom light was on.’

  ‘You seen the carpet in there? No way was Eunice seeing light under the door with carpet that thick. And how come the door was locked anyway?’

  ‘Why was the door locked? Because she was committing suicide, son!’

  ‘Yeah, but what I mean is, there ain’t no proper lock on that door. It’s just a deadbolt lock.’

  ‘So now you’re calling both Dr Greenson and Dr Engelberg liars?’

  ‘Well there’s another thing, see? Why’s Dr Greenson got to call Dr Engelberg?’

  ‘He’s a psychiatrist. Dr Engelberg’s what me and you would call a proper doctor.’

  ‘So a psychiatrist can’t tell when someone’s dead, huh?’

  His eyes narrow, like he’s wondering whether to slap me again or not.

  ‘Kid, I’ve met some stroppy people in my time, working with lowlife around the world. Yet I ain’t met anyone taking it to the levels you manage to attain.’

  ‘I like to see my country producing the very best, Agent…’

  I paused, waiting for him to give me his name.

  He rewards me with the sort of glare that could possibly burn through concrete.

  He purses his lips, probably considering the best way he’s gonna end our little conversation.

  ‘I’m watching you kid. But the worst thing is, they’re watching you too.’

   

   

  *

   

   

  A conversation like that can make a boy nervous.

  The days that follow, I’m seeing spooks everywhere I look.

  A guy putting out his trash, and I’m telling myself he’s eyeballing me, observing every move I make.

  People stopping nearby in their cars become, in my imagination, someone tracking my every move.

  Even some woman stopping to hitch up a stocking, I wonder if she’s reaching for a small gun down there.

  I take a sharp turn off from where I’m heading, checking if anyone is still following.

  Just in case.

  I’ve been watching too much TV, too much Robert Taylor in The Detectives.

  That damn Agent Jerk’s made me too damn jumpy!

   

   

  *

   

   

  Not that I’m alone in getting this whole weird sense of paranoia rolling along nicely. The papers are stirring it all up as well now.

  Eunice, she’s suddenly remembered this mysterious phone call. A call that might’ve woken Marilyn. That might’ve caused her to accidentally take too many pills in an effort to get back to sleep.

  Eunice, she’s saying all this horsesh– even though she knows Marilyn always puts the phone under a cushion on a night so it won’t disturb her.

  But the papers, they like nothing better than a mystery call. So now they’re fingering the mystery caller as this jerky Mexican, José Bolaños.

  A guy Marilyn met down in Mexico, giving her advice on things for her home.

  Yeah, you got me right; a furnishings advisor.

   Sure, I’d seen him around, what with them heading off to a few Hollywood nightclubs and the Golden Globes Award. And all this Mexican crap had got so under her skin she’d even given a grand to this institute for needy children. Even dropped a hint she might adopt one of the little brats.

  But a romantic involvement, like the papers are making out? No way, José.

  Sure, he’d like to see it that way. Like to live off her fame for a while.

  But you seen the pictures they’re splattering across their pages? Handsome? You kidding me?

  Too many teeth, you ask me. And if you ain’t wanting to ask me, ask Pat Newcomb; she’s told the papers straight there weren’t anything ever going on between Hosé José and Marilyn.

  Best thing is, though, that limey Lawford’s finally come clean about his own call.

  She’d called him, he’d called back, about seven. Inviting her to a party. Way he’s saying it here, there’s no ranting Marilyn. No ‘say goodbye to the President’s.

  She was planning on going to bed early. She sounded no different than when he’d spoken to her hundreds of times before, he says.

  He’s upset, his wife’s upset. (His wife Pat’s a Kennedy, the President’s sister, wouldn’t you know?)

  They’re real upset that Joe had stopped them going to the funeral.

   

   

  *

   

   

  Today, I’m paying my respects.

  Intending to talk to her again. Let her know how much I cared for her.

  She’d appreciate that.

  As I make my way to the crypt, I can hear a radio or something playing somewhere way off, the sound carried by a warm wind. ‘Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl…’

  As you’d expect, the Los Angeles Cemetery is a plusher place to be than most people find themselves living in. All spotless white walls and perfect greenery.

  There’s the odd splash of bright colour, usually orange and red, like someone’s decided all this white’s nice but boring.

  It ain’t boring here today. There’s plenty of activity.

  All of it, as you’d expect, taking place around Marilyn’s last resting place.

  Flash bulbs pop, as if the sun isn’t bright enough today. There’s shouting too.

  All completely out of place here, I don’t need telling you.

  It’s all because he’s here. Mr Mystery Caller himself.

  José’s acting nonchalant, cool. Strik
ing the right poses as he stands by her crypt.

  (Pink marble – I think she’d’ve liked that.)

  A dark-suited angel, standing solemn guard.

  I stand back, letting him have his moment. Letting him make out Marilyn cared about him. Hoodwinking a bunch of reporters who’ll soak up anything that’ll have their readers drooling over breakfast.

  He looks suitably downcast as they finally leave. Letting him ‘make his peace’, as one reporter has it.

  The reporters and photographers slouch past me, slipping finished reports into already overstuffed coats, changing used bulbs.

  ‘He tell you anything?’ I ask it nonchalantly, like it don’t matter to me either way.

  ‘Nuttin we ain’t already knowing about.’

  ‘Something that will “shock the world”, he says. But just what he ain’t saying.’

  ‘Read it in the papers kid, like everyone else.’

  ‘Thanks jerks,’ I say, knowing none of ’em will be prepared to make a big deal of it.

  ‘Ah, leave it Bob; he’s just a kid,’ one of them says, his eyes squinting as he draws heavily on the cigarette tightly clamped between his lips.

   

   

  *

   

   

  I head up closer to the crypt, nod in recognition to José as he sees me approach.

  He recognises me too, I’m sure.

  He was nine years younger than Marilyn. Not that you could ever tell when they were together.

  The papers, they’ve fallen hook, line and sinker for this jerk’s claims that they were planning on getting hitched.

  ‘Did you make the call? The call they say killed her?’

  I say it like it’s an accusation. Like I’m not leaving without an answer.

  He looks me up and down, puzzled, wondering if he should tell me.

  ‘I would not do anything that would harm her,’ he says finally.

  He’s got that sort of accent that shows he’s trying to sound like us, I’ll give him that. But he still ends up sounding like the guy cast as a movie’s comic relief.

  You don’t really appreciate he’s finished speaking. I’m expecting a ‘si’ or a ‘señor’ at the end, every sentence turned into a question.

  He’s probably got a mom back home who could give Stalin a run for his money in the moustache department.

  ‘There wasn’t a call then?’

  He answers by asking if I’m reading the papers. (‘Are you not reading the papers, señor?’)

  I say yeah, any I can get my hands on.

  He says, yeah, he made a call. But at nine thirty, not a later call like the old hag Eunice is making out caused all the problems.

  Then he pauses, chews his lip, like he’s unsure if he should carry on.

  He glances around, nervous, as if he feels someone might be watching.