Misfit

by Adam Braver

  November 5, 1954: West Hollywood, Los Angeles

  The suit was settled four years after the incident, and a little less than a year after the actual filing. Florence Kotz, a forty-year-old secretary from Los Angeles, named several defendants—most notably Joe DiMaggio and Frank Sinatra. According to a wire report, her suit claimed that she was “seized with hysteria when the defendants allegedly broke down her apartment door and flashed lights into her eyes on the night of November 5, 1954.” Kotz asked the Los Angeles Superior Court for $200,000 in damages. She settled for $7,500.

  It took three years for Virginia Blasgen, owner of the apartment building where Kotz lived at 754 North Kilkea Drive, to be awarded a default judgment of $100 from the small claims court in Los Angeles for the damage done to the apartment door. In addition, she received $5.75 for court costs.

  But that night of November 5, years before any legal settlements, Virginia Blasgen has been looking out her window on and off for the past hour. She initially sees only two men hanging around the front of her rental property across the street, at 754 North Kilkea. Her father built that apartment house, and now she owns it. Eventually it will go to her boy. She has to keep an eye out. It isn’t just property she’s protecting. It’s a future.

  She parts the curtain further with her right hand; her view is partially blocked by a large elm. The taller man stamps around, looking agitated, slightly unguarded. They seem determined and confident. Almost hammy. The “little one,” she’ll later recall, “was jumping up and down, and looking at me and smiling.”

  The rental is a triplex, with a small studio on the bottom and two larger apartments on top. It’s Mission style, typical of the quiet residential neighborhood, with a brilliant green lawn, not so easy to maintain under the shade of the giant elm. One of the upstairs units is rented out to an actress named Sheila Stewart. She seemed like a nice girl when Virginia showed her the efficiency, responsible and clean. She reported having steady work, and came armed with the first and last months’ rent, ready to take the place. Virginia mentioned some concern about her being an actress, inferring a different lifestyle standard, and Sheila Stewart assured her she was of a serious nature—that when she wasn’t auditioning she prized her classes and her rest. Sheila Stewart has so far lived up to that claim. But seeing the men gather in front of the building makes Virginia wonder if Sheila Stewart hasn’t taken on another prize.

  DiMaggio says he’s not fooling around any longer. He wants to bust right through the door. It’s dark and it’s nearing midnight, and the sky is clear, almost invisible. Under the umbrella glow of a street lamp, he leans against his Cadillac convertible, his shoulders pressed against the canvas top, talking at Barney Ruditsky, a private investigator, and Phil Irwin, a retired cop who works for Ruditsky. They’ve both arrived within the last fifteen minutes, along with Henry Sanicola and DiMaggio’s friend Bill Karen, who wait quietly in the backseat of the car. Warming himself up, Sinatra lounges in the front passenger’s seat, jangling the car keys and tapping his foot.

  DiMaggio’s insisting that if indeed she’s inside there, they might as well go in now. His muscles tense. His entire body constricts. “I don’t know why we just don’t go in and bust this guy up,” he says. Shadows from the lamplight burrow into the lines in his face, aging him. “Make sure he’s the one that gets fucked, and not her.”

  Ruditsky speaks in a low voice, trying to draw DiMaggio closer. Quiet him down. Bring on some calm. He’s trailed enough women to be able to predict a man’s reaction—especially that of one so recently and publicly humiliated. “Better to think out what we should do,” he suggests. “What we’re after.”

  “I know what we should do. What I’m after.”

  Sinatra leans out the window, elbow on the door. “I tell you what you should be doing, Philly,” he tells Irwin. “You should be helping the old detective calm Joe down into a logical plan.”

  DiMaggio snaps back at Sinatra that his plan is to see the fear in this guy’s face. “I want to hear his skull cracking on top of her. Like an egg.”

  “Well, I’m sure you three will work it out,” Sinatra says. He slides over into the driver’s seat. “I’m going to move this car over a couple of blocks. Out of sight. No need to make it too easy on the cops.”

  Sinatra and DiMaggio were eating at Villa Capri when the call came in from Ruditsky. Irwin had spotted her. She’d gone into the house on North Kilkea they had under surveillance, the one they were sure was the cover for her affair. Sinatra took the call from the maître d’. He didn’t have a good feeling about where this was heading. They had knocked back a few over dinner, and though not fully anticipating this development, it was as if they’d been preparing for it. DiMaggio had been jawing on and on about her. Knowing she was putting the hump on that clown, Hal Schaefer. A stinking vocal coach. And a fucking queer, if he didn’t know better. And he was just supposed to sit here accepting it because a court had granted her an interlocutory decree; but that meant there was still a waiting period before the divorce was legal, therefore she was still his wife, and if she was still his wife, then she didn’t get to do that kind of shit . . . And he went at Sinatra nonstop until the phone call, never betraying an emotion, just getting more stiff and more wooden with every thought.

  But that was dinner.

  After confirming that Ruditsky was certain, Sinatra said he’d take it to DiMaggio.

  Just to be clear: The interlocutory divorce decree was granted to Marilyn Monroe by the Los Angeles Superior Court on grounds of mental cruelty.

  Sinatra comes walking around the corner, dancing a mock jitterbug as he approaches the boys, Sanicola and Karen in tow. Irwin stands alone, a cigarette between his fingers, pointing the red ember toward the shadow where Ruditsky and DiMaggio huddle.

  Ruditsky looks as though he’s working hard to keep his cool. He’s no piece-of-shit private eye. Making his reputation as a New York City cop in ’28, he went undercover beneath a bedsheet on a slab in a Second Street Turkish bathhouse, with his piece on his stomach, just waiting to bust up the so-called “Poison Ivy” gang. After that he collared the likes of Legs Diamond and Dutch Schultz, and the main West Side thugs, such as the “Pear Button” gang. He came west after the TV studios decided to make a series, The Lawless Years, based on a memoir he’d published. He worked as a technical consultant on the show and then moved on to movies, making sure the police and criminals were portrayed with some degree of accuracy. The PI work came on the side, only the right cases when the right people asked. He doesn’t quite know why he has to answer to DiMaggio. After all, it was Sinatra who hired him. Yankee Clipper or no Yankee Clipper, Ruditsky has little patience for this kind of amateur bullshit about cracking skulls. “But I’m telling you,” DiMaggio is saying, “I’m not fooling around here any longer. Let’s just kick the door in.”

  Ruditsky says, “We have to make it count for something.”

  “No need to worry on that.”

  “Pictures, for example . . . Something to hold over her, rather than giving her something to hold over you. A good photo will be worth thousands to you, Joe. Your lawyer shows it to her lawyer, and there you go. Thousands saved.” Ruditsky motions for Irwin to get the camera out of the trunk, mouthing to remember to charge the flash.

  “I don’t like this,” DiMaggio says. “Don’t like this at all . . . Frank, do you like this?”

  “I think we should listen to Barney.”

  DiMaggio looks at Ruditsky. “He says I should listen to you.”

  “We get the pictures, and then we go. You’ll have everything you need.”

  “But I want them to be afraid.”

  “Afraid?”

  “When I kick down that door, I want to see it in their eyes.”

  “Frank,” Ruditsky says. “He says he still wants to kick down the door.”

  “So let him kick the door down.”

  Ruditsky pauses. He draws in a breath. He speaks, seemingly without exhaling. “Okay, we kick
down the door. But just for effect . . . It’s just for effect . . . Then it stops when I go for the pictures.”

  “After we bust down the fucking door.”

  It’s at about this point that Florence Kotz’s complaint against the defendants begins.

  The front door is heavy; dark, solid wood. It’ll take a tank to smash it down. Ruditsky doesn’t want to go through the front. He tells DiMaggio that’s a bullshit plan. They’ll be glowing under the street lamps and porch lights, might as well smile for the mug shots. Already he’s noticed some neighbors peeking out their windows.

  He orders the group to the side of the house. DiMaggio goes reluctantly. From there, they snake into the backyard, each holding the gate for the next, until Sinatra, the last of the bunch, passes through. “All clear,” Sinatra announces, looking backward when he hears a cricket chirp.

  Irwin whispers that the entrance doesn’t look right. Maybe they ought to pause. Just to make sure. It feels funny going in this way.

  “How about you not worry about plans,” Ruditsky says. “And how about I stay the boss.”

  Sinatra smiles. “All clear,” he says again.

  Irwin carries the camera. Sanicola and Karen carry police flashlights, gripped as though they’re shaking hands. DiMaggio holds a bat, a fact not lost on anyone.

  Virginia Blasgen thinks the two well-dressed men look familiar, but out of place in the neighborhood. She pulls the drapes open a little wider. Steals a quick glance when they walk toward the elm. She puts a finger beneath her nose to hold back a sneeze and almost suffocates swallowing it. It comes to her. The short one, she’d swear, is Frank Sinatra, and the tall one is the ballplayer, Joe DiMaggio, Marilyn Monroe’s husband.

  Maybe Sheila Stewart’s dedication has paid off.

  Hold your breath, Ruditsky motions. Keep your voices down. And don’t rattle the change in your pockets. Nobody needs the upstairs neighbors taking notice.

  It’s easy to picture Florence Kotz in her Murphy bed. With the closet door wide open and the frame pulled down, the mattress would take up the better part of the room. One can imagine a single end table pushed against the wall, holding an alarm clock with fluorescent hands, a small flexible reading light, and a glass half full of water. Covering her would be a brown cotton blanket that’s snugly tucked beneath a rose-hemmed chenille bedspread; it is November. Sleeping soundly, long acclimated to the footsteps above her, maybe Florence stirs a little with the rattling outside the back door, shifting and rolling over to face the other way. Her Murphy bed has a solid frame; the mesh supports are still tight. It doesn’t sag or squeak. She’d hardly notice her own movements. Nor would she notice the usual night sounds: screens banging with the breeze, car doors slamming, or the alley cats rummaging through the garbage cans.

  But with the crash she’s instantly awake. There is no processing. No evaluation. She’s sitting upright in her bed, frozen in place as though chilled mercury streams through her veins. And she can hear feet stamping through her kitchen, crunching over the broken glass. There are voices. Hushed to a whisper, but not as though they’re trying to conceal themselves; it’s more that they’re startled by the magnitude of their own presence in such small quarters. She’s paralyzed. Darkness gives the only sense of safety. She considers if there is some way to push the Murphy bed back into the wall, folding herself inside. Maybe the intruders will go away as quickly as they came in. A single glance should tell them there is nothing of value in this apartment. But the predominant thought, and she’s vaguely aware it’s the least rational, is that she wishes they would stop walking over the broken glass. It will be impossible to get it all up. She won’t be able to walk barefoot for months.

  Two flashlights beam on her. Already she knows she won’t remember what she saw. Only that the sound of her scream started to form in front of her. A protective wall that grew gigantic, pushing the intruders back and back and back, until there was nothing to see.

  The apartment becomes still again, save for the familiar and expected noises. The footsteps above. The alley cats upsetting the trash can lids.

  With the crash comes a shriek for help. Virginia Blasgen immediately dials the police and then instinctively rushes outside. It’s dark. Damp. She just reacts, not even putting on her slippers. If she thought about it she would realize how cold her feet are against the dewed grass.

  She assumes the shriek has come from Sheila Stewart’s apartment. In this town, everyone understands that the starlet part of show business requires a good scandal, and Sheila probably has found herself in the middle of something that’s too big for her. After this is settled, Virginia might have to ask her to leave. Her property is not the right stage for this kind of drama. She thinks this until another series of cries comes from Miss Kotz’s bottom unit. And as Virginia starts to cross the street toward her rental unit, she hears men’s voices.

  She dashes back. Scampering across her lawn. Taking cover along the side of her house, under the shadows. The stucco is rough and raw against her back. Her feet numb. She tries not to breathe. Or make any sudden movements.

  She hears the gate across the street rattle and slam. The men’s whispers turn louder, and hurried. With great care, she inches herself along the wall toward the corner of the house, bare heels aching from loose pebbles. From the corner she sees silhouettes. Long and cartoonish. Joe DiMaggio? Frank Sinatra? It’s hard to make out anyone else. She closes her eyes, reciting all her options to herself, of which there seem to be few, if any. She’s outnumbered, and hopelessly unprepared for this kind of situation. Stranded on the side of her building. Unable to get to Miss Kotz. Unable even to get back into her house. Where are the police? Her legs tremble, and though it isn’t that cold, her teeth chatter. She squeezes her eyes tighter. Wishing all of them gone. That’s the best option. Disappear off the block.

  When Virginia opens her eyes, they are gone. Car doors slam several blocks away. She arches forward, peering across North Kilkea. Indeed, it’s all over. As though they were never there.

  All is normal again on this quiet West Hollywood street. Other than another piercing cry from Miss Kotz’s apartment. And the distant sirens growing louder and louder.

  Sinatra later denied he had anything to do with the matter. Said he’d come along for the ride, but then held back once he figured it was best to hold back. He never went through that gate on North Kilkea Drive. Never saw that woman screaming, upright in her bed. There are some lines you don’t cross.

  Virginia Blasgen’s and Florence Kotz’s memories contradict Sinatra’s. But in the end the women’s recollections amounted only to a reduced settlement and a new back door, presumably a little sturdier than the original.

  While noted contextually in news accounts, rarely was it discussed that Marilyn, in fact, was upstairs in Sheila Stewart’s apartment, drinking a cup of tea. One can imagine her there, taking refuge from the storm that has surged around her breakup with DiMaggio. Liberating and frightening all at once. But in this one little pause, over a steaming cup of mint tea, laughing with her friend, she can feel totally at ease, completely free to reinvent, without DiMaggio’s hands sculpting her into postures she could never keep. It feels good. And she wants to savor the moment. She understands that the dread of aloneness will fill her in a matter of days.

  In the early part of the evening, Sheila carries the teacups into the living room, pinching the saucers, walking deliberately so as not to spill. Just the smell of the mint tea is relaxing. Sheila hands Marilyn one cup, puts hers on the coffee table, and then falls into the couch.

  Marilyn blows across the surface, pushing steam away. “You’re lucky, Sheila,” she says.

  “Lucky?”

  “Well, maybe fortunate. Maybe that’s more what I mean.”

  Shelia laughs. “I’m not sure what you mean—fortunate or lucky.”

  Marilyn stops herself. She doesn’t try to explain. Because she knows that what she means is that Sheila is lucky (or fortunate) not to be her. How lucky
to be a serious and struggling actor, living quietly in a modest West Hollywood apartment. To have her determination guided by a sense of self. Then she realizes how preposterous that might sound, a combination of pejorative arrogance and obliviousness. She turns a little red. “Oh, nothing,” Marilyn stumbles. “I don’t even know what I mean half the time.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. That is to say, I don’t know what I mean half the time.”

  Leaning forward to sip her tea, Marilyn starts laughing. The tea spills onto the saucer. She balances the dish just enough to keep the hot water from dripping on her thigh.

  Sheila looks at her. “See, you’re lucky too.”

  And then they hear the crash downstairs, where a man who had once cherished her as a vulnerable innocent but has now cast her as a selfish whore is ready to show her and the world that what he knows can’t be wrong.