Bye bye,baby nh-15

by Max Allan Collins

  I shrugged. “You think he’s screwing you over-look at Mooney.”

  “Tell me about it! Do you have any pull with that bucktoothed bastard?”

  “Not really. I saw Bob a few weeks ago, at Lawford’s, and had a conversation along similar lines. Tried to make the point that you don’t make deals and then welsh. Not with anybody, but certainly not with guys like you.”

  “Or Mooney, ” Sinatra said, eyebrows high, the baby blues wide. It was like he’d heard a smart guy say the world was flat.

  “I’m sure Marilyn would appreciate a call,” I said off-handedly. “She still goes to sleep to the sound of your voice. Hell, during the day she plays your albums, too. You’re her sound track, when Lionel Newman isn’t around.”

  “She’s a sweet kid, in her fucked-up way,” he said wistfully. He finished his martini. “You want me to say hello to your son? I ain’t Elvis, but I sold a few records.”

  “That would be cool,” I said.

  And we went over and Frank was great to Sam, signed a Sherry’s napkin for him; then he split, moving through the restaurant at a brisk pace to avoid any more autographs.

  “He seemed nice,” Sam said.

  “Yeah. He can be.”

  “That other guy looked nice, too.”

  “Yeah. He looked nice.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I had returned to Chicago confident that Marilyn’s problems were safely half a continent behind me. But a month later, I found myself again advising her, as we sat watching the shimmer of Lake Tahoe from a balcony at Cal-Neva Lodge.

  Or, as it was now called (on napkins, ashtrays, and menus, anyway), Frank Sinatra’s Cal-Neva. The same Sinatra who was opening tonight in his own Celebrity Showroom, and the last person I’d have expected to hear from regarding Marilyn. As you may recall, he’d told me at Sherry’s he was through with her “melodrama.”

  Yet he was our host. And at his request, and Marilyn’s, I was here in the role of her companion or bodyguard or something-the-hell. How did this transpire, you ask?

  First, the travel-brochure stuff: with its only access a long winding narrow mountain road, the rustic Cal-Neva sat high above Tahoe’s northern tip, its sun-sparkling lake a blue jewel in a lush green setting. The lodge was a rough-hewn castle dominated by an oversize wigwam of an entrance; guests not in the main building could chose between cabins, bungalows, and (high-rollers and celebrities only) chalets, the latter scattered about the slope below the lodge, among granite outcroppings, sporting magnificent views.

  Long before it became the Tahoe home-away-from-home for the Rat Rack and various Vegas and Hollywood stars in Sinatra’s orbit, the resort had been a favorite hideaway of bootleggers like Joe Kennedy, who’d loved the place. So had Baby Face Nelson, Pretty Boy Floyd, and other outlaws who dug the fishing and gaming retreat’s unique location.

  The state line bisected Lake Tahoe, south to north, up the hilly, rocky shoreline through the hotel’s central building, fireplace, and outdoor swimming pool. Before Nevada legalized gambling in ’31, the gaming tables were on rollers, pushed, on the occasion of a raid, across the wooden floor to whichever state the law didn’t represent. Same was true for a wanted criminal: the Nevada coppers couldn’t touch you on the California side, and vice versa. These days, food, drink, and guests lived in California, with the casino way over in Nevada-across that fabled dark line on the wooden floor.

  For several years now, Sinatra had been the principal owner of the Cal-Neva, on paper anyway. That the singer’s hefty percentage included Sam Giancana’s silent-partner investment was an open secret, Mooney being on the Gaming Commission’s list of “excluded persons” who must never set foot on the floor of a Nevada casino, much less own one.

  Anyway, just the day before, Sinatra had called. I’d been sitting behind my desk in the venerable Monadnock Building in the Loop. The A-1 had a large corner suite with a bullpen for our ten agents and private offices for me and my semiretired second-in-command, Lou Sapperstein, now in his spry early seventies.

  I was going over a contract to take on all of a major downtown bank’s credit checks when the call came in through our switchboard.

  The girl said, “He says he’s Frank Sinatra.”

  “Who does he sound like?”

  “Frank Sinatra.”

  “Then let’s chance it.”

  And it was indeed Sinatra, as brash and breezy as one of his album covers (not the one where he was a sad clown).

  “Okay, Charlie,” he said. “Drop your bird. I’m opening at Cal-Neva tomorrow night, and you’re invited.”

  “If I hop on my bicycle now, do you think I’ll make it?”

  “It’s a no-shit paying gig, Charlie.”

  “I didn’t figure you sang for free.”

  “Maybe I didn’t explain so good-I’m hiring you. I’ll have a first-class ticket messengered over. You’ll fly into LA, we’ll take my private jet to Tahoe. Gonna be a gasser.”

  “As it happens, I’m free this weekend. Let’s go back to the you hiring me part.”

  “All expenses paid, nice room, crazy meals, all the booze you can guzzle, and two grand for your trouble. You should be back in Chi-Town by Monday, latest.”

  Incidentally, nobody from Chicago calls it Chi. Just so you know.

  “This sounds agreeable,” I admitted, “and I might come hear you sing for half that. Am I wrong in thinking there’s an actual job buried somewhere in all that Italian ham you’re serving up?”

  “There is, in fact. It’s, uh… Look, I love you and everything, but it’s Marilyn’s idea.”

  “Marilyn’s idea what?”

  “That you come along. She wants you to help celebrate.”

  “Sure. Celebrate anything special, or just being alive?”

  “Listen, Charlie, you can call her and ask her herself. I’m sending that ticket over to you. No arguments.”

  He clicked off.

  I sat and thought for a while. Everything lately about Marilyn in the papers (and on radio and TV) had been positive, thanks to her own efforts. Several columnists had leaked the news that she would likely be returning to Fox to complete Something’s Got to Give and do at least one more picture.

  So I called the private number she gave me. I figured my odds of getting her were lousy, but maybe I could leave word with that bridge troll in the cat’s-eye glasses.

  Only it was Marilyn who answered: “Hi! It’s Marilyn Monroe,” she said to whoever the hell was calling.

  Which was me, so I said, “The actress?”

  I could almost hear her smile. “Nate Heller? The smart-ass?”

  “Speaking. What’s this about Tahoe?”

  “Well, Frank wants to celebrate. I’m signing the new Fox contracts Monday, and he’s going to be in the next movie, I Love Louisa.”

  “I thought it was called What a Way to Go! ”

  “I hope it still will be. But that’s what they’re calling it for now. It’s going to have a whole bunch of top male stars, possibly Paul Newman and Dick Van Dyke and Gene Kelly and maybe Dean again… but for sure Frankie.”

  “That’s very exciting. But I figured you’d have signed that new Fox deal by now.”

  “Well… I shouldn’t talk about it on the phone.”

  “Okay. But why do you want me along? I’m glad to have the chance to see you, honey, but Sinatra’s flying me in from Chicago for this. At your request, or so I’m told. Why?”

  “I shouldn’t talk about that on the phone, either.”

  That made two things she didn’t want her own phone tap picking up.

  “If you want me there,” I said, “I’m there.”

  “You’ll be sort of my… bodyguard. You do make a good bodyguard, don’t you?”

  Huey Long had no complaints. Neither did Mayor Cermak.

  “Sure,” I said.

  It had been whirlwind. Like I’d blinked and there I was on Sinatra’s fancy little private Learjet, Christina, with its wall-to-wall carpet, fancy wood
paneling, full bar, and piano, which incidentally nobody was playing. We were on facing couches, with seat belts that after takeoff the pilot gave permission to unbuckle. The company was interesting, even illuminating as to why I was present.

  Marilyn was next to me, with Sinatra next to her. Across from us were Pat Lawford and her husband, Peter.

  That’s right-seated directly across from Frank was Charlie the Seal himself, the hated presidential brother-in-law, the messenger who’d been shot for delivering the news that JFK was bunking at Bing’s in Palm Springs, not Frank’s.

  Yet here the late Lawford sat, fully resurrected. That a certain awkwardness was in the air couldn’t be denied; nor that his attempts to make conversation with his host were met with only limited success.

  But there they both were-Frank and Peter, together again.

  What had it taken to reunite these two? A selfless wish to congratulate their mutual friend Marilyn on her triumph? A sudden realization that their friendship had been deep and meaningful, and sorely missed?

  No. And no.

  This had “Kennedy family” stamped all over it-a nervously toothy Pat making the smallest talk imaginable, while Sinatra tried not to pout and Lawford babbled, and Marilyn just sat and drank champagne served to us all by Sinatra’s cute brunette-bouffant stewardess Joni (that’s how her little silver-wing name tag read, anyway).

  Was it early for champagne? That depends on whether you consider eleven in the morning early for champagne. None of us seemed to have a problem with it, though Sinatra was substituting Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

  Not that you could trust my frazzled judgment. That fancy first-class ticket had been for a red-eye last night, and I’d been cooling my heels in the airport lounge since 8:00 A.M. until Sinatra and his guests showed. I felt overdressed in an olive hopsack blazer and gray trousers-everybody else was in the most casual wear, knit sport shirts and slacks, including Pat, though Marilyn looked sportiest in a lime-green blouse, sunglasses (not so dark you couldn’t see her eyes), and white capris.

  Pat sat forward, hands clasped, and told Marilyn how happy she was that the studio had come around. Marilyn said she was thrilled to be finally working with Frank, and Frank said the script could be better, and Marilyn said it can always be better. Peter joked about wondering if there was a part for a slightly graying child star, only he probably wasn’t joking.

  Anyway, that was the level of repartee, and I didn’t get a moment alone with Marilyn until we were checked in, having been taken to the lodge by limo from the private airstrip near Crystal Bay, on the California side. She was in Bungalow 52 and I was in one of the standard cabins, but only a walk of two minutes to her little light-brown “chalet,” which was actually nothing fancy, bedroom and bath, but had a stunning lake view from its overhang porch-like balcony.

  There, seated in patio chairs, she was still in the lime-green blouse, scarf, and sunglasses, while I’d gotten comfortable in a polo, shorts, and sandals. She was sipping champagne again, to my knowledge only her third glass of the day. Frank went on at nine, with dinner seating in the showroom at seven thirty.

  “It’s five,” I said checking my wristwatch. “How many days do you need to get ready?”

  She gave me a smile that looked like a kiss. “You think I can’t be on time? You think I can’t get ready without my entourage?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Ha! I’ll show you.” She reached over and touched my arm, and her voice warmed. “Thank you for this. Thank you for coming.”

  “My pleasure. Why am I here?”

  She sipped champagne. Looked out at the lake, which the sinking sun was painting a shimmering gold.

  “Don’t you want me to answer your other question first?”

  “What other question is that?”

  “Why I’m not signing till Monday, when I’ve had the Fox deal in my lap for weeks.”

  “Any time you mention your lap, I’m listening.”

  She giggled. Maybe it was my wit. More likely the champagne. “I put off signing until the coup was over. Zanuck and Skouras? They have control again. Those Wall Street lawyers are oh-you-tee.”

  “Then you’ve won.”

  She was smiling like a princess. “Yes I have…” Then the smile dissolved. “… But I’ll always wonder.”

  “What will you wonder?”

  “Did Bobby help me or hurt me? He and his family had connections with the studio chairman of the board-the one that Zanuck just unseated? Bobby said he was helping. But I’ll always wonder-was he behind that smear campaign? Did he only pretend to call his friends at Fox and try to get me reinstated?”

  “Why would Bobby want to smear you?”

  She laughed soundlessly. “I’m disappointed in you, Nate.”

  “… To discredit you generally, in case you decided to go public with what you know about him and Jack.”

  “So you’re not just a dumb redhead.”

  I sat forward and allowed an edge into my tone. “Listen, Marilyn, we’ve talked about this-people on this level, they’re dangerous. Hell, Frank’s dangerous. You know who co-owns this joint, don’t you?”

  “Certainly I do. That awful little man, Giancana. I’ve met him.” She shivered. “Makes my skin crawl.”

  “One of his girlfriends is named Judy Campbell, did you know that? An ex-playmate of Frank’s. She’s also one of Jack’s girls.”

  “I thought Giancana was in love with Phyllis McGuire.”

  My eyebrows went up. “Marilyn, this may be a tough concept for you, but some guys go with more than one female at a time.”

  She said nothing. The breeze rustling the lush firs and the gleaming blue-burning-orange lake provided a languid ambiance. Otherworldly. Time had stopped. But problems marched on.

  “Why am I here, Marilyn?”

  “That’s not the question.”

  “What is?”

  “Why am I here?” Her smile crinkled. “Can you tell me? Is it to celebrate working with Frankie?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Right. What then?”

  I sighed heavily. “I think at some point, this weekend, in and around the fun and the frolic? They’re going to sit you down for a good talking-to.”

  “So do I,” she said. Her eyes were on the lake again, which had gone bloodred.

  “Have you been staying away from Bobby?”

  “… I’ve made a few calls.”

  “Where to?”

  “You know… the Justice Department. Once to Hickory Hills.”

  “Hickory Hills? His home?”

  She shrugged. “Just once. I got Ethel. I didn’t say anything to upset any apple carts.”

  “Well, that was wise. You and Pat Lawford, you seem friendly…”

  “We are friends.”

  “She’ll probably carry the ball, if they corner you. I won’t likely be invited to this little family talk.”

  “No. But you’ll be here. Here, if they get… I don’t know. Rough with me.”

  “I don’t think they’re going to work you over. Not with billy clubs or anything.”

  She sipped champagne. “No. Just words. But if I need somebody to be on my side? That’s where you come in. Somebody who can take me home, if I decide I’ve had enough.”

  “Marilyn, I don’t even have a car up here.”

  “No. But you’re my big bad private eye. I bet you brought your gun.”

  I had.

  “Maybe,” I said. I gave her a serious smile. “You won with the studio, honey. Embrace that. Don’t you know you can’t win this one?”

  She shrugged again.

  “You don’t really still want to be First Lady…?”

  She frowned. “I wouldn’t marry Bobby, or Jack, if they were the last Democrats on earth.”

  So when the right Democrat came along, she might still be First Lady…

  I asked, “Then what do you want?”

  Her eyes were surprisingly hard behind the gray sunglass lenses.
“Not to be taken for granted. Not to be abused. Not to be taken for some dumb-”

  “Redhead?”

  She flicked me a smile, then nodded. “I might not win. I don’t think there’s a way to win… but I will be respected. They will know I was here.”

  “I think they already know that.”

  “Not really. Not down deep.” She got up suddenly, like toast popping from a toaster. “Now, shoo. I do need a little time… Even putting on a modified Marilyn takes some effort.”

  She looked great at dinner-a hairstylist named Sebring had helped her out, and she proved capable of doing her own makeup to perfection. She’d even been right on time when I picked her up to walk her over. The showroom was Vegas modern in orange, beige, and brown (Sinatra’s favorite colors), and the seven-hundred-seater was packed.

  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.”