The Blonde

by Anna Godbersen

  Before she could reply the doors closed, and she heard the shifting of metal gears lowering him down. What a good idea it had been—she reflected for the second time—to get out, away from the rut she’d dug herself, to be reminded that she still had it. And not in some grubby half-punitive way, with bearded, emaciated boys in dirty barrooms, but with beamingly wealthy men pretty much anywhere.

  The room the studio had reserved for her was good—as sprawling and anonymous as she could’ve hoped. As soon as she entered she let her fur fall to the ground, pulled her dress over her head, unhooked her bra, kicked off her pumps, shimmied out of her half-slip, and slid against the sheets. She pressed her face into the silken pillow and her nipples against the mattress. In minutes she was asleep.

  The sleep must have been deep because when she awoke it was very suddenly and without any sense of time passing.

  The telephone was ringing, and her mouth was dry. It wasn’t until she was across the floor, pouring ice into one of the cut-crystal glasses on the bar and over that scotch from one of the decanters, that she remembered that in her dream she had been lying on the sun-warmed deck of a boat next to Jack Kennedy, naked, his fingers nestled between the two halves of her bottom. The phone was still ringing.

  “Hello?” She picked it up, took in the beige-and-ivory surroundings, remembered she was in Chicago.

  “N.J.”

  “Oh, it’s you.” She sank into the stuffed chair next to the telephone and put her tumbler against her forehead.

  “You made it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is everything all right? You’re comfortable there, I hope?”

  “Yes, the room is lovely, just like I told them it had fucking better be.”

  “Good. I want you to be comfortable.”

  She drank, letting the ice rattle close to the receiver, and waited for him to get to the point.

  “What’s the schedule that the studio gave you?”

  “I have a luncheon with the local press. Some local columnist, bunch of photographers. And after the premiere I suppose a dinner with notables and plenty of opportunity to have my picture taken.”

  “Good. And perhaps later a drink at the Pump Room? The hotel is famous for it, you know—all the greats have been there.”

  Her eyes took a luxurious roll. So much secrecy and allusion, and suddenly he was talking like an eager travel agent, and not even a particularly inventive one. “Yes. I went once, when I was married to Joe. Frankie was playing. Frank Sinatra? They were friends, maybe they still are. Anyway, why does everybody want me to go there so bad?”

  “It’s the local—how do you say?—hot spot. The man I want you to meet is the kind who likes pretty women, and I’m counting on the fact that it will be a story that Marilyn Monroe is in the hotel, that he will be looking out for you. That he’ll be looking out for you to make a pass, and the Pump Room is where he might expect to find you.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes. He’s a United States senator, from Massachusetts. He’s going to go for the Democratic nomination next year. The establishment likes Johnson if he runs. But we think this man is going to be the next president of the United States.”

  “Uh-huh …” She curled in around her drink, closing her eyes. So that was it—they wanted to bring down a politician with a little sex scandal. And what did she care? After the lies Wilder had spread about her, who knew whether she’d work again. This was Alexei’s game, and he knew how to play—that Jack Kennedy was a womanizer, and she was perfect bait. Perhaps he had only underestimated Jack’s appetites, didn’t realize they would have met already. “How’ll I ever know which one he is?” she asked, in false ingénue.

  “He’s handsome, and a good talker, and I don’t think you’ll have trouble spotting him. But my guess is he’ll find you.”

  “Yeah, well.” She shifted in the chair, eyed the decanter. “I’ve already met him. In the elevator. Saw me in the lobby, I guess, and followed me.”

  On the other end of the line, Alexei chuckled. “You see, my dear? That’s precisely why we picked you.”

  “You didn’t think I knew who John Kennedy was? His little brother was with McCarthy, you know. They invited Arthur over for their little committee—Arthur hates those boys. You must think I’m pretty slow.”

  “My dear, don’t talk that way. Of course I don’t think you’re slow. I only wanted you to meet naturally, as I knew you would if you were staying in the same hotel at the same time….”

  “Anyway,” she went on, standing up and moving across the floor with the telephone in one hand, scotch in the other, the receiver tucked between ear and shoulder. “This bit you did get right—he is going to be at the Pump Room. He told me he hoped to see me there.”

  “Good. Good. Go there tonight, get to know him a little. Don’t fall in love with him, though—he’s said to be quite charming.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I can’t fall in love.” Was it true? She’d never said anything like that before, but it sounded right, and suddenly all the romantic disturbances with which she’d filled her years seemed like irrefutable proof. “Anyway, what do you want me to do to him?”

  “That, my dear, is entirely up to you. The important thing is I want you to get something out of him. A secret.”

  “Like what? You want to know whether or not your Senator Kennedy has a big dick?”

  This time the amusement was fainter, just an exhalation. “That I know already. No, whatever it is, you’re going to have to tell me.”

  The mirror opposite the bed was framed in gilt flourishes, and she regarded herself, listening to the faraway sound of Alexei breathing. Her full, uptilting breasts, the swelling of the abdomen like something from a Rembrandt painting, the whiteness of the flesh. In the flesh, Jack had said. Her mind was bright—she hadn’t imagined they’d meet again, but now she was excited to see him, to put Alexei’s scheme in motion, to see what she could learn. She only wished she wasn’t quite so heavy at the moment, but that never mattered once she was playing a part; and anyway, there was lots of time to make herself up. She was practically a genius at that by now.

  “N.J.?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’ll find you again soon. Don’t drink too much; I want you to remember as much as you can.” He paused, and for a moment she thought the line had disengaged. But then he went on, softly: “And do take care of yourself, all right?”

  FIVE

  Chicago, March 1959

  EVEN in the early days, when she was so intimidated by pretty much everybody including the catering people that she was mostly mute around them, her eyes had been her friends. They had always known how to return a gaze; words sometimes failed her, but she didn’t shrink in that way. One prolonged look, and she could tell the story of all the carnal possibilities. She could make love with her eyes. Jack, it seemed, had the same talent. Besides her, he was the shiniest object in the room—he wore clothes the way she wore clothes; they hung lightly, temporarily, on a body well aware of its value—and even in a room packed with the fashionable and rich, he never lost sight of her.

  When she arrived at the Pump Room, off the hotel lobby, he was sitting in a booth, surrounded by men wearing white dinner jackets and deep in conversation. That was two hours ago, and though they’d both flitted from table to table—saying hello to acquaintances (people she’d met at parties, or through her husbands; others who admired her and merely wanted to touch her hand), occasionally accepting invitations to dance—they had not yet spoken.

  What the old studio bastards called procrastination, she called patience. This was the essence of performance. She would never shout for attention when she could wait and draw it to her. Occasionally Jack glanced in her direction. Then she looked at him, looked away, lowered her lashes, let her shrouded eyes roll lazily back in his direction. Other women might have worried that they were losing their mark. Not her. She could feel the tension building, and knew the moment he made his move. He ros
e from the booth—the steaks his party had ordered for dinner lay half eaten on platters, and the ashtrays overflowed—and began to maneuver through the crowd. She rested an elbow on her table, lifted her chin, relaxed her posture, held steady.

  “Marilyn Monroe,” he said, when he was standing before her. He said her name low, emphasizing all five syllables, as though it signified some gorgeous stretch of landscape that he was appreciating for the first time. Then he thrust his hand forward and flashed his grin. “I’m Jack Kennedy. I hope I’m not interrupting. I wanted to tell you I enjoy your pictures.”

  “Thank you, Senator.” A silly, suggestive wink as she dangled her fingers in the vicinity of his. “Any picture in particular?”

  “All of ’em.” He caught her hand and pulled. “Will you dance?” Glancing in the direction of her publicity man, he added: “If that’s all right.”

  She’d worn her publicity man down—he only waved his hand indifferently as she allowed Jack to draw her onto her feet. The evening dress she wore was black, spangled with jet, and though the neck was somewhat higher than usual, the back was open down below the narrow of her waist. As Jack led her to the dance floor, he put his hand on the naked skin of her lower spine. One of her straps slipped, and she left it resting there, halfway between elbow and shoulder.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, leaving one hand on her back and using the other to draw her into a gentle sway. The band was playing mild jazz from a slightly raised stage in the corner, and she smiled at him mistily, as though she might have been thinking about him, too, or might not have. “You’re dangerous. They shouldn’t let you out looking like that.”

  “They?”

  “The government, I guess.”

  “But you are the government.”

  Neither had blinked since they began dancing. His face was lit with his gaze, and though he was not quite smiling anymore his mouth hung open. “I guess I’d be a hypocrite if I tried passing any laws against you.”

  “Please don’t. I make people happy, you know.”

  “I only care whether you make me happy.”

  “How am I doing so far?”

  “Grand.” Others in the room had noticed them, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I haven’t felt this happy in months.”

  “Good.” She let her heavy lashes kiss the skin of her cheeks. “I think I’d enjoy making you happy.”

  They were quiet for a while after that. Now she saw that he wasn’t really so handsome—it was the combination of tanned skin and confident, intelligent eyes that made him seem so. In fact, his features were rather piggish. But he was more appealing for it, more original. He was a good dancer, too, and she enjoyed being led. Though he gripped her loosely, she could feel the energy of his body—its heat was concentrated on her.

  Time passed before she spoke again, and the pitch of her voice changed, as when something meaningful has occurred. “Where did you come from?” she asked.

  “Washington,” he replied bluntly.

  “Mmmmm …” she purred, as though he were just making sounds and she was in no state to absorb any information, instead of pressing him, on Alexei’s behalf, for some secret detail. “So you’re here on business?”

  “Pleasure. Come to my room tonight.” It was half command, half request. His voice had lowered, too.

  She shook her head faintly, a drop of sadness. “I can’t,” she whispered, as though denying herself something she wanted badly. She did want him, a little. But if they went to bed too quickly, she knew he wouldn’t talk at all. They couldn’t both have what they wanted. “But don’t leave me yet. Talk to me. I like the way you talk. Tell me anything—about your work. Did it bring you here?”

  “In a way,” he replied evasively, without meeting her eye. The tautness of his muscles changed—abruptly his interest had slipped.

  She summoned a pink warmth, let it spread over her cheeks. She averted her gaze before raising it to meet his, the vulnerability quivering and dense. Her body got heavy with it, so he almost had to hold her up. “If I did,” she went on, helpless and hopeful as a child. “If I came to your room, I mean, you’d forget about me as soon as you were done, wouldn’t you?”

  “A broad like you?” He shook his head in disbelief at the suggestion. The moment of his flagging attention had passed; she had him again, and stronger this time.

  “Maybe we could meet in Los Angeles. I keep a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel.” Her voice was halting, as though she were afraid of the suggestion—afraid of what it might mean, afraid it might be rejected. “My husband prefers New York, so I’m more free on the Coast. Plus it’s so nice in the sunshine, don’t you think? When the sun makes your skin real hot.” When she said hot she wrinkled up her nose, just like she had for Wilder’s picture.

  “I’m going there in a couple of weeks. Maybe I’ll call you.”

  “Would you?” she whispered, as though she wanted to trust him but was afraid to. They looked at each other, and she knew he couldn’t wait for it, for balmy California, to hammer her on the sand. She made her eyes big as buttons, like Betty Boop. “But tell me something now,” she went on in the breathy voice she used when she performed. “Tell me a secret. Tell me something real, something you don’t want anybody to know. That way I’ll have a little dirt on you, and you’ll have to come back and treat me nice.” Many times she’d practiced saying nice like that—girlishly, but so that any man who wasn’t queer couldn’t help but think of the word naughty—but it had never come out of her mouth quite so perfect.

  He gave her that swanky grin, and turned her so that she was facing the direction he had been facing a moment ago. Over his white tuxedoed shoulder she could see the booth where he had eaten dinner, a table full of men who had just been staring at her. They’d changed their postures quickly, but she could always tell, and suddenly she knew what Jack had been doing. He’d been holding her, on that spot, so that his friends would have the best view—the open back of her dress, that channel of white skin pointing down like an arrow to the fat black-sequined apple of her ass. The corners of her mouth curled, and she let her irises drift up till they were half obscured by her eyelids. Alexei had been right—she was going to enjoy stealing from Jack.

  “See that man with the little glasses and the big sausage nose?”

  “You mean at your table?” she asked innocently.

  “Yes.”

  “The one in the middle? The one who’s talking like everyone should pay attention?”

  “Yes, that one. And everybody is paying attention. That’s Sam Giancana—he runs Chicago.”

  “What do you mean, runs?” She gave him her widest eyes.

  “I mean he’s the capo, baby. La Cosa Nostra. He’s in the mob. He is the mob.”

  “Oh.” She let the fear shudder down her spine so that he’d feel it in his palm—which, now that she was turned around and only the band could see her backside, had drifted south. “You mean he’s one of the bad guys?”

  Jack just kept giving her that grin, that fence of strong, bright teeth.

  “He doesn’t hurt people, does he?”

  The same teeth.

  “But what are you doing sitting at a table with him? I mean, if you’re a senator, isn’t it your duty to bring him in or something?”

  “That’s not how it works, baby. Not in this world.”

  “What are you meeting with him for, then?”

  He told it as matter-of-factly as though it were the story of how he was going to order his sandwich. “It’s business. When I make my run for president, he’s going to see that Cook County goes for Kennedy.”

  “I see,” she said and closed her eyes. She rested her head against his shoulder and let her body relax against his. “I mean, aren’t you big and important,” she cooed drowsily. But she wasn’t tired. Her mind fizzed with the information. It had been so easy—all she’d had to do was act a little dumb and frightened, and he’d told her something she already knew was even bigger than Al
exei could have hoped for. She was almost sorry that this would be the end of her spying, because in fact she found it quite satisfying. She was a natural, which was probably why they chose her. Perhaps she’d always liked digging for secrets.

  Then her mind really did drift from their conversation, and she let him sway her for a few more songs. She enjoyed that part, too—his appealing, assertive features, his ragged energy, the way the room spun around him like he was its center. After that she yawned—girlishly, theatrically, sweetly—and told him she had better get her beauty rest.

  “But I’ll see you on the Coast,” he said when she stepped away.

  “You better mean it. Remember, if you don’t call me, I’m going to the papers with your secret.” She winked and let him lead her over to her publicity man. Jack was back at the booth of cronies before she was out the door, talking about what a fine ass she had, probably, but she didn’t care. After she got back to New York she was going to meet her father, and maybe fix things with Arthur, or if not start fresh in California—she’d buy a place in the desert, and make Father bacon and eggs for breakfast every morning.

  The elevator sank fast through the hotel, the following morning, but she wasn’t frightened. She hadn’t slept much, and for once this caused her no agitation. She was alert, and her eyes in the mirrored walls that had contained her first meeting with Jack were shining and focused. She felt everything—her hair framing her face, a pulsing from the soles of her feet, the collar of her fur coat against her jaw as she hugged it close to her body. When she stepped onto the curb outside the Ambassador East, she saw Alexei right away. He was carrying a sign that said TWENTIETH CENTURY-FOX, and wearing a chauffeur’s hat and the suggestion of a smile that was for her alone.

  Leaving her publicity man to deal with her luggage, she wordlessly allowed Alexei to hold the door for her. She situated herself in the backseat—crossed legs, compact held aloft so that she could check her lipstick. It wasn’t until he’d pulled onto the freeway that she put away her makeup things and met his gaze in the rearview mirror. He had been watching her already, and she gave him the knowing, mischievous smile of a former lover who has never really gone away.