“How was last night, my dear?” he asked, returning her smile.
“Good.” She beamed. “I think you’re going to be kinda impressed with me.”
“The senator liked you, then?”
“Yes, right away.”
“Does he trust you?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I don’t think trust means very much with a man like that. He thinks I’m not too sharp, that’s the important thing—he didn’t worry much about telling me important things, because he believes I’m too dumb to understand.”
The face Alexei gave her was better than any she’d ever gotten from a director. “You really got his number, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” She savored the yes—they both did—as he maneuvered the car across the vast lavender ribbon of expressway.
“And what did he tell you, my dear?”
“He told me …” She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. “He told me the reason he was in Chicago.”
“Which was?”
“He was in Chicago to see Sam Giancana, the man who runs the Chicago Outfit.” The story, as she recounted it, sounded almost harmless and quaint, like the oft-recited words of a fairy tale on the lips of a child. She closed her eyes and listened to herself tell the ending: “He was there to make a deal with Giancana, so that when he runs for president, Illinois will go for Kennedy.”
Beneath her white pumps, through the floor, she could feel the car’s wheels slow slightly; Alexei was changing directions to bring her to her father. He was close by, and as a reward she would be taken there in time to make him coffee and read him the headlines. But when she finally opened her eyes she saw that the car was moving along in the same path—it was only that other cars were denser around them now, so he couldn’t maintain the same speed—and his gaze was no longer focused on her.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” She hoped her voice wasn’t really so pathetic.
“I knew that already,” he replied quietly. He didn’t need to express his disappointment, because it was obvious in his changed posture. “How do you think I knew he’d be in Chicago in the first place? We have a girl in Giancana’s organization.”
The skin of her face went cold and her stomach made a fist as she apprehended what Alexei was involved in—what she, by extension, was involved in. She thought of the little man at Kennedy’s booth, his small glasses and thin lips, his shoulders creeping up around his neck like the shoulders of all corrupt people. About how he was a killer. The nameless girl who reported to both Alexei and Giancana was a killer, too. And so was Alexei, probably, if the situation demanded.
“You’re not going to introduce me to my father, then?” She didn’t sound like a child anymore, and her face was turned away.
He ignored her question. “How did you leave it with Kennedy?”
The fur coat was draped over her shoulders, and under its cover she fixed her arms across her chest. “He said he’d call me when he’s in California next,” she replied vaguely to the windowpane.
“Good. Then that’s where you’re heading. I’ll take you to the airport and get you a ticket. It will appear natural enough—it’s what Arthur’s been asking for; he won’t object. And if you stay longer than planned, you can tell him that you’re seeing to his business, both your business, by trying to convince Mr. Gable to be in the picture. We understand Arthur hasn’t been able to convince Mr. Gable to play Gay yet.”
“That’s because Arthur doesn’t understand Mr. Gable,” she snapped bitterly, before she thought to ask how Alexei knew about The Misfits, Arthur’s latest obsession, or what she and Arthur fought about in private. “He doesn’t understand anybody besides himself.”
“But you do. It will be good cover for you, and if you’re doing a little business it will be a perfect excuse to go to parties and see a lot of Kennedy.”
Suddenly her head hurt, and the miles of expressway, the tangle of traffic, the great distance that lay between her and the airport lounge and a good, strong drink seemed impassable, impossible. “When do I get to meet him, Alexei?”
He glanced at her in the rearview, and must have seen how her eyes burned when she asked this. He knew she meant her father, and did not make her say so out loud. “Once you’ve done this one thing for us, then you can meet him.” He was patient again, but some of the kindness was gone. “Go to California. Wait for Kennedy. Let him romance you. Get him to tell you something. Anything. I want to know something about Mr. John Kennedy that no one else knows.”
SIX
Los Angeles, April 1959
THERE was always a moment, returning after a long time away, when she thought California could hold her. It was so quiet in that dry, clear atmosphere, and she would squint, and see nothing harmful in its fine light. But despair can creep up in the sunshine, too, an old lesson she was reminded of by two days spent waiting in her hotel for Jack to call. Alexei had assured her he was, in fact, in Los Angeles, but she had yet to hear from the senator, and so on Saturday she set off on the business that had officially brought her west. On the freeway she turned up the radio and let her consciousness drift, so that by the time she had descended into the orange groves of the San Fernando Valley she had almost forgotten her troubles.
The air, when she stepped out of the car, was fragrant with orange blossoms, and the quiet was so complete that the studios on the other side of the hills seemed like another country. Clark Gable was coming toward her from the house, his arm raised in greeting, rather bowlegged as though he were a real cowboy. His face was charred from the sun, and even at a distance she marked the silver glint of his eyes, the ruffled brow and half-cocked smile. She unknotted the scarf that she had worn to protect her hair during the drive, and tossed it through the open driver’s side window.
“Hello, honey,” he called out. “Don’t you look like a dream!”
She smiled shyly in reply. In fact, they were dressed rather similarly, in white slacks and suede loafers, his collared shirt unbuttoned to the chest, hers designed to open wide. She stepped out of the driving loafers and into the red high-heeled pumps she kept under the seat. “And you look just like I knew you would.”
When he reached her he put an arm around her shoulder and drew her in the direction of the house. “Pleasure to meet you, honey. Thanks for coming out to the boonies.”
“Oh, well, you know, the pleasure is all mine. It’s a relief, really, to get out of town.”
He chuckled. “Where you staying, honey?”
“My usual bungalow at the Beverly Hills.”
“Welcome to Encino, then. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn to get away.”
“Oh, I’ve been away plenty, only for me it always seems to …” Her words grew faint and fell away, no match for the weight of all that running away failed to fix. “You know my mother used to have a framed picture of you on her nightstand? For the longest time, whenever I saw your face, I thought you were my father.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that one,” he replied genially. It was a story she liked to tell reporters. Grinning down on her, he asked, “Is it true?”
She grinned back, and answered in the same easy manner. “Who can remember anymore?”
His arm remained rested on her shoulder as they went into the shadow of the house, up the brick steps framed by eruptions of bougainvillea, and into the cool foyer. “Kay!” he yelled, loudly but in no direction in particular. “Kay! Miss Monroe is here.”
A big blonde emerged from around a staircase, skirt swinging. As she wiped her hands on a towel, her lips—where red tint had been recently applied—stretched in welcome. Her hair rose off her forehead in brass curls that must have set the night before, and Marilyn saw right away what had happened to her: She was pretty enough to get into pictures, but not special enough to stay.
“Kay, this is Marilyn; Marilyn, this is my wife, Kay Williams.”
The two women shook hands, and Marilyn made several pleasant observations about the house,
which Kay batted away, before soliciting a smacking, avuncular kiss on the lips from her husband.
“You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?” Kay demanded, arm around her husband’s middle.
“That would be wonderful,” Marilyn breathed.
“Children, come meet Miss Monroe!” Kay shouted up the stairs.
Their feet thundered across the second story, and then a boy and a girl came hustling down into the foyer. They were handsome children, tall but not yet teenagers, and someone had put a great deal of care into dressing them.
“I like your ribbons,” Marilyn addressed the girl, a little shyly.
When she heard the timidity in the movie star’s voice, the girl managed to raise her eyes. “I’m Jane,” she blurted.
“Well. It’s nice to meet you, Jane.”
“And this is Bunker,” Clark said. The boy flicked his eyes up at her. Though he was as preternaturally blond as his sister, his sapphire gaze was purer and more assertive; he had a bold self-regard that she recognized, and it softened her heart to him. He was so young and beautiful, and it made her realize Clark was old, his skin cracked and his chest thinning; that his body had already absorbed too many blows.
Clark shooed away the children and brought her into the living room. The walls were paneled in pine, and a pyramid of wood had been erected in the fireplace, although it wasn’t lit and may have been there a long time already. It occurred to her that movie stars are always their own best customers.
“Why do you call him Bunker?” Marilyn asked as she sank onto the floral sofa and curled her pumps underneath herself.
“Because he’s a sadist.” Clark’s back was to her, focusing on the bar, and she wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. When he turned, a tumbler of amber liquid in either hand, he was wearing his Rhett Butler face, and for a moment she felt as though she’d just been told that she should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how. “His name’s Adolph, after his father—you didn’t think they were my children, did you?”
She shook her head.
“I’d have been a lousy father, I guess. But as a stepfather, I think I do all right. Anyway, yes—Adolph after his father, Mr. Adolph Spreckels the Second. You’d have thought the war killed their taste for the name, but no. So they call him Bunker because that’s where it ended for the great dictator. Cute, ain’t it?”
“I’d think that would be a hard name to hear all the time.”
“I suppose.” He passed her a drink and sat down, propping an ankle on the opposite knee and drinking long. She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.
“They seem like sweet children.”
“Sure.”
“And you and Kay, you’re happy together?”
“I’ve been married five times, so I don’t expect much from the institution, but yes—we’re happy, after a fashion.”
“That’s nice.” She let her lids sink and sipped the whiskey that Clark Gable had brought her. She was beginning to enjoy the faux simplicity of his place, the good-looking children, and the meaty aroma that was wafting from the kitchen. “I guess happiness isn’t perfect any place …”
“So.” She opened her eyes when she heard his voice, newly hard. “You want me to make this picture of your husband’s, is that it?”
“That’s right.” She lowered the glass from her face. “John Huston is set to direct, and … we think you’re the only one to play Gay.”
“Gay?” His eyebrows did a dance. She felt a surge of anger at Arthur for being so stupid and obvious. She’d heard the stories of what Clark had done to get ahead, and knew that when stories like that persisted they were often true.
“Oh, well, you know … it’s just a name.”
He shook his head. “Sure. I don’t mind that. Listen, kid, you and me, we’re the same, more or less. So you have a pretty good idea what kind of things I did in the early days, just like I know without asking what you’ve done. And I know all the tricks you use to stay in this business, too, and why you want to. Why you’ll never go Garbo. Yes—I can make you squirm, same as you can make me squirm. Only I don’t want to. I just want to tell you straight. I’ll do the picture.”
“Oh.” She straightened, pressed her ankles together. “You will?”
“Sure.” His left eye twitched, the suggestion of a wink, and she knew what he’d meant when he said they were the same. “So long as the money’s right.”
“That’s such wonderful news!” She touched his glass with hers, and took a sip that reminded her of her insides as it went down scorching. “The picture wouldn’t work without you, you know that?”
“Yes, I’m sure everybody will be looking right at me.” He laughed and shook his head, his gaze for a moment traveling over the places where her slacks had tightened on her thighs. “You go on and tell your husband you convinced me after a lot of burdensome talking, and let’s just have some fun and not worry about that anymore. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Kay was calling to them that dinner would get cold if they didn’t quit their gossiping and come into the kitchen. They exchanged a glance, and drained their glasses.
“Let’s have some chow,” he said, and they rose and went ambling, arm in arm, toward his wife’s voice.
Dinner was meat loaf, and Marilyn felt lulled by the homeliness, the sitting at table with a family, Kay in her housedress, her blazing smile and warm, direct manner. The adults talked about how each of them had been raised poor—agreeing it was a relief to live for a spell without the extra fuss of a cook and maid now and then—while the children picked at their food. The girl kept looking up at Marilyn—slowly, as though she might thus disguise her curiosity—but the boy didn’t bother averting his eyes, which were fascinated and unembarrassed. Children were always interested in her one way or another, and since she liked their company and still hoped to have her own someday, she didn’t mind. Kay made them clear and wash their own dishes, and then they disappeared, to whatever dream place children go when they are alone.
“Would you like another?” Kay indicated Marilyn’s tumbler with a wave of the hand.
“Oh, sure.”
Kay sashayed into the living room and returned with the whole bottle, which she planted in the middle of the table.
“Thank you for dinner, Kay. It was delicious.”
“Thanks, honey. Just the same as Ma used to make back on the peach farm in P.A. I know it’s not really Hollywood fare, but we like it.” She made a show of yawning. “Will you excuse me just a little while, so I can slip into something more comfortable?”
“Of course.” As Kay left the room, Marilyn unstopped the bottle and filled her and Clark’s glasses. The ice had melted a while ago, but this didn’t seem to matter. She sighed, pushing her shoulder blades into the chair’s high back and crossing her ankles on the spot where young Jane had lately sat. “What a dear your wife is,” she observed, bringing the fresh glass up to her lips.
“Yes.” Clark was leaning forward, over the table, his eyes on the ceiling, listening for the sound of high heels above, first on wood and then some softer surface. A door slammed. He blinked, raised his glass, and drained it. “Come on, kid. Let’s get out of here. I need to fuck something.”
Marilyn heard her own shoes coming down suddenly from the chair, and she must have seemed stricken because he quickly amended himself.
“Don’t worry, not you.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sloped, whether in relief or disappointment she wasn’t sure. “But isn’t Kay coming back down?”
“She’s taken a pill and gone to bed. She thinks I’m going to screw you, and she can’t stand it but she knows she can’t stop it, so she figures she’ll just put herself down a while.”
A sad smile crept onto Marilyn’s face. “But you don’t want to. Screw me, I mean.”
“Oh.” His brow flexed and he pursed his lips, sorrow morphing into irony in his washed-out eyes. “Honey, I want to fuck something that doesn’t move. Something w
ith big, trusting eyes, something stupid enough to believe I’m going to make their dreams come true. We’ll find a nice piece for you, too, all right?”
Her mother really had kept a photograph on her bedside table, a publicity shot of Clark Gable from his early years, and though she had always known he was just a man from the pictures, she felt a swallowing disappointment that the performance of the late afternoon—of mother and father and boy and girl eating meat loaf for dinner while the sun was still up—wasn’t true. Her eyes lowered, and she brought the whiskey to her mouth.
“Anyway,” he went on with gritty charm, “what if you really were my daughter? We’d have a Greek tragedy on our hands.”
“All right.” She raised her gaze to meet his, and when she saw his grin she knew this was better. They were the same, like he said, had probably even once upon a time sucked some of the same cocks. She tossed her hair away from her face and told herself to feel careless until carelessness was radiating through her skin. “Let’s go. But where to?”
“Mosey Moses is having a party.”
Marilyn’s eyes got wide, and she rotated her head right and left.
“You don’t know Mosey? Well.” Clark winked before standing and offering her his hand. They were moving quickly, through the foyer, and outside, where she saw the night sky white with stars. “You have been gone a long time. Nowadays everybody goes to Mosey’s.”
SEVEN
Beverly Hills, April 1959
“DOUGIE!”
At the sound of the diminutive, trilled by his mother, Walls shrank slightly into the lounge chair upon which he had been hiding. It amazed him anew that at this late stage of life, when he was almost entirely emancipated, financially and personally speaking, and when he was, additionally, highly trained in the use of firearms and in a variety of surveillance techniques, his mother’s voice should still inject him with such an instant dose of migrainous agony. But he knew that she would find him sooner or later, so he sat up faithfully and allowed her to spot him.
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