In a way, this was typical-Bobby cleaning up after Jack. For years, the middle brother had operated as the family hatchet man. Old Joe had groomed him for it.
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with Marilyn.”
“I met her earlier this year, right here at Peter’s, at a party. Ethel found her quite charming. We spoke current events-surprisingly knowledgeable girl. I even danced with her. You haven’t, uh, lived till you’ve seen Marilyn Monroe do the Twist.”
“As long as I don’t have to see you do it, too, I’m interested.”
He smiled politely.
“You need to be careful, Bob. You’re dealing with a very intelligent woman who has an ego as big as it is fragile. Cross her at your own risk. She’s a star among stars.”
He shrugged. “I know she’s famous. I said before she’s intelligent. Also creative and well-informed. But there are dangers here besides the, uh, potentially embarrassing presidential indiscretions.”
“Such as?”
He gave me an awkward glance. “Don’t laugh, Nate. But she has Communist affiliations.”
Only I did laugh. “Is that the ghost of Joe McCarthy I see, haunting us all of a sudden?”
His tone grew defensive. “No, she really does. Her psychiatrist, her doctor, too, and even that housekeeper of hers, go way back with the party.”
“This is not a Peter Lawford party we’re talking about now, is it?”
He frowned; for a young face, it could really rumple. “Christ, man, she was married to Arthur Miller! If we hadn’t pulled strings for the guy, he’d have gone to jail for contempt of Congress.”
“This makes Marilyn Monroe a Commie?”
“No, it makes her naive and vulnerable, and potentially useful to the other side.”
I presumed he meant the Russians and not the Republicans.
He was saying, “Did you know that just recently Miss Monroe spent time in Mexico with a colony of left-wing expatriates?”
“She was buying furniture, Bob.”
“She’s a security risk, Nate.”
“What kind of pillow talk is Jack indulging in, anyway?” I gave up a disgusted grunt. “This bears the delicate bouquet of J. Edgar.”
“Yes it does,” he admitted, eyebrows up, then down. “And, ah, the director has indeed met with Jack several times of late, sharing… information. And concern.”
“Concern about the Commie angle? Or the sex?”
Bobby grimaced. “Both. The director seems convinced that Marilyn might go public and embarrass the administration. He actually said that her doing so would ‘serve the Communist agenda.’”
“You kids do know there’s a difference between undercover and under covers? Tell Jack to stop loaning J. Edgar his Ian Fleming books.”
“It’s no joke, Nate.”
And it wasn’t.
I frowned, stopping, water slapping my ankles. “The press boys have always steered clear of Jack’s extracurricular activities… but they’d have a hard time resisting this. And if she did go public, in a press conference format-”
“That’s exactly what the director claims she’s threatening.” Bobby shook his head; he looked very young and very old all at once. “Why are these actors so difficult to deal with?”
“It’s because they’re damaged goods, Bob. They’re talented, often gifted, but they live out of suitcases and pretend to be somebody they aren’t, for a living. You know-like politicians?”
He showed no reaction, looking out at the ocean again. He wasn’t known for his sense of humor.
“Think of them this way, Bob-they’re carnies.”
That did get a faint smile out of him. “You’re saying Laurence Olivier and, uh, Peter O’Toole and Audrey Hepburn are carnival people.”
We started walking along the shore back the way we’d come. We moved up onto the sound because we’d hit a patch of brown seaweed that the rising tide thoughtlessly littered.
“Yup. Hardworking folk in the entertainment business, but a breed apart.” I painted the air with a hand. “Suppose you needed a new driver for the presidential limo. Would you choose a nice young chauffeur with a Secret Service background check? Or would you look for a guy with four teeth and six tattoos who hasn’t shaved in three days and chain-smokes whose prior job was tending the Tilt-A-Whirl?”
Deadpan, he said, “Your point?”
Tough room.
“You tell your brother that there are plenty of nice young girls with nice young bodies who would be happy as hairy little clams to make his back and his front feel good. Secretaries and stewardesses and staffers, oh my. But fooling around with Hollywood’s reigning sex symbol? That’s reckless even for him.”
For all of that effort, I got a simple nod.
Bobby had a reputation as the family’s prude, the guy who wouldn’t even stand for a dirty joke, who adored his wife and his ever-increasing family. And that was true, as far as it went.
But he had the same womanizing tendencies as his older and younger brothers-hard not to, when your old man defines marriage as, “Find a nice girl from a good family, have lots of babies, and screw as many other women as you like.”
Robert Kennedy (before and after becoming attorney general) had affairs and one-night stands, but was never stupid or careless about it, and I found it ironic that a guy who messed around himself spent so much time cleaning up his two brothers’ messes, never needing to clean up his own.
“Bob,” I said, “Jack is going to screw himself out of office, if he doesn’t start being careful. You’re goddamn lucky nothing came out last election.”
He kicked at the water, childishly. “You think I don’t know that? Anyway, it’s over. Jack and Marilyn haven’t been together since after the Garden.”
He meant the birthday bash at Madison Square Garden, weeks ago.
“It’s… over?” I said.
“They had one last night together, and out.”
“Does she know that?”
“She’s been told. No uncertain terms.”
“By you, or Jack?”
“By me. I told you, Nate, I’m handling this personally. Anyway, she hasn’t been able to reach Jack. He, ah, changed his private number, and-”
“She was calling the White House?”
“Yes.”
“Jack gave her a direct number to him there?”
“Yes, but it’s been changed.”
“How could he be so goddamn dumb?”
“Nate, it’s Marilyn Monroe. What man doesn’t want to talk to Marilyn Monroe?”
“Your brother Jack, at the moment. And talking isn’t the issue.”
He stopped, and the water sloshed us.
“Nate. Listen to me-I told her, in no uncertain terms-”
“What uncertain terms exactly?”
“I gave her both barrels. Told her that she was just another lay to Jack. This talk of being First Lady, and living at the White House and so on, it had to stop.”
I felt like I’d been smacked in the face with a carp. “She was entertaining thoughts of becoming First Lady?”
“Ah, I’m uh… afraid so. She, ah, doesn’t seem to know much about the Catholic Church.”
“What the hell was she thinking?”
Of course, she did manage to marry the most famous ballplayer in America, and when she was done, snagged our greatest living playwright, though I have to admit I fell asleep in Death of a Salesman. Why not be Mrs. Jack Kennedy? If they thought Jackie’s tour made a great TV special, wait till they got Marilyn’s remake.
“Nate. We’re handling this. I’ve handled it. That chapter is over, Jack and Marilyn.”
Then why was Marilyn putting a bug on her own phones? And should I tell Bobby? Where did my loyalty lie?
What I heard myself saying was, “Telling Suzy Secretary she needs to know her place, or even giving her ten grand to go back to college, that’s one thing. Literally fucking around with a famous actress like Marilyn… it’s suicidal and it’s stupid and it’s arrogant.”
He could see I was steamed and did something surprising. He touched my arm. “I don’t disagree with you. But I can’t blame Jack, really. She is a lovely girl.”
“Really, Bob? Marilyn Monroe is a lovely girl? Stop the goddamn presses.” I sighed. “I assume when Peter went to find you-wherever you hid out when I showed up unannounced-that he let you know why I came around this afternoon. And shared what I told him-that Marilyn’s new house has been bugged?”