“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 criminaclass="underline" 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.