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?”