We left the showroom and found a corner of the lobby.
He stood close enough for me to smell his lime-scented cologne. It was almost enough to put me off gimlets.
“How does Marilyn seem?” he asked.
“She seems fine.”
“Have you seen her take any pills?”
“No. She’s off the pills.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not rooming with her. She’s hitting the bubbly pretty good tonight, but isn’t it a celebration?”
“Not entirely. Listen, old chum, are you aware of what she’s been doing?”
“You mean taking Twentieth Century-Fox to the woodshed?”
“Not that-she’s been calling Bobby, or trying to.”
“I heard something along those lines.”
He sighed; he was a handsome devil, but looked closer to my age than his own. “She’s phoned the Justice Department switchboard perhaps a dozen times, screaming at them when they won’t put her through. Then somehow she wormed Bobby’s home number out of Jerry Wald-he’s producing the Enemy Within picture, you know-and got Ethel on the line, and, well, Bobby is just furious.”
“Want to know what I think?”
“What?”
“Bobby needs to deal with this directly. He needs to speak to Marilyn, probably in person, and treat her respectfully. Essentially apologize for his bad behavior, and Jack’s.”
“Are you mad?”
“Don’t knock it, it got me out of the Marines. But if what you’re planning is to sit her down this weekend, so you and Pat can do Bobby’s dirty work, well… how did that turn out for you with Frank?”
His expression turned defensive. “I’m here, ” Lawford said. “And Frank and I are like this again.” He held up forefinger and middle finger entwined.
I did the old gag: “I bet I can guess which one is you. Is this the first time you’ve spoken since the Palm Springs fiasco?”
“Maybe it is.”
“No maybe about it. You and Frank and the Kennedy boys all know how lousy this will look if Marilyn goes public.”
His eyes and nostrils flared. “You’re telling me! She’s talking to Sidney bloody Skolsky about this, and just about every other columnist-they’re being gentlemen about it, even the ladies, but what if she holds this press conference she’s threatening? What then?”
“She’s not a baby. She’s not stupid. She’s not a bimbo, either, even if Jack and Bobby treat her like one. She’s a genius, in her way, and a very important person.”
“I know… I know…”
“They’re users, Peter. They’ve used me. And they’ve used you. But I’m just a two-bit private eye who lived long enough to get respectable. And you aren’t exactly Brando or Olivier, are you? So they can get away with using us. But you don’t use Marilyn Monroe and toss her aside like she’s Jayne Mansfield.”
He looked alarmed. “How did you know that?”
“What?”
“That Jack and Bobby had Jayne Mansfield, too?”
What could I say to that?
I just held up my hands in surrender and went back in to hear Sinatra sing.
And it was a great show-a fantastic big band playing so hard and loud, it enveloped you, with that living legend teasing, delighting, seducing, and beguiling an audience that was the real instrument he played, those mature pipes tossing off songs like he was making them up as he went: “Come Fly with Me,” “One for My Baby,” “Luck Be a Lady,” “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” the son of a bitch was a genius.
Like Marilyn.
But for that brief intermission with Lawford, the evening had gone well, I thought. Marilyn hadn’t really had all that much champagne-if she’d eaten more than just a salad, she might not have shown the effects of those three or four glasses.
Then things got weird.
Right after Sinatra’s closer, “Chicago” (had that been for me?), when we were still seated, after the lights had come up and before Frank could come out and join us, somebody else did.
Standing between Marilyn and me, like an evil dwarf, was Sam Giancana, elegant in his continental formal wear, well-tanned and ugly as hell, his hair dark going gray and thinning, his oval face home to tiny dark eyes, a lumpy nose, and a sideways slash of a smile.
“I just wanted to welcome you to the Cal-Neva,” the Outfit boss said to us all. “Mrs. Lawford. Miss Monroe. Nathan. Peter.”
Nobody knew what to say.
Finally I managed, “Pleasant surprise, seeing you, Sam. But I didn’t think you were allowed at Cal-Neva.”
His smile could darken up any room. “Ah, but I’m on the California side, Nate. It’s Nevada where I’m persona non grata… Don’t mean to interrupt.” He nodded to one and all, then looked right at Marilyn, who had a stricken expression. “Have a lovely weekend, Miss Monroe.”
He was moving away. No bodyguards. I found myself following him, catching up with him halfway out.
“Sam-what’s the idea?”
“Nothing’s the idea, Nate.” He was still moving, but not that quickly. The showroom was crowded, and exiting took a while, though some guests lingered for an after-dinner, after-show drink.
I was at his side. “Did Sinatra know you were going to be here?”
“Why, did you think he sang ‘Chicago’ for you?”
I pretended that didn’t deserve an answer.
We kept moving.
I said, “Is the point to scare Marilyn shitless? Because I think it worked.”
“I hope it did. She needs to concentrate on what she’s good at. Posing. Acting. Fucking.”
That was ungracious, but I didn’t point it out; I think he knew.
“She’s not going to cause any trouble, Sam.”
“You guaranteeing that, Nate? Putting your personal assurance on it?”
“Well… no.”
He stopped. He bestowed another awful smile on me, even put a hand on my shoulder.
“Just know that I appreciate you being here,” he said, looking up at me in a fatherly fashion, “and helping us corral this crazy cunt.”
He patted my shoulder, and moved on.
I didn’t follow him.
When I got back to the table, Sinatra was standing there, tux tie loosened, smiling, asking his seated guests if they’d enjoyed themselves. Lawford was forcing a smile-not his best performance-and Marilyn looked pale and sick. Almost as sick and pale as Pat Lawford. Apparently Pat had recognized Giancana, which was interesting in itself.
I went up to Frank and he, too, put a hand on my shoulder. Gave me a grin so dazzling it rivaled Johnny Rosselli’s.
“Dig the show, Nate?”
I gave him my coldest look, which is pretty fucking cold.
“Which one?” I asked.
CHAPTER 12
Nobody argued when Sinatra invited everybody to join him in the cocktail lounge. It was one of the resort’s most popular spots, with a big circular bar under a colorful stained-glass dome. Frank had reserved the section by the tall windows overlooking the lake, whose surface was playing mirror for the sickle-slice moon. There, on stools, sat the Lawfords, Sinatra, Marilyn, and I-no sign of Giancana, but then green-felt tables lined the periphery. Definitely the Nevada side.
The drinking was heavy and the talk was light, dominated by praise for Frank’s show (Lawford’s fawning got fairly sickening). Resort guests who said hi to Frank would get nods and smiles, even if he was in the midst of conversation; he was a convivial host unless somebody overstepped.
One guy in his forties with a thirtyish female on his arm came right up and said, “Frank, I want you to meet my girl.”
Sinatra gave him a snarl of a smile and said, “You want me to meet your girl? Does she want to meet me? Can’t she speak for herself? Who are you to do the talking? Is she deaf and dumb, this girl of yours?”
The couple froze in shock, then melted away.
Peter, finding a little spine somewhere, said, “For Christ’s sake, Frank, why do that?”