Sinatra shrugged and returned to his martini. “I don’t know. I can’t help it. Some people are just so goddamn dumb.”
A few celebrity types stopped by to pay their respects to the Chairman of the Board-a nickname bestowed on Sinatra when he thumbed his nose at Capitol Records, who’d revived his career, and started his own label, Reprise.
The respect-payers included singer Buddy Greco, between shows in the Indian Lounge, and restaurateur Mike Romanoff and his wife, Gloria. Greco was a talented guy and cocky, and treated Sinatra like an equal, which was dangerous. Romanoff was that well-liked fraud who pretended to be Russian royalty, a dapper, homely little septuagenarian with a mustache and a beautiful brunette wife many decades younger.
I knew Romanoff only slightly, from his restaurant, and his wife not at all; but they were close friends of both the Lawfords and Sinatra, because “Prince” Michael had been part of Humphrey Bogart’s original Rat Pack, of which Frank’s current crop was an extension.
As they gabbed, Marilyn probably appeared bored or even in a haze to onlookers; perhaps that was why no one, famous or otherwise, came over to talk to her, just acknowledged her with a smile. Even resort guests didn’t speak to her or ask for an autograph, merely moved slowly by, gazing, as if at Mount Rushmore.
I knew she’d been shaken badly by Giancana’s presence. And in forty-five minutes or so, she’d put away enough champagne for a small wedding party. She’d spilled some, and it shimmered on her black dress like embedded jewels.
I whispered, “Want to get out of here?”
She just nodded, and gathered up her little black purse.
I went over to Sinatra. “I’m gonna walk Marilyn home.”
“Walk her all the way to Brentwood,” he said unpleasantly, “far as I care. I hate a sloppy broad.”
I gave him a look.
He gave me one back. “You think I arranged that? I didn’t know Momo would be here. He comes to a lot of my openings. You’re not calling me a liar, are you, Nate?”
“Not while you’re my client,” I said. “Maybe off the clock, next week, I’ll have a different opinion.”
He decided to laugh at that.
I went over and took Marilyn by the arm and walked her out into a warm but breezy night. The occasional splash of neon and the shrill sounds of gambling and drink were at odds with the beauty of the Cal-Neva grounds, the fir trees, the rocky hillsides, the shelves of granite, touched lightly by moonlight.
“That awful man,” she said, and shuddered. She was clutching my arm as if afraid to fall from a height.
“I don’t suppose you mean Romanoff,” I said. She might have meant Sinatra. But I didn’t think so.
“You know who I mean. He has a lot of names. Mooney. Gold. Flood. Giancana. Frank calls him Momo. What kind of name is that for a man-Momo?”
“I’m surprised you know him by any name,” I said.
“I don’t know him, really. But he’s a friend of Frank’s. So I’ve met him. He’s not supposed to be here, is he?”
“No.”
“Did Frank invite him?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he just showed. The guy is a co-owner of this place.”
“He’s also a killer, isn’t he?”
“He used to be.”
“Why, can you stop being one?”
Damn good question.
Suddenly she put on the brakes and clutched my arm even harder. “I need you to stay with me tonight.”
“Well, sure.” Some men might turn down an offer like that from Marilyn Monroe, but I wasn’t one of them.
“Only… we need to stop by your cabin first. Isn’t that your cabin? Right there?”
My nod affirmed that.
“Well, I want you to go get your gun.”
“What?
“I want you to go get your gun and you’re going to protect me.” She wobbled. “You’re my bodyguard, aren’t you?”
“Sam Giancana isn’t going to come shoot you, honey. Or send anybody, either.”
Her inebriation had her overenunciating, the way she did in comedy roles. “I am a threat. I am a threat to ev-ery-body. Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“Sweetie, the last thing Giancana or your friend Frankie would want is a dead body turning up here on their premises. A famous dead body would be even worse. Your famous dead body, particularly.”
She had started shaking her head halfway through that, her platinum tresses struggling to free themselves of their hair-sprayed helmet. “Get your gun. Get your gun. Get your gun.”
I got my gun.
She came in and peed while I traded my formal wear for a polo and chinos and sandals. The nine-millimeter, extracted from my suitcase, I stuffed in my waistband. My toothbrush I stuck in my pocket. A man with a gun and a toothbrush can go anywhere.
We made it up the stairs onto the balcony of her chalet, despite her stumbling a little. She found her key in the purse and let herself in, and I followed. It was a fairly standard if nicely appointed motel room, similar to mine, somewhat larger, same beige walls and rather small bathroom. The only extra touch was a round bed, like Hefner’s (minus the gizmos), with a pink satin bedspread. In the corner, angled to face the door, was a white, overstuffed chaise lounge.
She pointed at the lounge. “That’s your post.”
“Okay.” But I didn’t take my position just yet. “Gonna hit the hay?”
It was about 1:00 A.M.
She was over by the foot of the bed, or where the foot would be if the thing weren’t round. “I think so. I’m reading some scripts.” A pile sat on her nightstand. “I may take a few sleeping pills.”
“Just so you don’t overdo.”
She headed toward the bathroom. “I’ll be fine. Just a little chloral hydrate.”
“In my business we call that a Mickey Finn.”
“In mine,” she said, pills in her mouth, water running, “we call it Marilyn’s little helpers.”
I went over to the chaise lounge and stretched out. Comfy. Nearby, a floor lamp provided the only illumination. The nine-millimeter nudged me in that half-sitting position, so I placed it on the floor to my right.
She came out in a sheer bra and nothing else, her amber tuft nicely unruly.
“If I’m not being ungentlemanly,” I said, “why a bra and no panties?”
She cupped her breasts. “Pussies don’t sag.”
Wasn’t that a mystery novel by A. A. Fair?
She clicked on her bedside lamp and suggested I switch my light off, unless I wanted to borrow a script to read. I declined, and she got under the covers and read for a while, and in maybe five minutes was asleep. I went over, put the script on the nightstand stack, turned off the lamp, and returned to my post.
I was fairly tired, and maybe a little drunk, though nowhere near as tipsy as Marilyn had been. So I might have fallen asleep quickly if my mind hadn’t insisted on tormenting me with various nasty thoughts, the first of which was that I had brought a gun into the motel room of a woman notorious for suicide attempts.
If Marilyn used my nine-millimeter, at some despairing point in the night, I might as well use it on myself, too, for how little career I’d have left.
Then there was Sinatra. I didn’t believe for a second that Giancana’s presence wasn’t his idea, to remind Marilyn just how deep and dangerous were the waters she was swimming in, and I didn’t mean Lake Tahoe or the kidney-shaped pool.
But Giancana’s presence could cost Sinatra his gaming license, and guaranteed a weekend presence at the lodge of FBI agents, male and female, racking up fun expenses on Uncle Sam’s account. This, at the very time Marilyn-a Communist sympathizer in J. Edgar’s view-and President Kennedy’s sister were also Sinatra’s guests at Cal-Neva.
I couldn’t imagine Pat Lawford had been thrilled to find her brother Bobby’s nemesis playing host. But she was complicit nonetheless-this weekend wasn’t about celebrating MM’s new Fox contract, was it? It was about Peter and Pat putting the pressure on Marilyn. A real three-ring circus, and Sinatra was providing the tent.
But confronting Frank was pointless. First, the damage was done-Giancana had shown his lizard-like face and spooked Marilyn, and whether he was still around tomorrow was a moot point. Second, Sinatra was my client, and while I was Marilyn’s bodyguard, the Voice was paying the freight.