You're nobody 'til somebody kills you rp-4 Read online

  “Here we are,” Dean said.

  I looked at him.

  “You comin’?”

  “No,” Dean said. “I told her you were gonna talk to her.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yep.”

  I looked up at the front of the cabin. When I walked through that door I’d be alone with whoever was inside. Suddenly, I was as nervous as a schoolboy that it might be Angie.

  “Dean?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s not Angie, is it?”

  “Angie Dickinson? Hell, no. Why would you think that? There ain’t nothin’ fragile about Angie. That broad is a rock.”

  “And this one’s not, huh?”

  “No, Eddie,” Dean said, “this one’s not. You’ll have to take it easy with her. Listen to her, talk to her, but tread lightly, my friend.”

  “What makes you think she’ll trust me?”

  “The two of you have met,” Dean said.

  “When?”

  “She was very impressed.”

  “Come on, Dean,” I said, “who’s in there?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “What makes her so fragile?”

  “You’ll find out for yourself,” he said.

  “Why so secretive?”

  “Well,” Dean said with a bemused expression, “if I told you who was inside, maybe you wouldn’t get out of the car.”

  “Now I’m really curious.”

  He smiled and said, “I’ll wait here.”

  I got out of the car, went up the steps to the door and stopped. I looked down at the car, but couldn’t see if Dean was laughing at me or not. I knocked. When the door opened I caught my breath.

  Four

  Blond hair, red mouth, flawless, pale skin. To the public at large that’s what Marilyn Monroe was. But they had never seen the Marilyn who was standing in front of me at that moment.

  “Eddie,” she said, in that breathy voice of hers. “Come on in.”

  I entered the cottage, speechless, and closed the door behind me. She was wearing a pair of capri pants that hugged her assets, and a sweater that listed to one side, leaving a single shoulder bare. A single smooth, creamy shoulder, I might add.

  “Miss Monroe-” I started, but she turned quickly, her hair swinging into her eyes. She tossed it back with a quick jerk.

  “Please, Eddie,” she said, “call me Marilyn. Is Dean outside?”

  “Yeah-yes, he said you wanted to see me alone. Marilyn, I don’t understand. We’ve only met once, and that was for about three minutes.”

  She laughed, her beautiful face brightening at the memory of that moment. “I remember very well. It was last year in Harrah’s in Reno. You rescued me from a crowd of people and helped me get to the elevator.”

  “And that was it,” I said. “We haven’t seen each other or spoken since then.”

  “Oh, but Eddie,” she said, “I have to tell you, the way you took control? I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer. And I feel safe with you now.”

  “Well, I wasn’t all that smart that time,” I said. “I was so involved in what I was doing I thought you were in town shooting The Misfits with Gable.”

  “B-but … Clark died months before that, like twelve days after we finished shooting.”

  “Sure, I knew that. I felt real stupid later when I thought back on it.”

  “I was in town doing some publicity.”

  Suddenly, her eyes got sad-the way they’d been when she opened the door-and her mouth quivered. And it wasn’t the famous Marilyn mouth I was looking at.

  “Eddie-” she said, reaching a hand out to me blindly as tears filled her eyes.

  “Hey, hey,” I said, taking her hand and leading her to a chair. She sat down and I crouched down in front of her.

  Marilyn couldn’t help herself. Even in that moment she was radiating not only sex, but sadness. I knew what Dean had meant when he said I’d see for myself how fragile she was. Of course I’d heard stories of her moods. Also, her tumultuous love life, marriage and divorce from famous men like Joe DiMaggio and playwright Arthur Miller, a love affair with Frank that ended when he got engaged to Juliet Prowse.

  Right at that moment, though, Marilyn looked alone and bewildered-much the way she had looked that day in Harrah’s Casino in Reno. The crowd had surrounded her and she had no one with her to help. I’d stepped in, took her to the elevator, and barely had time to tell her my name before the doors closed. But she’d had time to say, “Thank you, Eddie.” Later, after I finished with Sammy’s business and things were back to normal I’d think about that moment, play back in my head Marilyn Monroe saying my name.

  Now I was alone in a room with her-not with the screen star, the icon, every boy or man’s wet dream-I was in a room with the real Marilyn-sad, lonely Norma Jean who, I sensed, was also very afraid of something.

  “It’s okay, Marilyn,” I said. I pulled another chair over, sat next to her and took both her hands in mine.

  “Dean said you could help me, Eddie.”

  “And I will, Marilyn,” I said. How could I not? “But for me to do that, you have to tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Oh, Eddie,” she said, squeezing my hands, “when it comes to my life, the question is … what’s right?”

  Five

  "Eddie,” Marilyn said, in that little girl voice, “I’m being watched-followed.”

  I stared at her. Dean had said she was fragile, he didn’t say anything about her being paranoid. And I have to admit, I never read gossip-well, except for Hedda and Louella, and that was really only after I had met Frank, Dean, Sammy and Joey. It was kind of my way of checking up on them.

  The only TV I watched was detective and Western shows and-again-when the guys appeared on their own show, or someone else’s.

  My point is, if Marilyn had a reputation for paranoia I hadn’t heard about it. But so far everything Dean had told me I’d see, I had, so I had to believe my eyes, and ears.

  If she said she was being watched, and followed, I had to take it seriously.

  “By who?” I asked.

  “I–I don’t know.”

  “Okay, then why?”

  “I don’t know that, either.” She shrugged, and her sweater fell lower down one shoulder. I was just glad she wasn’t wearing any of the stuff she’d worn in Some Like It Hot-that white, sparkly dress, the loose-fitting sweater she kept falling out of? That was, in fact, the hottest I’d ever seen her look, and I was having a hard enough time concentrating.

  “I have an idea, though …” she said.

  “Marilyn, tell me whatever you can.”

  “Well … after Clark died the newspapers were saying it was shooting The Misfits that killed him.”

  “Was it a tough shoot?” The film had been out almost a year, but I hadn’t seen it yet.

  “Very tough. He insisted on doing his own stunts, even though he was sick.”

  “Did everyone on the movie know he was sick?”

  “No,” she said, “he kept it to himself. Even John Huston, the director, didn’t know.”

  “So?”

  “He suffered two heart attacks, and the second one killed him,” she said. Then she released my hands and covered her face. “They said it was all the stress on the set that killed him … that because I made him wait and wait … that I was responsible.”

  Jesus, I thought, what a thing for her to have to live with.

  I crouched in front of her again, took her in my arms to soothe her. There I was with everybody’s sex symbol and I felt like I was holding a child. If someone had told me even yesterday that I could hold Marilyn Monroe in my arms and not be aroused I’d have called them a liar. But all I could think was, this poor kid …

  “Marilyn, come on … you just told me how hard a shoot it was.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but the newspapers didn’t talk about that, didn’t talk about what John Huston had put him through … didn’t mention that he smoked three packs a day … or that he
’d lost forty pounds in a hurry to do the movie. No, it was all about me….”

  “But you know that wasn’t true.”

  “But it was,” she said, sitting back and dropping her hands. Tears made her face glisten, her eyes were wide with … with what? Fright? “He was like a father to me on that film, Eddie, and yet I made him wait and wait for me to get to the set … do you think I was trying to punish my father?”

  Well, now it was clear that Marilyn had been under some sort of analysis, because a shrink had to have put that thought in her head.

  “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  She made an O with her beautiful mouth and then said, “You don’t?”

  Okay, now I was excited.

  I got back into my chair and crossed my legs.

  “Marilyn, do you think maybe it’s reporters following you?”

  “It could be,” she said, “but they come right at me with flash-bulbs going off. Oh, some of them hide behind trees, try to catch me sun bathing in the nude, or swimming, you know … but this is different.” She looked horrified then and added, “This is … sinister!”

  I studied her face for a few moments, no hardship while I did some quick thinking. What was it Dean thought I could do for her? See if she was being tailed?

  “Are you planning to stop in Reno, or Vegas?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, “I have no reason to go to Reno, and I–I don’t like Vegas. Frank just said I could stay here for a while, to … to get away.”

  “And do you think you were followed here?”

  She looked down.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m crazy, Eddie.”

  “I don’t think that, Marilyn.”

  “I felt there was someone on the plane with me, and then at the airport. Since I got here two days ago I haven’t gone out … I haven’t even gone near the windows, so … I don’t know if anyone is … out there.”

  I resisted the urge to go and look out the window.

  “How much longer will you be here?” I asked.

  “A couple of days,” she said. “I–I have to get back, I’m buying a house.”

  “Well, that’s good, right?”

  She didn’t answer, but rushed across the room and came back with a script, which she handed me.

  “And I’m reading this,” she said. “I’m supposed to make it with Dean, and Cyd Charisse.”

  Yikes, I thought, Cyd Charisse and Marilyn in the same movie? Where’s a guy supposed to look? I checked out the title page: Something’s Got to Give. It had screenplay by Arnold Shulman and Nunnally Johnson printed on it.

  “It’s being rewritten again, but it’s a remake of the Cary Grant and Irene Dunne film My Favorite Wife.”

  I vaguely recalled the film. I’ve never understood the necessity of remakes. Wasn’t there enough new stuff out there waiting to be made?

  “Anyway,” she said, taking the script back, “I didn’t want to do it, but I owe the studio a picture, and I’ll get to work with George again.”

  I found out later that “George” was George Cukor, with whom she’d worked once before. I also found out that she’d been talked into doing the movie by the same people who talked her into buying a house alone. Marilyn could be talked into things.

  She could probably also be talked out of things, like the idea she was being watched. But first I had to make sure she wasn’t.

  “Eddie,” she asked, after putting the script back where she’d gotten it from, “can you help me?”

  What could I say?

  I stood up.

  “Let me see what I can find out, Marilyn,” I said. “Meanwhile, you relax here and read your script. Keep doing what you’ve been doing. Don’t go out and don’t go near the windows.”

  “Oh, Eddie,” she gasped. She hugged me, laying her head against my chest. I put my arms around her. The scent of her filled my nostrils. I felt like a sinner and a saint at the same time. Millions of men would have willingly changed places with me at that moment.

  “It’ll be okay, kid,” I said.

  “I know,” she said, squeezing me tightly. “I feel as safe with you as I did with Robert Mitchum in the Canadian Rockies when we were shooting River of No Return.”

  Huh, I thought, Robert Mitchum. I guess it could’ve been worse.

  “You bastard,” I said to Dean when I got back in the car.

  “I told you,” he said.

  “You still could’ve warned me.”

  “I had to let you see for yourself,” he said. “She’s more than just a hot broad, isn’t she? She’s more than just Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “she’s more-a helluva lot more. Now let’s get back to Vegas. I’ve got some phone calls to make.”

  “My man, Eddie G!” Dean said happily. “You’re gonna help her?”

  “I’m gonna help her,” I said, “but first I gotta take a cold shower.”

  Six

  Back in Vegas, driving from McCarron Airport to the Sands, I asked Dean about his relationship with Marilyn.

  “I met her before Joe DiMaggio, and before Frank did. It was back in ‘53, when I was still making films with Jerry. She was a sweet kid. She’s still a sweet kid, Eddie, but there’s something … broken about her. She’s been taken advantage of … a lot! I’ll really appreciate it if you can help her. Even if you just ease her mind some.”

  “What about this new picture she’s supposed to make with you?” I asked. “Something’s Got to Give?”

  “Jesus, what a mess,” he said, shaking his head. He lit a cigarette, let the smoke drift out his nose, then held the cigarette between the first two fingers of his right hand. “I’d love to make a film with Marilyn and Cyd, but this one’s a mess. We’re on our second producer and third writer. Everybody involved with this film feels trapped.”

  “Including you?”

  “Hell, not me, pally,” he said, picking a piece of tobacco from his tongue, “I don’t even think it’s gonna get made.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because as soon as they try to replace Marilyn,” he said, “I’m gonna walk.”

  When we reached the Sands, Dean went to see if the guys had checked in.

  “You gonna rehearse?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Pally, I’m gonna pretend you didn’t ask that. And don’t forget, we’re havin’ dinner tonight with Frank and Sammy. Nine sharp. Be out front, we’ll pick you up in a limo.”

  In the lobby of the Sands we split up. I didn’t have an office of my own, so whenever I needed to sit down and use a phone I’d go to Marcia Clarkson’s office. Marcy-which was what her friends called her-made sure everybody at the Sands got paid.

  As I entered her office, she pointed without looking and said, “Use that desk over there.”

  “What makes you think I need-”

  She looked up at me and smiled. She was pretty, with frizzy hair and thick glasses. We’d dated a few times and, when she was dressed for the evening, she was downright beautiful. We never clicked romantically, but stayed friends-even after I introduced her to my buddy, Danny Bardini. He was a bigger player than I was and had the added cachet of being a private eye. 77 Sunset Strip, Peter Gunn and Hawaiian Eye had made private eyes cool and romantic.

  “Eddie, you never come to my office just to say hello, do you?”

  “Well … no, but I’ll start.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, “right after today.”

  I stopped to kiss the top of her head and then went to the desk she’d offered. Dialing Danny Bardini’s number, I reminded myself to keep my voice down. Even though she’d stayed friends with me, Marcy’s opinion of Danny wasn’t very high. That was because he’d slept with her before deciding to move on. I keep telling myself it pays to be a gentleman.

  “Bardini Investigations,” Penny O’Grady answered.

  “You haven’t quit on him yet?” I asked.

  “Have you got a job for me at the Sands?”

  “Of cours
e.”

  “One where I don’t have to wear fishnets?”

  “Well …”

  “What do you need, Eddie?”

  “The man, if he’s there.”

  “Hold on.”

  After a click Danny said, “Hey, buddy, what’s shakin’?”

  “I’m gonna tell you, Danny, but you’ve got to promise you won’t go off the deep end.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said, “one of your big stars in trouble again?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you need ol’ Danny Boy to help clean it up,” he said. “I’m there, ol’ buddy. Which one we talkin’ about? Frank? Dino?”

  “Well, Dino asked me to help a friend of his.”

  “He’s the coolest cat on earth,” Danny said. “Count me in. Who’s the pal?”

  I hesitated. Did I really want Danny in on this? That was the question. The answer was, who else could I trust?

  “Marilyn Monroe.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Danny?”

  “I’m here,” he said, “I’m just tryin’ to think if I heard you right.”

  “You did.”

  “I get to meet her?”

  “If you’re professional about it,” I said. I used Dean’s word. “She’s pretty fragile.”

  “She remember you from last year?” he asked. I’d told him about my one meeting with her.

  “That’s why Dean called me in,” I said.

  “What’s his relationship with her?”

  “He’s known her a long time,” I said. “They’re friends.”

  “And not like Frank and she were friends, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, kiddo, fill me in.”

  I told him about my meeting with Marilyn that morning, and about the promises I made.

  “Doesn’t sound like you promised much more than that you’d try,” Danny said. “She okay with that?”

  “She was when I left her,” I said.

  “Okay, where do you want me? Vegas, or Tahoe?”

  “Tahoe,” I said. “Nose around, see if anybody’s watching her cottage. I’ll check the airport here, see if anyone was on her when she came in.”