Bye Bye, Baby Read online

“I keep myself well-supplied in painkillers.”

  “Maybe Crosby should put a plaque over that bed.” I shifted on the metal chair. The sun was setting fire to the ocean. “Why is Sinatra pissed at you?”

  “You know Frank and his temper.”

  “I know Frank and his temper, but I also know Frank sees you as his entrée to the Kennedys.”

  He winced. “I’m afraid that relationship is strained at the moment, as well—not over, merely strained. Anyway, I was finally elected for something in this family.”

  “What?”

  His expression was wry. “To deliver the bad news to Frank.”

  My eyebrows went up. “That Jack was going to stay with Crosby, not him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he took it well.”

  Lawford studied the remains of his martini as if reading tea leaves. “I understand he took a sledgehammer out to the cement helicopter pad he’d had constructed for the president, and broke it up into little pieces.”

  That made me smile.

  “It’s not funny, Nathan.”

  “It’s kind of funny, Peter.”

  He sighed. Took another draw on his cigarette, then sighed again, with smoke this time.

  “What else?” he asked.

  “I really am here to help,” I said. “That’s why I’m telling you that Marilyn’s place has been bugged.”

  I’d expected more of a reaction, but all I got was him twitching a sort of noncommittal smile.

  “Really,” Lawford said. “Well, that’s interesting. Who by?”

  So that didn’t worry him. But he was interested.

  “Apparently,” I said, “everybody but the Boy Scouts of America, and I haven’t ruled them out. Maybe by you or your in-laws, I don’t know. But I’m here to pass along one of those words to the wise you hear so much about.”

  “All right.”

  “Tell that reckless son of a bitch in the White House to use some discretion for a goddamn fucking change.”

  Lawford chuckled dryly. “As if he’d listen to me. As if he’d listen to anyone … But Nathan, I do thank you for this.”

  He started to rise, assuming I was done, but I waved him back to his chair. He frowned and drew on his cigarette.

  “Something else?” he asked.

  “Yeah. But maybe I can spare myself the bother of telling this twice.”

  “How so?”

  “I think I ought to share this with your houseguest.”

  He half-smiled again, but the eyes weren’t twinkling. “And what houseguest would that be?”

  “I don’t know. It’s either Jack or Bobby. Was that Secret Service or FBI out there?”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Jack has always had a fascination with show business,” Bobby Kennedy said, “that I just don’t share.”

  We were standing at the edge of the ocean, hands in our pockets, slacks rolled midway up our calves, bare feet in the foam, watching the orange of the sun fight the blue of the ocean in that twilight time that Hollywood calls “magic hour.” Sorrento Beach was known for volleyball, but nobody was playing this late afternoon.

  He gave me that boyish, almost bucktoothed grin; he looked like a college kid in the blue polo and rolled-up chinos. Well, a tired college kid.

  “For a fella like Jack?” he said, and chuckled soundlessly. “Having Peter for a brother-in-law, well, ah, that’s your classic kid-in-the-candy-store situation, isn’t it?”

  The cadence echoed his famous brother’s, but with fewer of the characteristic hesitations; also, his voice was higher-pitched, the words coming quickly.

  He looked like a condensed edition of Jack, a well-tanned five feet nine or so compared to the president’s six one, his eyes bluer than Jack’s gray-blue, his hair darker and more tousled. Not as handsome, though by no means homely. He was intense and intensely shy, but he had a temper and could strike like a viper, if so inclined.

  After Peter Lawford had fetched his brother-in-law, Bobby and I had a brief, smile-and-handshake reunion—Bob was not the warmest guy, even with a friend—at which point Lawford suggested we repair to his den, and the comfy couches there.

  I had suggested that what I had to say was best for Bobby’s ears only, leaving it to the attorney general’s discretion just how much (if anything) he wanted to share with his actor in-law.

  Who took no offense, waving, smiling, retrieving his sunglasses (but leaving Ship of Fools behind), and disappearing inside the mammoth beach house.

  “Shall we, ah, talk here by the pool, Nate?”

  “Why don’t we take a stroll instead?”

  Bobby’s eyes slitted, reading my hesitance to be even this close to the house. “Uh, yes. Nice afternoon for a walk on the beach.”

  So we ended up with our feet in the soothing surf, walking slowly along, stopping a while, then sloshing back, with black suits shadowing us from well up the slope of the beach, far enough away that we could talk freely.

  There had been a little small talk. Just enough to pass for us both being civilized. He asked about Sam, I asked about his growing brood. Then we got to it.

  I said, “I don’t think Jack understands that movie stars are people. He comes out here and it’s all make-believe to him. Fun and games.”

  That grin flashed again, but beneath the brown bangs, the eyes were troubled. “You’re preaching to the choir, Nate. I was sent to put an end to this silly dalliance. I’ve spoken to Marilyn about it, personally.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and, uh, I feel confident she’ll be cooperative.”

  In a way, this was typical—Bobby cleaning up after Jack. For years, the middle brother had operated as the family hatchet man. Old Joe had groomed him for it.

  “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Marilyn.”

  “I met her earlier this year, right here at Peter’s, at a party. Ethel found her quite charming. We spoke current events—surprisingly knowledgeable girl. I even danced with her. You haven’t, uh, lived till you’ve seen Marilyn Monroe do the Twist.”

  “As long as I don’t have to see you do it, too, I’m interested.”

  He smiled politely.

  “You need to be careful, Bob. You’re dealing with a very intelligent woman who has an ego as big as it is fragile. Cross her at your own risk. She’s a star among stars.”

  He shrugged. “I know she’s famous. I said before she’s intelligent. Also creative and well-informed. But there are dangers here besides the, uh, potentially embarrassing presidential indiscretions.”

  “Such as?”

  He gave me an awkward glance. “Don’t laugh, Nate. But she has Communist affiliations.”

  Only I did laugh. “Is that the ghost of Joe McCarthy I see, haunting us all of a sudden?”

  His tone grew defensive. “No, she really does. Her psychiatrist, her doctor, too, and even that housekeeper of hers, go way back with the party.”

  “This is not a Peter Lawford party we’re talking about now, is it?”

  He frowned; for a young face, it could really rumple. “Christ, man, she was married to Arthur Miller! If we hadn’t pulled strings for the guy, he’d have gone to jail for contempt of Congress.”

  “This makes Marilyn Monroe a Commie?”

  “No, it makes her naive and vulnerable, and potentially useful to the other side.”

  I presumed he meant the Russians and not the Republicans.

  He was saying, “Did you know that just recently Miss Monroe spent time in Mexico with a colony of left-wing expatriates?”

  “She was buying furniture, Bob.”

  “She’s a security risk, Nate.”

  “What kind of pillow talk is Jack indulging in, anyway?” I gave up a disgusted grunt. “This bears the delicate bouquet of J. Edgar.”

  “Yes it does,” he admitted, eyebrows up, then down. “And, ah, the director has indeed met with Jack several times of late, sharing … information. And concern.”

  “Concern about the Commie
angle? Or the sex?”

  Bobby grimaced. “Both. The director seems convinced that Marilyn might go public and embarrass the administration. He actually said that her doing so would ‘serve the Communist agenda.’”

  “You kids do know there’s a difference between undercover and under covers? Tell Jack to stop loaning J. Edgar his Ian Fleming books.”

  “It’s no joke, Nate.”

  And it wasn’t.

  I frowned, stopping, water slapping my ankles. “The press boys have always steered clear of Jack’s extracurricular activities … but they’d have a hard time resisting this. And if she did go public, in a press conference format—”

  “That’s exactly what the director claims she’s threatening.” Bobby shook his head; he looked very young and very old all at once. “Why are these actors so difficult to deal with?”

  “It’s because they’re damaged goods, Bob. They’re talented, often gifted, but they live out of suitcases and pretend to be somebody they aren’t, for a living. You know—like politicians?”

  He showed no reaction, looking out at the ocean again. He wasn’t known for his sense of humor.

  “Think of them this way, Bob—they’re carnies.”

  That did get a faint smile out of him. “You’re saying Laurence Olivier and, uh, Peter O’Toole and Audrey Hepburn are carnival people.”

  We started walking along the shore back the way we’d come. We moved up onto the sound because we’d hit a patch of brown seaweed that the rising tide thoughtlessly littered.

  “Yup. Hardworking folk in the entertainment business, but a breed apart.” I painted the air with a hand. “Suppose you needed a new driver for the presidential limo. Would you choose a nice young chauffeur with a Secret Service background check? Or would you look for a guy with four teeth and six tattoos who hasn’t shaved in three days and chain-smokes whose prior job was tending the Tilt-A-Whirl?”

  Deadpan, he said, “Your point?”

  Tough room.

  “You tell your brother that there are plenty of nice young girls with nice young bodies who would be happy as hairy little clams to make his back and his front feel good. Secretaries and stewardesses and staffers, oh my. But fooling around with Hollywood’s reigning sex symbol? That’s reckless even for him.”

  For all of that effort, I got a simple nod.

  Bobby had a reputation as the family’s prude, the guy who wouldn’t even stand for a dirty joke, who adored his wife and his ever-increasing family. And that was true, as far as it went.

  But he had the same womanizing tendencies as his older and younger brothers—hard not to, when your old man defines marriage as, “Find a nice girl from a good family, have lots of babies, and screw as many other women as you like.”

  Robert Kennedy (before and after becoming attorney general) had affairs and one-night stands, but was never stupid or careless about it, and I found it ironic that a guy who messed around himself spent so much time cleaning up his two brothers’ messes, never needing to clean up his own.

  “Bob,” I said, “Jack is going to screw himself out of office, if he doesn’t start being careful. You’re goddamn lucky nothing came out last election.”

  He kicked at the water, childishly. “You think I don’t know that? Anyway, it’s over. Jack and Marilyn haven’t been together since after the Garden.”

  He meant the birthday bash at Madison Square Garden, weeks ago.

  “It’s … over?” I said.

  “They had one last night together, and out.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “She’s been told. No uncertain terms.”

  “By you, or Jack?”

  “By me. I told you, Nate, I’m handling this personally. Anyway, she hasn’t been able to reach Jack. He, ah, changed his private number, and—”

  “She was calling the White House?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jack gave her a direct number to him there?”

  “Yes, but it’s been changed.”

  “How could he be so goddamn dumb?”

  “Nate, it’s Marilyn Monroe. What man doesn’t want to talk to Marilyn Monroe?”

  “Your brother Jack, at the moment. And talking isn’t the issue.”

  He stopped, and the water sloshed us.

  “Nate. Listen to me—I told her, in no uncertain terms—”

  “What uncertain terms exactly?”

  “I gave her both barrels. Told her that she was just another lay to Jack. This talk of being First Lady, and living at the White House and so on, it had to stop.”

  I felt like I’d been smacked in the face with a carp. “She was entertaining thoughts of becoming First Lady?”

  “Ah, I’m uh … afraid so. She, ah, doesn’t seem to know much about the Catholic Church.”

  “What the hell was she thinking?”

  Of course, she did manage to marry the most famous ballplayer in America, and when she was done, snagged our greatest living playwright, though I have to admit I fell asleep in Death of a Salesman. Why not be Mrs. Jack Kennedy? If they thought Jackie’s tour made a great TV special, wait till they got Marilyn’s remake.

  “Nate. We’re handling this. I’ve handled it. That chapter is over, Jack and Marilyn.”

  Then why was Marilyn putting a bug on her own phones? And should I tell Bobby? Where did my loyalty lie?

  What I heard myself saying was, “Telling Suzy Secretary she needs to know her place, or even giving her ten grand to go back to college, that’s one thing. Literally fucking around with a famous actress like Marilyn … it’s suicidal and it’s stupid and it’s arrogant.”

  He could see I was steamed and did something surprising. He touched my arm. “I don’t disagree with you. But I can’t blame Jack, really. She is a lovely girl.”

  “Really, Bob? Marilyn Monroe is a lovely girl? Stop the goddamn presses.” I sighed. “I assume when Peter went to find you—wherever you hid out when I showed up unannounced—that he let you know why I came around this afternoon. And shared what I told him—that Marilyn’s new house has been bugged?”

  “He did.”

  Like Lawford, he didn’t seem unduly alarmed by this news.

  “Well, here’s the rest of it,” I said. “So is Peter’s house.”

  Bobby’s eyes widened; he turned ashen, despite his tan. “Shit you say. For how long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who by?”

  “Now, that doesn’t require much effort to figure, does it? You really need an expensive detective like me to figure that out?”

  He said nothing.

  “Giancana ring a bell, Bob? How about Hoffa? Same two people who’re having Marilyn bugged, by the way, although the LAPD intel boys are in on that, too—you’ve got friends there; maybe they’re surveilling her on your say-so.”

  He was shaking his head firmly. “No. If Chief Parker’s boys are on it, they’re not on it for us. Maybe the studio. One-industry town, you know.”

  “Know who else wants to hear Marilyn fornicate? Your friends at the CIA. Whether those spooks are in on the Lawford surveillance, too, who can say? I spotted a couple of panel trucks down the road that could be doing remote radio stuff.”

  He moved away from me and began pacing at the edge of the surf. From a distance it might have looked playful. Didn’t look that way from where I’d backed off onto higher, drier sand.

  Finally he stopped and looked up at me. “This is really, really unfortunate.”

  “One way to put it. Back in the service we’d say, ‘Fucked up beyond all repair.’”

  “Nate…”

  “Of course, you could always have your friends in the dark suits sweep Pete’s place for bugs”—I nodded up the hill where the men in black were keeping watch—“but if they’re FBI, they may have already planted their own bugs. For J. Edgar’s collection.”

  Bobby said nothing.

  “There are tapes of your brother fucking Marilyn,” I said softly, almost whispering, poin
ting toward the house where they’d done that, “that are probably already in the hands of Giancana and Hoffa. Bedsprings and moans and groans and love talk from two of the most famous, easily recognizable voices in America. It’ll make a better party record than Shelley Berman or Lenny Bruce.”

  His forehead was knit in thought, eyes sparking. “These are illegal wiretaps.”

  “Yeah, there’s a threat that’ll shake them in their shoes. What’s that, a misdemeanor? This is Giancana. This is Hoffa. You know what that means, Bob. You know what this is really about.”

  Hands in his pockets, back to the sun, he nodded gravely.

  “I told you,” I said grimly, “and I told your brother, that when you deal with people as crooked as the Chicago boys, you have to play it straight. They gave you West Virginia. They gave you Illinois. And what have you given them?”

  He was shaking his head, solemn as a gravestone. “There were no promises, Nate. They knew who they were dealing with.”

  “So did you, Bob! And I don’t even want to mention Operation fucking Mongoose, because I wish I’d never heard of it.”

  He swallowed thickly. “That’s good, because I don’t want you mentioning it, either.”

  Operation Mongoose: the top secret CIA plan to use the mob to assassinate Fidel Castro. A civilian like me shouldn’t know about it. And I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t made the first contact with Giancana for them.

  “You are in bed with these fuckers, Bob. You have been since 1960. And how many organized crime convictions did you rack up last year?”

  Bobby flicked a smile—defiant. Proud. “Around a hundred.”

  “And this year?”

  “We’ll do better.”

  It wasn’t just Jack who was arrogant. The only reason Bobby was attorney general was that Old Joe insisted, and the reason Joe insisted was that he knew there would formal actions claiming Jack stole the election, and no matter who bitched about Bobby being underqualified, and no matter how many hollered nepotism, Robert F. Kennedy would need to be in a position to shut those actions down.

  Which he had.

  I moved very close to him. “It’s not a good sign that Hoffa and Giancana are together in this. Jimmy was very pissed indeed when Giancana raided Teamster coffers to help put your brother in office. For months and months, Jimmy didn’t like Giancana very much for that, being a Nixon man and all. But now they’re together again … isn’t it grand? Ain’t it touching? And guess what? They have a new hobby they share—hating you.”