Robert Randisi: You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

There was a car waiting to take us to the Cal Neva. It sure didn’t look to me like the work was almost done, but then what did I know about construction? The cabins in the back were still there. One was Frank’s, one was for his buddies when they came to town-that was the one I’d stayed in last year-and the other was for Frank’s, uh, lady friends. Years later the press would label Shirley MacLaine, Angie Dickinson and Ruta Lee Lady Rat Packers. I was always careful not to say Rat Pack around Frank. He didn’t like the name. He always referred to him and his buddies as “the Clan,” and their shows at the Sands as “the Summit.” It was the newspapers that dubbed them the “Rat Pack.”

Anyway, I assumed-when the car pulled to a stop in front of cabin number three-that one of Frank and Dino’s lady pals needed help. I was kind of hoping it would be Angie Dickinson, but for selfish reasons. I had always had a thing for her, and meeting her had only strengthened the feeling.

“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.

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?”

"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.”