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

“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.”

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.”