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

“What’s goin’ on, George?” I asked.

“This is not a good day to visit, Mr. Gianelli.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. S. has gotten some bad news today.”

“From who?” Danny asked.

“Oh, George, this is my friend Danny, the one I’ve been lookin’ for.”

“Ah, so glad to see you looking so … well, sir.”

“Yeah, a few bruises, one cracked rib … but thanks. So what gives?”

George looked at Jerry. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine, George, thanks.”

“Mr. Lawford came to see Mr. S. today,” George said, leading the way up the stairs. “I’m afraid he told him that the president would not be staying here, as planned.”

“Oh,” I said. “That is bad news.”

When we reached the top we could see Frank and Peter Law-ford on the newly constructed wing. Frank was doing all the shouting, with Peter throwing in a plea or two when he could.

“Goddamn useless limey sonofa-” Frank was shouting.

“Not my fault, Frank,” was all we heard from Peter, and then suddenly he was tumbling backward down the stairs from the second level. I had never liked him, but I felt sorry for him, caught between the Kennedys and Frank.

As Peter hit the ground Frank came running down the steps. He stepped over Peter, walked around the side of the building and came back holding a sledgehammer.

“Is he gonna-” Danny said.

“I hope not.”

Peter was moving, which meant he wasn’t dead. But if Frank took the sledgehammer to him, that could change. Frank stalked over to the concrete helipad he’d had constructed for JFK and began wailing away at it with the hammer. For a skinny guy, he was putting a lot of power behind it, and the concrete began to crumble.

“Ya want I should help Mr. S., Mr. G.?”

“No, Jerry,” I said. “Swingin’ a sledgehammer would only put you back in the hospital. Besides, I think Frank needs to do this himself.”

“He’s that mad about JFK not comin’?” Danny asked. “Maybe he’ll visit another time.”

“It’s not just that,” George said. “Mr. Lawford told Frank that the president would be staying at Bing Crosby’s house.”

“Whoa,” I said.

“Maybe we’d better-” Danny said.

“Yeah,” I said, “we better. George, you go help Peter up and get him out of here. Tell Frank we’ll stop by another time.”

“Yes, sir,” George said. “Sorry, sir.”

“That’s okay, George,” I said. “We understand.”

As we headed back to the Caddy we could hear Frank grunting with every swing of the sledgehammer, and in between every grunt, the cursing.

“Where are we headed now?” Danny asked.

“I’ve got one more favor to do for Marilyn.”

“Where?”

“Encino.”

“Clark Gable’s,” Jerry told Danny.

Clark Gable’s house was not a house, it was a ranch.

“Jesus,” Danny said, as we drove the winding drive. “What are you gonna say to make her see you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ll just try knocking on the door and see what happens.”

Jerry liked the horses we saw cantering in the pastures.

“The only horses I ever see in New York has got cops on ‘em.”

We drove up to the front of the house and parked. There were no other cars in view, but there could have been a dozen of them out of sight.

Walking up to the door Danny asked, “Got a story, yet?”

“I think I’ll just tell her the truth.”

We stopped at the door and I knocked. I expected it to be opened by a butler, or some kind of servant, but it was opened by an attractive, dark-haired woman.

“Yes? Oh, my. You poor men. What happened?” she said to Danny.

The bruises on his face had faded, but were still there. His lip stayed split because he kept smiling like a love-struck kid around Marilyn Monroe. Jerry still had a bandage covering his entire head.

“Oh,” Danny said, “a car accident. But I’m okay.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jerry said, “me, too.”

“Well, then what can I do for you gentlemen?” she asked.

“Mrs. Gable,” I said, “my name is Eddie Gianelli. I’m a friend of Marilyn Monroe’s. May I speak with you, please?”

“Marilyn?” she asked. “How is she?”

“Well,” I said, “I guess that’s going to depend on you.”

We spent one more night at Marilyn’s, three guys who, three weeks ago, thought of her only as a sex symbol. Now, Marilyn’s vulnerability had turned her into someone we adored and wanted to protect.

That night, while Jerry and Danny argued over the TV like a couple of brothers, I sat in the kitchen with Marilyn.

“I talked to Kay Gable yesterday,” I said. I’d kept it from her until that moment.

“Oh, God, Eddie, what did she say?”

“Marilyn, you didn’t tell me that Kay invited you to the baby’s christening last year.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, “I forgot about that.”

“And you went?”

“Yes.”

“How did she treat you?”

“She treated me fine, Eddie,” she said, her eyes lowered.

“Then what are you worried about?”

“Well … that was in front of people. She could’ve invited me, you know, so she’d look … oh, Eddie, I want to know what she thinks inside.”

“She thinks Gable exerted himself unnecessarily in a hot desert for the length of the shoot. She thinks he went on a dangerous crash diet, lost too much weight too fast, put a strain on his heart, and died. Gable was fifty-nine, Marilyn.”

She looked down again and her shoulders slumped. “I know all that, Eddie.”

“Remember what we said about good friends, Marilyn?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You have to learn to rely on your good friends more. And as far as I can see, Kay Gable is a good friend.”

“Really, Eddie?”

“Really. Marilyn, you’ve got to stop worrying about what people think. You need to go back to work.”

“I know,” she said. “They’re trying to kick me off this picture, replace me with Lee Remick, but Dean is fighting to keep me on.”

“Dean’s another good friend.”

She reached out and grabbed my hands.

“Right now you’re my best friend, Eddie.”

“I’m one of your friends, doll, and you’re one of mine. What a pair we make.”

I brought her hands to my lips and kissed them.

“I love you, Eddie.”

“I love you, too, kid.”

Las Vegas, Nevada

Spring 2003

That was … fascinating, Eddie,” J.T. Kerouac said. “But who hit Jerry?”

“You know, we never found out,” I said. “I think either Harris or Delaney did it, and didn’t want the other one to know they were prowling around Marilyn’s house. There was a point there, when they had the gun on me, where they looked confused and nervous. My money’s on Harris.”

“So then you killing them must’ve made Jerry real happy.”

In the telling of the story to J.T. I had changed a few things. I told her the same version I told Stanze, that I had killed the two men.

“Actually, no. Jerry said he was sorry I had to kill them. He knew it was something he could’ve forgotten, but I couldn’t.”

“What’s Jerry doing now?” she asked.

“That’s not part of the story.”

“Well, how much of this can I use?”

“Use? None of it.”

“What?”

“It was all off-the-record. I mean, use anything I said about old Vegas, or the Rat Pack, but nothing I told you about Marilyn is for public use.”

“But … you told me the story. I’ve got it all down on tape,” she said, touching the mini-recorder on the table.