by Tapper, Jake
A bass drum solo began and then quickly ended as the spotlight again highlighted only her absence.
“But I’ll give her an introduction anyway, Mr. President,” Lawford said to more laughter, “because in the history of show business, perhaps there has been no one female who meant so much, who has done more—”
Lawford was surprised by the men and women in the audience applauding before he had cued them to do so; he turned to his left and saw Monroe had strode out and in fact was already almost at the lectern.
“Mr. President!” Lawford quickly said, “the ‘late’ Marilyn Monroe!”
Sporting an enormous helmet of blond hair and blindingly white teeth, Marilyn slunk to the microphone. For a few seconds it wasn’t clear that she knew what to do.
Margaret grabbed Charlie’s hand and gripped it tight as if somehow she could squeeze wherewithal into Marilyn’s brain by twisting Charlie’s fingers. Soon, however, the starlet began her breathless cooing into the microphone.
“Haaaa-pee…birth…day…tooo…youuuu,” she sang. “Haaaa-pee birthdayyyy…tooo-oooo-oooo yooooouuuu—”
The crowd ate it up, hooting and grunting as if she were a burlesque dancer at a stag party.
“They think it’s sexy,” Margaret said to Charlie, “but she’s about to pass out.”
After the performance, Lawford offered Charlie and Margaret a ride in his limo to a private gathering at the Upper East Side town house of United Artists chairman Arthur Krim.
“We have our own ride,” Charlie said. “We’ll meet you there.”
The van that took them to East Sixty-Ninth Street parked as close to the house as possible. They thanked the driver and walked up the stairs of the enormous brownstone. Margaret gasped as they were led from the reception room to the atrium, decorated in neo–French classical walnut. Krim stood on the patio in the center of the property. Charlie and Margaret looked up to the glass ceiling, which revealed stars in the inky night sky.
Weeks before, Manny Fontaine’s dead body had been discovered in a back alley of a Hollywood neighborhood known for homosexual activities. Les Wolff’s hospital stay had been publicly attributed to a mild heart attack. As he shook Arthur Krim’s hand, Charlie wondered how much the studio chief knew about what had actually happened.
“Good to see you, Congressman,” Krim said. “And Mrs. Marder, lovely to have you here. Thank you both so much for helping with The Manchurian Candidate. I hope it isn’t too controversial when it comes out! John feels very hopeful.”
Charlie stole a look at his wife, who was nodding charmingly. She had predicted that Krim would act as if he knew nothing. Whether or not that was the case, he wouldn’t behave any other way.
“How’s Les?” Margaret asked impulsively.
“Recovering nicely, thank you,” Krim said. “I’ll tell him you send your best.” He smiled broadly. “Bob’s upstairs,” Krim said, walking to the atrium where Charlie glimpsed Marilyn Monroe.
As she and her husband reached the second floor of the luxurious brownstone, Margaret was stunned by the detailed balustrade, multipaned windows, and gigantic oak arch. Charlie patted her on the back; she had been after him to upgrade to a more spacious town house as the kids got bigger.
“I can always leave politics and become a fixer for the Mob,” he whispered. “Or get into show business.”
“Please, not show business,” she said.
The attorney general sat uncomfortably on a couch ashing a cigar into a dish. Amid the ottomans and fancy sofas stood Addington White pouring drinks at a bar and, in a wheelchair across from Kennedy, Charlie’s father, Winston. In a suit and tie.
“Dad!” Charlie said, striding over to his father to hug him. His dad gave his back a weak pat. Winston smelled clean, freshly showered. He was thin but looked much healthier than Charlie would have expected.
“Your dad is a free man,” Kennedy said as White handed him a scotch on the rocks. “We appreciate the information you’ve given us.”
“So the whole time, you really wanted to know what the CIA was up to,” Margaret said. “‘To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle.’ You cared about the Mob, but not Sinatra’s relationship to it—only the CIA’s.”
“I wanted to know anything going on with Mr. Sinatra’s less savory friends,” said the attorney general.
“Including Judy Campbell?” Charlie said.
“That I would have preferred to have learned before Director Hoover, but I didn’t,” Kennedy said. “He sat the president down a few weeks ago and told him that the woman who’d been calling on him all over—Palm Beach, Hyannis Port, the White House—had other paramours.”
Winston grunted, and Charlie looked at him. It had actually sounded like a chuckle.
“It’s okay, Winston, you can knock off your charade,” Kennedy said.
Winston couldn’t contain his smile. “You son of a bitch,” Winston said. “How’d you know?”
“Oh, we’d long suspected that you faked the stroke to avoid answering questions,” Kennedy said.
“What the—” Charlie said.
“I was going to tell you, son,” Winston said. “I only got sprung earlier today. When I got home, I called you, but no answer. Then I made some other calls and learned that you found out what these hooligans suspected but couldn’t prove: that the Kennedy administration is more in bed with the Mob than Frank is. And then, speaking of beds, your brother—”
Kennedy held up his hand. “First off, let’s differentiate between the administration and the CIA,” he said. “And let’s not pretend that you didn’t have a hand in connecting the Agency to Giancana yourself. That you and Maheu aren’t thick as thieves.”
Aha! Charlie thought. That must be why Maheu seemed familiar.
“All of this could have been avoided if you’d just cooperated, Winston,” Kennedy said. “But you wouldn’t.”
“Why not just ask us directly for help?” Charlie asked.
“Why not just ask a Republican congressman who’s a pain in the ass on the Oversight Committee with a dad who has his own questionable ties to move to Hollywood and spy on a movie star and a gangster?” said White. “To help a president he doesn’t support? Jeez, that’s a tough one.”
“We weren’t sure we could trust you,” Kennedy said.
“Well, now you know,” Charlie said. A couple weeks before, back in Washington, Charlie had given Addington White a debrief of their Los Angeles misadventures, leaving out only a few incriminating details. He was surprised to hear the evident mistrust, which he’d seen no evidence of in DC, expressed so clearly.
“Either way, now you have more leads than you thought you’d have,” Margaret added. “I guess there’s nothing criminal about Sinatra and his friends partly controlling Hollywood Nightlife, but at the very least you should be able to launch an investigation into Les Wolff.”
“Not much to investigate,” Kennedy said. “He hanged himself earlier today.”
An uncomfortable silence hung in the room now as well.
Unspoken went the inescapable conclusion that there would be no follow-up investigation. Powerful forces had once again reached out from the shadows, killed one of their own for self-preservation, and disappeared.
“What about the Church of Scientology?” Margaret asked. “Hubbard?”
“Nothing directly ties Hubbard or the church as an institution to any of this,” Kennedy said. “It’s a church, so we can’t just raid them. Their desire to have celebrity adherents is not evidence of conspiracy. And both witnesses to alleged wrongdoing—Julius and Wolff—are gone. No one has even seen Julius since April.”
“Speaking of loose ends,” White said, “do you know anything about who might have wanted to kill yet another Hollywood Nightlife reporter? His body was found in his home a few weeks ago.”
Charlie and Margaret shook their heads no.
“What about all that evidence we gave you of the larger conspiracy in the studios for these par
ties? The photos and the receipts?” Charlie asked.
“And the recording of Les Wolff talking about it all?” added Margaret.
“We have the tapes,” White said. “We will be reviewing. And looping in the appropriate authorities, LAPD, et cetera.”
“What if they’re in on it too?” Charlie asked under his breath.
“What’s that?” White asked.
“You heard me,” said Charlie.
“How’s your niece?” Kennedy asked Margaret, tabling the other discussion.
“She’s okay,” Charlie volunteered after it became clear Margaret wasn’t going to respond. “Back in Ohio with her folks.”
Winston stood up from his wheelchair, shoved it away, and walked over to the table where a decanter of scotch beckoned. He looked surprisingly limber.
“So what’s up with Sinatra?” Winston asked, bemused. “The Irish princes throw the Sicilian jester into the moat?”
Kennedy rolled his eyes at Winston, an opponent whom he could barely control even after he’d imprisoned him.
“We’re going to stop that picture he wants to make about the nukes landing on North Carolina,” White said, slurring a bit, maybe a bit in the bag. “That script you shared with us.”
“Why?” Charlie asked.
“It’s classified,” White said.
“That’s enough, Addington,” Kennedy said.
Charlie and Margaret exchanged looks. What on earth?
“So was that Sinatra sending you a message via a screenplay?” Winston asked. “A hint that he’s willing to expose truths? Motivated by revenge? Or maybe he’s still deep down the same bleeding-heart Commie-symp he’s always been?”
Kennedy ignored the question.
“So,” Winston said, filling the dead air, “are you going to call off Giancana’s hit on Castro?” He smiled, finishing his glass of scotch. He was having fun.
Kennedy didn’t respond. White looked down at the ground.
After a second, Kennedy stepped toward Winston. “As you know, that wasn’t a Justice Department proposal.”
“Surely it would be a war crime, which would be an issue of concern, I would think, for an attorney general,” Margaret jumped in. “Western societies don’t contract mobsters to kill foreign leaders, even despots.”
Winston laughed aloud. “We don’t?” he asked, pouring himself another drink. “C’mon, little girl.”
Kennedy turned to Charlie, exasperated, as if Charlie had any control of either his father or his wife. “We can’t talk about this here,” he said.
“Should we talk instead about what the Agency got your brother to sign off on a year ago?” said Winston. “And how you kept the press from reporting on the Alabama National Guardsmen killed in Cuban airspace after that goat-fuck?”
Kennedy frowned at Winston.
“Wait, what?” Charlie asked.
“They didn’t declassify that for you, did they, on your Oversight Committee?” Winston said. “Four Alabama Guardsmen were killed during the Bay of Pigs. Castro’s even got one of their cadavers on ice as proof of an American invasion.”
“The Agency is responsible for any number of fiascos,” Kennedy agreed. “Some of these were plans that President Eisenhower signed off on. It’s one of the reasons we got rid of Dulles.”
“Dick Bissell is your problem, Bobby,” Winston said. “Not Dulles.”
“Don’t I know it,” he replied.
“Hoover is just as dangerous,” White added.
“It’s all a goat-fuck,” Kennedy said, “as Winston says.”
“Look at you, one of the most powerful men in the world and you’re acting as if you’re powerless,” said Margaret with equal parts disgust and disappointment in her voice. “You fought so hard to get to the White House. Why? How are you different from Nixon? What are you doing with this power?”
From downstairs echoed the bubblegum voice of Marilyn Monroe, followed by deep laughter.
“Are you fighting for women to be seen by your brother as something other than depositories?” Margaret asked, motioning vaguely toward the stairs. “What about civil rights? I voted for your brother. What was it all for? Anything other than power?”
Kennedy sat down on a maroon felt sofa; a table lamp shining on his face deepened the bags under his eyes. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth as if there were something stuck in his molars. Addington White sat down at the edge of the sofa.
“We probably should head downstairs and meet our guest of honor,” White said. “Not to mention we need to show the Krims some love.” He turned to Margaret. “You really should meet Mathilde Krim. She does cancer research at Cornell. Very impressive woman.” Kennedy and White began walking to the door.
“Before you go,” Charlie said, “I have to ask…”
Kennedy put his hands on his hips, irritated in anticipation. “Yes?”
“Are you just going to abandon Sinatra?” Charlie asked. “You and your brother? After all he did for you?”
“Abandon?” Kennedy asked.
“You treat him worse than you treat Marilyn,” Margaret said.
“He’ll be fine,” White said.
“You didn’t even invite him to this birthday party!” Charlie said.
“He’s a big boy,” White said.
“What’s he going to do?” asked Kennedy. “Become a Republican?” He chuckled; it became a snort. The concept was completely alien. “Endorse Goldwater?”
“Join Ronnie Reagan’s crusades against socialized medicine?” White added, joining in the laughter. Kennedy patted his arm and the two walked out of the room giggling. “We’ll see you downstairs,” White said as he exited. Then he quickly returned: “Obviously, nothing we discussed here leaves this room.” He emphasized the point with a grave expression, then left again.
Winston looked at his son and daughter-in-law. He was in better spirits than Charlie had seen him in years.
“I’m going to mingle,” he said. “Maybe Miss Monroe needs a dance partner. I haven’t had any fun in months!” Winston chuckled, knocked back his drink, and practically bounded out of the room and down the stairs.
Charlie put his arm around his wife. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said. “How do you feel about giving the dirt from Tarantula’s vault to those barracudas?”
“Fine,” he said. “I feel even better that we kept copies for ourselves for insurance purposes.” He held her tight. “And speaking of insurance,” he added, subtly caressing her under her bra, where there was a microphone and wire leading to a small device on her lower back. “Testing, one, two.”
“I sure hope Isaiah got all that out in the van,” Margaret said. “Thank God he’s more technologically savvy than us.”
“You hearing all this, Isaiah?” Charlie said, knowing his friend wasn’t able to respond.
Charlie looked at his gorgeous, brilliant wife and smiled. She kissed him tenderly on the lips. He grabbed her hand and intertwined their fingers as they left the room and began walking down the stairs.
“What’s up?” he asked Margaret, repeating Dwight’s morning ritual.
“My sense that this is all finally over,” she said.
“What’s down?” he asked.
“My anxiety,” she said.
“What’s right?” he asked.
“Very little in this world,” she said, “but we can keep trying.”
“What’s left?” he asked.
“For us to go home,” she said.
And so they did.
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Sources and Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction, but obviously many of the characters and events depicted are real. In addition, some of the dialogue is from actual conversations. Resources from which I drew information, inspiration, and sometimes dialogue include, in alphabe
tical order:
Bare-Faced Messiah: The True Story of L. Ron Hubbard, by Russell Miller. London: Sphere, 1987.
Breaking My Silence: Confessions of a Rat Pack Party Girl and Sex-Trade Survivor, by Jane McCormick with Patti Wicklund. St. Paul, MN: Rapfire Press, 2007.
The Cinema of John Frankenheimer, by Gerald Pratley. New York: A. S. Barnes, 1969.
The Dark Heart of Hollywood: Glamour, Guns and Gambling Inside the Mafia’s Global Empire, by Douglas Thompson. London: Mainstream Publishing, 2013.
Dino: Living High in the Dirty Business of Dreams, by Nick Tosches. New York: Dell, 1992.
Double Cross: The Explosive Inside Story of the Mobster Who Controlled America, by Sam and Chuck Giancana. New York: Warner, 1992.
Frank: The Voice, by James Kaplan. New York: Doubleday, 2010.
Frank Sinatra: A Life in Pictures, edited by Yann-Brice Dherbier. London: Pavilion, 2011.
Frank Sinatra: An American Legend, by Nancy Sinatra. Santa Monica, CA: General Publishing Group, 1998.
Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood, and the Prison of Belief, by Lawrence Wright. New York: Knopf, 2013.
Handsome Johnny: The Life and Death of Johnny Rosselli, by Lee Server. New York: St. Martin’s, 2018.
His Way: The Unauthorized Biography of Frank Sinatra, by Kitty Kelley. New York: Bantam, 1986.
Inside Scientology: The Story of America’s Most Secretive Religion, by Janet Reitman. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2011.
JFK and Sam: The Connection Between the Giancana and Kennedy Assassinations, by Antoinette Giancana, John R. Hughes, D. M. Ozon, and Thomas H. Jobe. Nashville, TN: Cumberland House, 2005.
The Manchurian Candidate, by Greil Marcus. London: British Film Institute, 2002.
Mr. S: My Life with Frank Sinatra, by George Jacobs and William Stadiem. New York: HarperCollins, 2003. (Please note, the offensive songs Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. sing to each other in the book are from here.)
My Story, by Judith Exner as told to Ovid Demaris. London: Circus/Futura, 1977. (Conversations with Sinatra, Kennedy, and Giancana, as well as the Kennedy phone numbers, are taken from this book.)
