Bombshell

Chapter Six Canned Can

“Oo la la la,” Frankie sang, with the burr in his voice that characterized the older Sinatra, the silky smoothness of the younger Voice replaced with something equally sexy, in the ears of many women and even a fair share of men. The singer usually left Jack Harrigan cold, however — he’d seen the mobster-friendly singer’s FBI file, after all — even though the State Department agent’s stomach growling provided a slightly off-key harmony.

Sinatra — now in costume, a black coat and vest and frilly cuffs and shirt and ribbon of a tie, an outfit that reminded Harrigan of Bret Maverick on TV, minus the cowboy hat — was swaying gently in the middle of the sound stage, performing a number he’d announced earlier as “C’est Magnifque,” a romantic, lightly up-tempo ballad written especially for him by Cole Porter for the movie Can-Can, which featured many of the famous songwriter’s standards.

Watching from the sidelines on the movie soundstage — which had been transformed into an eighteenth-century French dance hall — Harrigan had to admit that as much as he disliked Sinatra the man (whose file began in 1938 with an arrest for seduction of a minor), Sinatra in action was pretty goddamn impressive.

As he sang, Sinatra moved deftly along the glistening wooden dance floor, playing to the audience, as if each one of them was the specific person he was crooning to.

Providing the performer with a lavish backdrop, a wide staircase with ornate banisters opened onto the second-floor set — the red velvet-and-tasseled living quarters of the saloon’s owner, played in the film by Shirley MacLaine.

Just as Sinatra finished his tune, Harrigan’s stomach rumbled again, loud enough to be embarrassing, but fortunately got drowned out by thunderous applause from the hundred or so people who had come over from the commissary to see the show.

Marilyn Monroe didn’t seem to be among those who’d accepted Skouras’s invitation — visiting a set on a soundstage would be nothing special to her, and the blonde star had already had her moment in the spotlight, with Khrushchev. Harrigan was relieved she wasn’t around — he’d been ducking her at the luncheon.

Too busy with security matters to have eaten anyway, Harrigan had denied himself the meal (except for testing the portions fed to the premier himself). So far, the State Department agent had lost fifteen pounds on this strenuous junket; if it weren’t for his belt, he’d have his pants around his ankles. He’d stayed on the fringes, his Secret Service-trained eyes trained forward… in part to protect the premier, in part to avoid the famous sex bomb.

Harrigan had made a professional blunder where the actress was concerned, and he was embarrassed as hell about it… and afraid encountering her again might somehow — perhaps by way of something Monroe said or did — alert his superiors to what was at least borderline misconduct on his part.

About a month and a half ago, he’d been assigned the duty of approaching the actress, to request that she meet Khrushchev, who had seen her photos at some festival in Moscow and wanted to be introduced to the famous movie star. Monroe was a potential security risk because of her leftist leanings — and those of her playwright husband — and there was also some residual embarrassment about unsuccessful efforts by the CIA to manipulate her into sexually compromising Sukarno of Indonesia, back in ’56. That had fizzled, but the State Department wasn’t sure how aware Monroe might be of the attempt to use her.

Harrigan had arranged to talk to her at the Millers’ apartment on East 57^th Street in Manhattan, on a very warm Thursday evening. He’d taken a cramped elevator up to the thirteenth floor, where he rang the bell at 13E. The door was answered by an attractive woman who at first he didn’t recognize as Marilyn Monroe.

Her blonde hair — more yellow than platinum, at the time — was rather curly and pinned back in a bun. She wore no make-up other than a touch of lipstick; her white blouse was sleeveless, and she was in light gray short shorts with a black patent leather belt. Shoeless, the curvy, almost pudgy woman was shorter than he ever would have imagined Marilyn Monroe to be.

Of course, that might have been the memory of her looming, skirt-blowing-up billboard as it had hovered over Times Square for Seven Year Itch a few years ago.

Anyway, she had a girl-next-door quality that was at once endearing and a little disappointing.

“Yes?” Monroe seemed distracted, the famous eyes drowsy-looking. He sensed immediately an aura of sadness and vulnerability — and suspected she’d been drinking, though nothing about her suggested she was tipsy, much less drunk.

“Jack Harrigan,” he said, and dug out his I.D. from the inside pocket of his lightweight tan summer suitcoat. “I was supposed to drop by — the Khrushchev matter?”

The eyes brightened. “Oh! Sure! I must have forgotten… Come in.”

As Harrigan took in the place, she told him she was by herself — her secretary, May, wasn’t around, nor was her husband (“He’s at the farmhouse, in Roxbury — you know, writing?”) — and poured herself a martini from a pitcher, asking him if he wanted one.

He was on duty — he shouldn’t have — but it was damned hot, even in the air-conditioned apartment. So he accepted her offer of a chilled martini.

The place overlooked the East River, and the living room was large, particularly for Manhattan, a rhapsody in white: white walls, white wall-to-wall carpet, white draperies, even white furniture… though the couch, where she sat, curling up under herself, was beige. Sipping her own martini, she patted the cushion next to her and he sat, too, with his own cool cocktail.

She was very unpretentious and relaxed, and smiled at him a lot while he filled her in about the Khrushchev visit, and the plans being made at the Fox Studios for a reception. For a long time, she mostly listened, and then she asked him a lot of questions about himself, and she was particularly interested in his work with the Secret Service, asking about both Truman and Eisenhower.

He also told her — how they got to this, he couldn’t quite recall — about his recent divorce, and she made him promise not to tell, but admitted her marriage was over, too.

They’d begun to kiss, shortly after that — three or four martinis were involved — and somewhere along the way the girl next door became Marilyn Monroe and she was as naked as her calendar, a dizzying dream of creamy female flesh, and they made love on the beige couch, twice. He would never forget it. He would never be able to make love to a woman again without thinking, “Yeah, but I had Marilyn Monroe…”

When he woke up in Arthur Miller’s bed the next morning, he was very hung over and embarrassed and more ashamed than he’d ever been in his life. Also, prouder.

She fixed him some eggs and at the kitchenette table, sat there in a man’s white shirt, with no make-up whatsoever, not even lipstick, and said, “I’ll have to see materials on him, of course.”

His lips paused over the coffee cup. “Huh? On whom?”

“Khrushchev. Chairman Khrushchev. That’s why you’re here, right?”

“Uh, sure. Right. But I’m not sure I understand…”

“Well, I want to know more about him, before I say yes. I don’t want to shake somebody’s hand who turns out to be Hitler, someday. Who would?”

“Right. Okay.”

“And if I get in a situation where I have to talk to him, I want to do it intelligently. You know, I’m not just some blonde bimbo.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Everybody thinks I’m some round-heeled joke or something. And I’m not.”

“I know you’re not.”

Her eyes tightened with thought. “Didn’t he make a speech to the congress?”

“No — Khrushchev’s never even been in America before — he…”

“Not our congress, silly. The one in Moscow — after he took over from Stalin.”

“Uh, yes. He spoke for a long time… something like six hours.”

She smiled, perkily. “Well, that’s perfect, then.”

“What is?”

“Send me over the transcript of that speech. The State Department has it, don’t they?”

“Well, sure, but…”

“Send that, and anything else over that you think might be helpful. Do it right away, and I’ll give you a quick decision… More coffee?”

She had soon shooed him out the door — before anybody saw him, she said — and he left wondering who had fucked whom…

Now, a month and a half later, as Harrigan wandered in and out of the standing guests, he was relieved that Monroe, like many of the movie stars, had skipped out on the after luncheon entertainment. Everyone here had security clearance, so he kept much of his attention on a balcony built to the right of the set, where the Russians were sequestered to watch the show.

Khrushchev seemed to be enjoying himself, beaming, clapping loudly, like a trained seal. His wife’s plain, round face looked flushed… whether this was from the heat of the stage lights, or the well-documented effect Sinatra had on women, Harrigan wouldn’t hazard a guess.

The premier seemed to be over his snit at being denied Disneyland, which relieved Harrigan, since the State Department man had, after all, been the one who’d pulled the plug on the excursion.

It had been an embarrassment, too, where Walt Disney himself was concerned. Harrigan’s other dealings with the mouse mogul — arranging the details of the Khrushchev tour of the amusement park — had been pleasant, the famous animator businesslike but affable.

When Harrigan had called Disney earlier today, however, to inform him of the decision not to allow the premier to visit the park, the father of Mickey Mouse had exploded like Donald Duck.

“We’re ready to go with this thing!” Disney’s voice was gruff and not at all that of the kindly uncle of the television series that shared its name with the park. “Do you have any idea the trouble we’ve gone to? The expense?”

“I do. But we simply don’t have the security, Mr. Disney. We’d been assured by Mayor Poulson that we would have the cooperation of the Los Angeles Police Department… but the mayor and the premier have rubbed each other the wrong way, and now Poulson’s pulled his people.”

“Well, hell, man,” Disney said dismissively, “I have the Anaheim police in my pocket. They’ll provide whatever you need.”

“They just don’t have the manpower, sir.”

Disney roared back: “I’ve done my share of favors for the FBI, I’ll have you know! I will call J. Edgar Hoover myself, personally, and your job will be on the line, Agent Harrigan!”

“Mr. Disney, with all due respect, I don’t work for Mr. Hoover. And this decision is final.”

Disney’s response was the click of hanging up.

As the applause for the singer faded, Frank Sinatra — flashing a smile of impressive wattage — made a gracious bow toward the seated Soviet guests.

Then translator Oleg Troyanovsky stood in the balcony and said in a loud yet cordial voice, “Mr. Khrushchev would like to apologize for his earlier outburst; it was very hot in the dining room, and he was tired from our strenuous schedule… and while this is not Disneyland, he very much likes the show so far.”

The room erupted into more applause.

Harrigan was still not sure if he had the premier figured out — was he really this willful child, subject to almost psychopathic mood swings? Or was he playing all these Americans like a five-cent kazoo?

After the clapping subsided, Sinatra, the studio’s designated master of ceremonies, spoke. “Mr. Khrushchev,” the singer said, with a sweeping gesture to the nearby set, “before we film an actual scene from the movie, Can-Can, I should explain what it’s about.” He grinned boyishly. “Frankly, it’s about a bunch of pretty girls and some fellows who like pretty girls.”

Oleg translated, and the premier smiled, nodding his recognition of a common human situation — you didn’t have to be American, or Russian, or French for that matter, to understand this dynamic.

“In the picture,” Sinatra continued, “we go into a saloon.” He paused, then said with a straight face, “That’s a place where you go for a drink.”

Again Oleg spoke, and Khrushchev roared with laughter.

The room echoed this laughter; it reminded Harrigan of a gangster movie, where a Capone-type gang lord laughed and all his men, a step behind, laughed self-consciously with him.

“But before we film the dance number,” Sinatra went on, “Maurice Chevalier and Louis Jourdan will perform their song from the picture… It’s called ‘Live and Let Live.’ ” Sinatra looked directly at Khrushchev with a more restrained smile, now. “And I think that’s a marvelous idea, don’t you?”

On cue, trotting out from the back of the set came the legendary Grand Old Man of world show business, Chevalier, looking dapper in a black tuxedo with silver quilted lapels that complimented his silver hair; he was followed almost immediately by the much younger Jourdan, handsome, tanned and suave, wearing a gray suit with double-breasted vest and black Stetson bowler.

If either Frenchman had any qualms about following the likes of Frank Sinatra, he didn’t show it, as they launched into their number.

In his famous French accent, Chevalier advised Jourdan to live and let live, and Jourdan — in an equally thick accent — countered with advice to be and let be. With a gesture to his ears, Chevalier suggested they should hear and let hear, and Jourdan pointed to his eyes to recommend they see and let see.

A cute number, and Harrigan noted that when the pair sang in unison — to the effect that the business of the one was the business of the other — a smiling Khrushchev sat forward and nodded in agreement.

Harrigan frowned — that was peculiar. How in hell could the premier have understood those last words? Troyanovsky hadn’t had time to translate…

Maybe Khrushchev was just nodding his approval of the performance.

As the Frenchmen continued their act, Harrigan walked the floor. He had paused among the technicians, when a hand settled firmly on his shoulder.

Harrigan about jumped out of his skin.

“Sorry Jack,” a voice whispered in his ear, followed by a wry chuckle. “Should’ve known better than to come up behind a gunfighter like you.”

Harrigan let out some air. Were his nerves that shot? He turned to Sam Krueger, his Los Angeles-based FBI contact, and admitted, “Jesus I’m jumpy.”

“Who isn’t?” Krueger smirked. The FBI man stood several inches shorter than Harrigan, his sandy hair cut military short, his eyes hard and professional in the round, pleasant face. He curled a finger for Harrigan to follow him.

Harrigan did, whispering, “What the hell is it, Sam?”

Krueger shook his head: not here.

When Harrigan had first met the FBI agent at the Los Angeles Airport, just before the Russians landed, he’d been immediately impressed with Krueger’s competence, and his friendly yet professional manner. Perhaps the agent had sensed — or seen the dark-circled eyes that gave it away — Harrigan’s fatigue, and had stepped up to the plate, in this critical game, to play Roger Maris to his Mickey Mantle. It was Krueger’s job to stay out in front of Harrigan, checking security at each of the sights Khrushchev would visit in the city.

Harrigan trailed Krueger over to the edge of the set, where beneath a fake gaslight lamppost, the FBI agent handed Harrigan a piece of paper.

Harrigan frowned as he read it. “Hell, Sam,” he whispered, “I might’ve expected a bomb threat at the Ambassador Hotel tonight… but three?” He folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. “We got a full fuckin’ moon tonight, or what?”

“Are you surprised? Guy this famous, this hated, comes to town, all the kooks come out. Knock this guy off, you’re famous right now — and half the country thinks you’re a hero.”

“The other half will be heading for bomb shelters. Do I need to—”

“My men are already on it,” Krueger told him, shaking his head, keeping his voice low. “We’re going over that hotel from top to bottom — broom closets to the honeymoon suite.”

“Good idea — you need to check every screw.” Harrigan looked at his watch. In four hours Khrushchev was scheduled to speak at the Ambassador at a banquet for a large civic group. Would there be enough time for a thorough check of the facility?

Krueger answered the unspoken question. “If there is a bomb,” Krueger said confidently, “we’ll find it… Probably just cranks. Typical hollow threats.”

“But we have to assume they’re not,” Harrigan said.

“Roger that… I’m heading back to the Ambassador, now.”

Harrigan nodded. “Understood. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He watched the FBI agent disappear into the shadows of the soundstage, then turned his attention back to the set where Chevalier and Jourdan had finished their routine. Bowing, they graciously received the enthusiastic applause, which rang through the massive chamber. Sinatra once again took center stage.

“And now,” the singer announced, “we’re going to film a real scene that will be used in the movie. Mr. Walter Lang, the director, will explain the procedure… Mr. Lang, I turn the show over to you.”

From his director’s chair at the front of the stage rose Walter Lang, who even at sixty was tall, dark, and handsome enough to be his own leading man, a beefier George Raft with similar slicked-back black hair, straight nose, and prominent chin. Lang strode onto the set with typical confidence, turning to face the audience, speaking in the strong, authoritative manner that was needed to keep the volatile likes of Sinatra and MacLaine in line.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice only slightly touched by his Memphis, Tennessee, upbringing, “I must have complete silence on the set. We are going to film the big dance number that comes at the end of the movie.”

Harrigan, of course, knew this was a lie… call it a fib. The camera had been checked earlier for security reasons — along with the other equipment — and contained no film. The sham was designed simply to show their V.I.P. guest a good time.

Lang returned to his director’s chair.

He called out, “Are you ready, girls?” Then, “Cue the music!”

A pre-recorded tape began to play a lively, orchestrated number.

“And… Action!”

Flowing from the wings of the second-story set, from both the right and the left, came a bevy of beautiful girls, twelve in all, slender red-haired Juliet Prowse among them. Wearing colorful velvet dresses, the women shrieked and squealed as they descended the staircase, lifting the hems of their petticoats in Moulin Rouge style to revel shapely, long legs encased in provocative black stockings.

When the last of the dancers reached the floor, a thirteenth appeared — Shirley MacLaine, similarly clad.

As she came dancing down the stairs, Lang stood from his chair and shouted, “Cut!”

The music stopped. The girls on the floor stopped mid-twirl.

“Shirley, darling,” the director said to the actress, “your entrance needs to be a little quicker.”

“All right, Mr. Lang,” she responded sweetly.

The director returned to his chair. “Places everyone! This will be take number two… Quiet, please!”

The soundstage fell silent.

“Cue the music!” Lang repeated. Then, “Action!”

The scene began again, this time continuing through MacLaine’s entrance as she joined in on the zestful choreography.

Amused by the harmless deception, Harrigan watched Khrushchev watching the dancers. The premier seemed to be a normal enough male, red blood running in the Red’s veins — he was smiling as the chorines jumped in the air, then fell to the floor in the splits, got up and whirled some more, shaking their legs before finally kicking them in the air.

But when the dancers bent over in unison, showing their lacy-pantied posteriors in a flirtatious flip to the Russian delegation, Khrushchev’s smile disappeared, and he turned a whiter shade of pale, bolting to his feet.

His smile had become a scowl, and he spoke tersely in Russian, his face growing redder than his politics, as his wife tried to calm him, with pacifying but ultimately unavailing gestures.

The commotion in the balcony brought the dancers and the music to a halt — no need for Lang to pretend to end the scene with a shouted “Cut.” And certainly no one needed to cry, “Quiet on the set” — the silence was ominous, nerve-racking, as all heads turned toward Khrushchev.

The interpreter, standing beside the fuming premier, spoke solemnly… patronizingly.

“Mr. Khrushchev,” Oleg said loudly enough for all to hear, despite the lack of a microphone, “considers this dance immoral — and says in Russia, we find faces prettier than backsides.” Then he announced, “We are leaving.”

A concerned murmur spread through the crowd, as a stunned Shirley MacLaine covered her open mouth with a hand, her choking sob audible as she fled the dance floor in tears.

Harrigan sighed and shook his head in disbelief. Again, he couldn’t be sure — had Khrushchev really been offended? Or was Twentieth Century Fox being outsmarted by that Russian-style twentieth-century fox?

In the parking lot outside the sound stage, Harrigan had just helped Mrs. Khrushchev into the back seat of their limousine when Spyros Skouras motioned to him from a sound-stage doorway.

Skouras looked understandably distressed; an enormous amount of money had been spent for the catastrophic luncheon. But this was the kind of bad publicity money couldn’t buy…

Harrigan approached the studio boss.

Skouras raised an eyebrow as he said, “Miss Monroe…”

Harrigan felt a sudden chill, despite the warmth of the day. “Yes — what about her?”

“She wants to see you.”

“What? Well, where is she?”

“At her bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

Harrigan frowned. “She’s back there already?”

Skouras nodded.

“And… she asked for me?”

“Specifically. By name. She seems to know you are in charge of Khrushchev.” He shook his head. “How does she know these things?”

Harrigan ducked the question with one of his own: “What does she want? I don’t mean any offense, sir, but I have bigger fish to fry.”

“She is one of the biggest fish in town.”

But Harrigan had no time to placate any movie star, even Marilyn Monroe. Particularly Marilyn Monroe…

The president of Fox was saying, “She says it is matter of life or death… That’s what she said, in those words. Life. And death.”

“Whose?”

Skouras looked past him, toward the limousine where a glaring Khrushchev, accompanied by his uniformed KGB guards, was getting in. “That Russian son of a bitch.” The studio boss shrugged. “So don’t talk to her. I don’t give a damn what happens to that fat bastard.”

And Skouras disappeared back into the soundstage, closing the door, making as effective an exit as any of his stars might have mustered…

…leaving Jack Harrigan feeling like a bit player in his own life.

And now he had no choice but to once again go calling on Marilyn Monroe.

The State Department agent tightened his belt — hoping to keep his pants from landing down around his ankles… again.