Kisses of Death

3

I met Ben for lunch at the Pump Room at the Ambassador East. It was an atmosphere perfect for Marilyn Monroe — deep blue walls, crystal chandeliers, white leather booths, waiters in English Regency attire serving food elegantly from serving carts and off flaming swords.

But the only celebrities in the room were local newspaper-men — fewer than last night at Riccardo’s, actually — and, of course, Ben Hecht and that celebrated “private eye to the stars,” Nathan Heller.

“She flew out this morning,” Ben said, his bloodshot eyes matching the Bloody Mary he was drinking. His second.

“When was she supposed to leave?”

“Not until late this afternoon. We were going to meet with the Doubleday people after lunch.”

“Hope your book deal didn’t get queered.”

“Nah. I’ll meet with Marilyn back in Hollywood, it’ll be fine. How would you like to bodyguard her again?”

“Twist my arm.”

“You two seemed to hit it off.”

“I kept it businesslike.”

“You mean, that fucking Bodie queered it for you.”

I grinned, sipped my rum and Coke. “Bingo.”

“Well, Doubleday wants Marilyn to make an appearance at next year’s ABA, kicking off a promotional tour for the book. If I can talk her into it, which I think I can, I’ll toss the security job A-1’s way.”

“I appreciate that, Ben. Maybe I’ll let you ghost my autobiography.”

“Write your own damn book.” He laughed hollowly; he looked terrible, dark bags, pallid complexion, second chin sagging over his crisp blue bow tie. “Guess how much we raised for Bodie last night?”

“Five bucks?”

“Oh, much more... twelve.”

I chuckled at this pleasant bad news. “He must have got even cuter after I left, to get such an overwhelming acclamation.”

Ben’s smirk made the fuzzy caterpillar of his mustache wriggle. “He caught his wife coming on to a waiter and started screaming flowery obscenities at her and finally slapped her face. When Ric stepped between them, Ruth slapped him and started shouting, ‘I’m Mrs. Maxwell Bodenheim! I’m Mrs. Maxwell Bodenheim!’” He sighed and shook his head and sipped his Bloody Mary. “I think Max may have made the record books on this one — the only guy in history ever to get thrown out of his own benefit party.”

“He’s a horse’s ass. What possessed you to fly him and his harpy out here, anyway?”

He didn’t answer the question; instead he said, “That was awful, how he crushed that poor kid, last night. Little Marilyn may be built like a brick shithouse, but she’s delicate, you know, underneath that war paint.”

“I know. I’d have knocked the bastard’s teeth out, if he had any.”

Ben snorted a second to that motion, finished his Bloody Mary, and waved a waiter over, telling him we’d have another round before we ordered lunch.

“Don’t be too tough on Bodie,” Ben said. “Language and a sense of superiority are all he has. He doesn’t have money to eat or buy clothes, just words he can use to make other people feel like they’re bums, too.”

“He’s just a mean old drunk.”

Ben shook his head, smiling grimly. “Problem is, kid, there’s a young man in that old skin. He lives in sort of a child’s world filled with word toys. He’s a poet who lives in a world of poetry...”

“He’s a stumblebum who lives in the gutter.”

The waiter brought Ben’s third Bloody Mary. Ben stared into the drink, as if it were a crystal ball into his past. His voice was hushed as he said: “We made a sort of pact, Bodie and I, back when we were young turks, cynical sentimental souls devoted to Art.” A sudden grin. “Ever hear about the time we spoke at this pompous literary society for a hundred bucks? Which was real cabbage in those days...”

“Can’t say I have.”

“We agreed to put on a full-scale literary debate on an important topic. The hall was full of these middle-class boobs, this was in Evanston or someplace, and I got up and said, ‘Resolved: that people who attend literary debates are imbeciles. I shall take the affirmative. The affirmative rests.’ Then Bodie got up and said, ‘You win.’ And we ran off with the hundred.”

I waited till Ben’s laughter at his own anecdote let up before saying, “So you grew up and made some real money, and Peter Pan flew to the gutter. So what?”

Ben sighed again. “I was hoping last night we’d raise some real money for the son of a bitch...”

“Why?”

“Because, goddamnit, I’ve been supporting him for fucking years! He’d send me sonnets and shit, in the mail, and I sent him two hundred bucks a month. Only, I can’t afford it anymore! Not since my career hit the fan.”

“You got no responsibility to underwrite that bum.”

“Not any more, I don’t. Fuck that toothless sot.” He opened the menu. “Let’s order. I’m on expense account with Doubleday...”