You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Sixty-eight

A couple of days later I drove to Palm Springs with two passengers, Danny and Jerry. Jerry had awakened the day before in his room with the two Johnny Roselli men watching him, took one look at them and said, “Hi, guys.”

Once he was awake there was no keeping him in the hospital. He was upset that I had gotten into a shoot-out without him, and he wanted to be by my side in case the FBI came after me.

Marilyn wanted Jerry to stay with her in the main house so she could baby him, and as appealing as that sounded, the big guy turned her down. We did continue to stay in her guesthouse, but that was it.

“Ya can’t trust the feds, Mr. G.,” he said, “and as long as I’m awake, I’m with ya.”

Taking Danny to Frank’s was the least I could do for him. Also, he wanted to go back to the motel, but I put him in a hotel not too far from Marilyn’s, that had room service and a pool.

So we pulled up to Frank’s place with a bandaged Jerry in the front seat and a bruised Danny in the back. I felt guilty that they had taken the brunt of the punishment.

“This is great, Eddie,” he said, looking at Frank’s Palm Spring enclave.

I stopped the car and turned off the engine. I could hear raised voices as George came down the stairs toward us.

“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.”