Bombshell Max Collins (best ereader for textbooks .txt) 📖

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.

7 Goodbye, Khrushchev

Marilyn Monroe—having traded the little black dress for her comfy white robe, but still wearing her black high-heeled shoes—paced nervously in the living room of her Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow, the spiked heels leaving a trail of little bullet holes in the plush white carpet behind her.

For the past hour, ever since returning from the Fox luncheon, the actress had been chain-smoking, adding more and more cigarette butts to an already overflowing ashtray.

Normally, Marilyn didn’t smoke—any camera, professional or amateur, catching the movie star with a cigarette drooping from her famous lips made for bad publicity. It wasn’t a health concern; she simply didn’t look her best. And of course cigarettes made the likes of Bogart or John Wayne seem like men; but for a woman, in this world of double standards, smoking remained a filthy habit. Furthermore, tobacco stained Marilyn’s teeth, gave her bad breath, and—over time—would encourage tiny wrinkle lines around her mouth. Besides, she had far more serious cravings than nicotine.

But once in a while, now and then, here and there … when she was really tense … Marilyn did light one up. And her anxiety at the moment outdistanced attending an important Hollywood party, or going before the camera on a soundstage, either of which could paralyze her. She was a woman of enormous self-confidence, which happened to be undermined, somewhat, by cataclysmic self-doubt.

Sighing smoke, pausing in her pacing, she turned to her secretary in building despair. “May—what if he doesn’t come?”

In the limousine on the way back from Fox Studios, Marilyn had, in hushed tones, told May what she’d overheard in the bathroom at the commissary … and why she was convinced that Nikita Khrushchev was marked for assassination—tonight.

And the secretary—who knew how to sort through the frivolities and the serious concerns that equally characterized her charge—had also been alarmed, and suggested that Marilyn contact Spyros Skouras immediately on returning to the bungalow.

“Have him paged on the soundstage,” May advised, not in the least humoring her. “You’re right—this could be very serious indeed.”

At the moment a somber May, in the same prim navy suit she’d had on since morning, was seated at a small white secretariat near the entrance to the master bedroom. Always pragmatic, even in a crisis, she was attending to Marilyn’s mail that had been forwarded from New York.

The secretary looked up from her work. “Mr. Skouras told you he’d contact your Mr. Harrigan, didn’t he?”

“Yes … but what if … Agent Harrigan doesn’t come?”

May seemed to frown and smile simultaneously; she knew nothing of the brief tryst between Marilyn and the State Department man last summer. Some things Marilyn did not trust even to May … who, after all, still had certain loyalties to Arthur.

“Then I’m sure,” May said gently, “he’ll send someone else who’s involved with the premier’s safety and security.”

“But I want to talk to Mr. Harrigan.” Even Marilyn herself, finished with the cigarette and now biting her platinum colored nails, could hear the pouty little girl in her voice. “Mr. Skouras said he’d make sure it was Mr. Harrigan.”

“Why does it matter? Do you know Mr. Harrigan?”

“A little. He’s the one who contacted me, and gave me those materials on Mr. Khrushchev. I’m just … used to talking to him, is all.”

May shrugged, smiled reassuringly. “Then I’m certain he’s the one who’ll come around. Agent Harrigan’ll probably want to talk to you about your meeting with Khrushchev, anyway. I understand these agents like to debrief civilians they recruit.”

I’ll say, Marilyn thought.

“Anyway, Spyros won’t let you down,” May said to her, calming yet firm. “I’m sure he could tell how urgent you consider this, and how upset you were.”

“I wasn’t upset,” Marilyn said, lighting up a fresh Chesterfield, “he was upset! With me!”

May looked up from her work. “Why?”

Marilyn shrugged and began to pace again. “For skipping the show. He said the premier asked about me. I guess I was supposed to sit next to Mr. Khrushchev … but I just couldn’t, knowing what I know. Y’know?”

“I know.”

Abruptly she stopped again, eyes popping. “Was I a fool not to go? Not to sit next to the premier, and warn him? But I would have had to use a translator, and who knows who might have heard me? One of the conspirators might have! How do we know the