Bombshell by Max Collins (pdf ebook reader TXT) 📕

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 57th 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