“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.