Soon Harrigan was driving along Sunset Boulevard in a government sedan, the California sun just beginning to set, casting soothing unreal shadows on the shabby reality of Hollywood. Traffic was on the slow side, giving Harrigan time to reflect on his meeting with the movie star.
He knew, from his first encounter with the woman, that Marilyn Monroe was no dummy — she had her scatterbrained side, yes, but that brain often scattered itself in most impressive and surprising ways. And certainly she had appeared sincere in her concern for the premier’s safety, and afraid of the ramifications his assassination might bring — she’d had tears in her eyes, for Christ’s sake!
But then, she was an actress, and like all of her ilk, prone to the over-dramatic.
One thing was for sure, though: her story, her concern, was no publicity stunt. After all, the woman had been cleared to sit in the balcony next to Khrushchev during the floor show at Fox Studios, and by her not being there, Marilyn had given up extraordinary media coverage, the kind any actress, or actor, would just about kill for.
Still, it seemed obvious to Harrigan that Marilyn Monroe was not exactly dealing with a full deck — not that he felt any guilt for taking advantage of her back in New York… she had manipulated him, hadn’t she? Any shame he felt was for the unprofessionalism of it. Not that he had minded her answering the door naked today — even now his trousers were tented with the memory.
By her own casual admission, the actress was under psychiatric care, and she’d even offered to play pharmacist for Harrigan. Not that any of this was news to the State Department man: extensive FBI files had been made available to him on everyone coming into direct contact with Khrushchev, including Marilyn, whose file mentioned the movie star’s daily trips to a shrink… and her heavy use of (and even possible addiction to) barbiturates and alcohol, which would naturally distort her perception…
The lovely actress had been correct about one thing, however, which had made the back of Harrigan’s neck tingle; in fact, the skin back there was tingling right now, as he tooled along Sunset. The agents guarding Khrushchev — besides being far too few — were burned-out cases about now, weary, bleary, not at the top of their game… himself included. Even if his boss Bill Larsen could arrange for more men tonight, they would be arriving pretty much after the fact: Khrushchev and his entourage were flying out of Los Angeles in the morning.
So.
Harrigan and his people only needed to make it through one more night…
On the third floor, just outside the banquet room doors, Harrigan found Sam Krueger, gazing in on where the civic dinner honoring Khrushchev was to be held in just a few short hours.
The round-faced, sandy-haired FBI man waved him over. “The hotel has been combed,” he reported. “Looks like we won’t be bothering the bomb squad. As we suspected.”
“Good.”
Krueger nodded to the nearby bank of elevators. “Only the one on the far right stops here,” he told Harrigan. “We have our own men acting as elevator operators on all three. And the other two cars will bypass this floor…”
Nothing of this was a surprise to Harrigan, who said, “Fine.”
“…and we have men positioned on the stairs to check everyone coming up.” Krueger gestured to the two wide carpeted staircases on either side of the elevators.
“Okay.”
“Wish we could have talked the hotel into closing down the Coconut Grove tonight. Those extra people make security all the tougher.”
“Yeah.”
Krueger grinned at him. “You’re a card, today, aren’t you? Are the rumors true, you dropped by Marilyn Monroe’s bungalow this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Well?… Get any?”
“Not this time.”
“Not this time… You are a card.” Krueger nodded toward the banquet doors. “Come on inside.”
Harrigan followed the shorter agent into the dining room where massive chandeliers glimmered like icicles high above linen-covered tables set with gleaming sterling silver and sparkling crystal goblets… and where prominent businessmen and businesswomen of Los Angeles would soon have the honor of supping with the premier of Russia, and hear him speak in his less-than-dulcet tones.
Harrigan wondered what these poor bastards had in store for them tonight — raving, ranting, the pounding of a fist on linen-covered table, most likely. He could hardly wait… for it all to be over.
“There won’t be reporters at any of the tables,” Krueger was saying, gesturing around with a pointing finger. “They’ll be divided along the walls… here and here.” He indicated the right and left of the dais.
“I don’t want them crowding the platform,” Harrigan said.
“They’ll be told not to go beyond the first row of tables… So what did the blonde bombshell want? To hold your service revolver?”
“She thinks somebody’s going to try to kill Khrushchev tonight.”
Krueger’s eyebrows climbed. “Really? Did she show you her Junior G-man badge pinned to her brassiere?”
“I don’t think she wears a bra.”
“You don’t think she… you’re a card, I tell ya.”
A swinging door to the kitchen opened and a man in his late fifties, wearing a black tuxedo, emerged carrying a pitcher of water that was a silver closely matching the color of his hair.
“Headwaiter of the Coconut Grove,” Krueger said. “Of course, you know that, from all the times you and Marilyn have been here.”
“We don’t usually go out,” Harrigan said.
“Just stay at home, huh? Quiet evenings.”
“That’s right.”
“Card.”
Following the headwaiter out through the swinging kitchen doors came a dozen or so other men, all younger, wearing black tuxedo slacks, white shirts, and stiff white aprons. They gathered around the older man, who began instructing them on the proper way to fill water glasses and serve dinner plates.
These were not ordinary bus boys, however, rather FBI men under Krueger’s command, whose eyes would be searching the seated guests for anything suspicious, as they waited on the tables.
Harrigan and Krueger returned to the hallway where other security men had taken their posts by the banquet doors and elevators, in anticipation of the soon-to-begin arriving crowd. A few reporters were already there, including William H. Lawrence from the New York Times — and Harrigan groaned when he saw him.
“Christ, Sam,” Harrigan whispered to Krueger, “who let that son of a bitch in?”
In New York, Lawrence had infuriated Khrushchev at a National Press Club conference, by demanding an explanation of the premier’s earlier statement, “We shall bury you.” It was safe to assume the reporter wouldn’t make life any easier on Khrushchev tonight — or Harrigan and his men.
“I did.” Krueger shrugged. “He had a press badge.”
“Is that all it takes to get in here?”
Lawrence was by the elevators, bending over a squat ashtray stand, extinguishing a cigarette, when Harrigan approached him.
“Lawrence,” Harrigan said.
Lawrence looked up, smiled unpleasantly, as he stubbed out the smoke. “Agent Harrison.”
“Harrigan. Get your facts straight.”
The reporter straightened. “I always do.”
“I hope you plan to behave yourself tonight.”
Lawrence gave him a mock-innocent smile. “Who, little old me?”