The Blonde (10 page)

“Is something wrong?” the brunette asked. Her ski-jump nose turned a little pink when she asked the question, but she went on looking up at him with those doe eyes. She couldn’t have been much more than nineteen, and you could hear the Kansas in her speech, though she was made up to suggest a Smith graduate with a library full of banned books.

“No,” he answered, mostly because he realized how rude he had been to ask her to dance and then cast his gaze everywhere but at her. But then he found he was smiling again, and when he said, “No, not at all,” he meant it.

“I’m glad.” She was beaming.

“Me, too.”

In fact, he
was
glad. Of course it would’ve been better to overhear what Marilyn had whispered so sweetly to Senator Kennedy. But he knew that he had understood the gist of it, even without words, because they hadn’t really been using words. That she had disappeared so quickly was yet more confirmation to Walls that he had already procured his ticket out of California. The senator and the movie star had met before, were meeting now, would meet again. This was precisely the sort of blackmail material the Director had built his career on, and if Walls got proof of a senator’s dalliance with a movie star, he would be in favored position at the Bureau. Surely they would reward him for this—if he wanted, he could go back to Washington immediately, have his pick of assignments, and finally begin a life of consequence.

EIGHT

Beverly Hills, April 1959

A half mile down the road, Marilyn pulled over and switched off the high beams. The street behind her was invisible around the bend—any drivers coming from that direction wouldn’t notice her car until they passed. There were houses nearby, but they were hidden away behind their high purple hedges. Her breath was agitated and music made her nervous, so she turned the radio off. After fixing her lipstick and fluffing her hair there was nothing she could do but recline, put her bare feet on the dash, and wait. He was the kind of man who would lose interest as soon as they finished; if she were wise, she’d guard the treasure box. So she thought about all the tricks she could use to draw it out, keep everything from happening too quickly, make him talk first. Then she heard the sound of a man’s dress shoes on the pavement, and knew she wasn’t going to use any of them.

His silhouette was visible in the driver’s side mirror: hands in pockets, approaching at an easy gait, whistling a melody that sounded like “Summertime.” But he stopped whistling when he was almost to her car, and the quietness of the night swept over her. It seemed a long time she had to wait for him to open the passenger door.

The door slammed. After that he didn’t take his gaze off her, and she could hear that his breathing was as short as hers. Ever since he had whispered in her ear, in Mosey Moses’s ballroom, that she should leave first and he would follow in twenty minutes, she had been imagining the things he might say to her—that he hadn’t stopped thinking about her since Chicago, that he had been asking everyone where she was staying, that his
wife had had a private detective on his tail, or else he would have found her immediately.

But she liked that he didn’t make excuses or tell any stories now. His eyes burned as he took in the length of her, how she was sprawled across the front seat, and she returned his look, steady and unblinking. The line of his shoulders was tensed, but not in a deadened way. There was so much energy about him, as though he were more alive than ordinary people. The tie was gone, and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, so that he seemed not quite so senatorial, more just plain rich. Then his hand had a fistful of her hair, and his strong tongue was opening up her mouth. Her hand fluttered helplessly, landing on the steering wheel, so that the horn blasted softly into the empty street.

They were against each other, pushing and rolling over into the backseat. Already their clothes were in a tangle, her blouse shoved up above her breasts, his belt buckle swinging—then pushed painfully into her belly—her fingers nearly shaking as she undid his shirt buttons. She had his lip between her teeth, and he was trying rather unsuccessfully to pull her slacks down, an effort she would have helped him with if she weren’t pulling him to her with such fever.

The slacks were off. He tossed them into the front, and lay her down against the backseat. The fabric of his trousers was rough on the naked skin of her inner thighs, and he fumbled for a minute, and then he was inside her with a thrust that she felt all the way at the back of her throat. A hoarse “Oh, god” escaped her lips. She didn’t want to hurry, but she couldn’t help it. He had a hand on her ass and one on her neck, and she was holding on to his back for ballast as she rocked against him.

For some moments she moved, her hips locked with his. Then she thought to look up at him, and saw how intently he was staring at her. They gazed at each other, and his mouth came down over hers again, his tongue filling the space around hers, her fingers grasping for the back of his head, pushing
through his hair. A quickening that shuddered up through her skull, sending her eyes rolling back into her head, as she shrieked a final “Oh, god.”

She was still trembling when she felt his body convulse. Then he collapsed, his full weight sinking down on her. Their torsos were sealed together, so she felt how they both took a long breath at the same time. He lay his face against hers and kissed her cheek. “Christ,” he mumbled. “You
are
a fox.”

When he lifted off her, she saw the disarray of the car. She was completely naked, yards of exposed flesh, while his clothes had remained more or less intact; her slacks thrown across the front seat, her blouse hanging from the wheel. The balance of the car shifted while he searched for and lit two cigarettes, passing her one. She closed her eyes and dragged, trying to enjoy the protective weight of his hand on her thigh rather than indulging the dismay that she’d given it up so easily, that he would very shortly disappear.

“I’d have you any time.” She could tell by the timbre of his voice that he was studying her nakedness.

A prolonged, smoky exhalation. “Is that why you came all this way, Mister Senator?”

“You are definitely California’s biggest attraction.” He chuckled. “But the real reason I’m here is to talk about a picture deal.”

“A picture?” She let her lids lift slightly.

“Yes. Based upon a book I wrote.” His hand had drifted to the skin below her belly button, where he began to draw shapes with his fingertips.

“
Profiles in Courage
, is that the one?” She exhaled and gave him a sly smile, as though she were a little afraid of what she was admitting to. “I read up on you, Senator.”

“Yes.” He grinned. “That’s the one.”

“I thought it all sounded kind of impressive. In Chicago I had no idea you were an author, too. I mean, a best-selling one. With a Pulitzer Prize.”

“Yes, well.” His lips twitched, and he took a quick drag. “Father saw to that.”

“That’s nice,” she whispered.

He was gazing at her thighs now, his hand gliding gently over the seam between her legs. “Sure is.”

Her eyes fell closed again, and she brought the cigarette back to her lips. She felt empty, and thought how nothing mattered anymore. “What does it feel like? To have a father,” she murmured dreamily.

“A father?” In the previous moment his touch had been featherweight, but his fingers became heavy now. Several seconds passed, and then he said, “It feels like never being good enough.”

“Oh!” Her eyes flashed open, but he had already opened the car door. As he climbed out he clutched at his lower back, and his shoulders seized as though he were in pain. But then his whole body appeared to lengthen, a show of force, and he took his cock in hand. She listened to him urinating and thought,
Oh, well
. Cigarette fixed between her teeth, she fished for her clothes, pulling on her slacks and shirt and using her fingers to brush her hair. In the rearview mirror she saw what a mess her makeup was, but there was nothing to do about that. She adjusted the lashes on her left eyelid, and sat down.

It was another half minute before he reurned, and by then she was composed. He opened the door for her, grin in place, and she put her bare feet on the concrete. He held the front passenger side door open, closing it once she was seated, and without discussion came around the hood and started up the engine. With one hand he steered the car down the hill, and with the other he drew her to him, so that she could rest her head on his shoulder.

They didn’t see another car until Sunset, and even there the passing headlights seemed disinterested and unobtrusive. As they pulled in front of the hotel, she realized how late it was, and knew the good world was asleep.

“I’ll have someone drop the car off tomorrow,” he said.

“All right.” She sat up and took her pocketbook out of the glove
compartment. When she put it there some hours ago she’d been drunk, but she wasn’t the least bit drunk now.

“I just figured it out,” he said.

“Figured what out?”

“What it is about you. You,” he said, vibrantly, “are a fox
and
a hound dog.”

She smiled faintly, and turned away. Not waiting for him to come around again, she hopped onto the sidewalk and ran on her tippy-toes toward the grass, which was fragrant and pliant underfoot.

“I’ll see you soon?” he called out.

She twisted her chin so that it grazed her shoulder when she met his eyes. “Maybe,” she murmured.

As she hurried across the lawn, toward the hidden gate that would let her into her bungalow, she said a little prayer that he was lying. That tomorrow Alexei would declare her a failure and dismiss her—she’d never had a father anyway, and never would—that she could forget this brief period of hopefulness, the desperate urge acted on in the backseat. Otherwise, she might grow to want Jack, and then she really would be in trouble.

NINE

Beverly Hills Hotel, April 1959

“NO sleep for the wicked,” she said to herself in the mirror with a brazen, lipstick smile.

Frowning theatrically: “Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,’ the innocent sleep …,” but that was all she could remember.

Then, resting her elbows on the sink and squeezing her cheeks with either hand, she let her eyes get empty and her mouth go slack. “No sleep for Marilyn.”

So she had room service bring her cigarettes and bourbon and a boy to make the fire. She didn’t look at him the whole time he was in the room, and when he was gone she took off her white blouse and slacks and tossed them on the flames. She went into the bedroom and found her lucky bathrobe—she’d had it since before she was famous, and the terry cloth was so worn in places it was almost transparent. The fibers had a sweet, ripe smell—her smell—that no laundress would ever get out.

She lit the first of several cigarettes, and drank the first of several bourbons, and watched the flames grow higher awhile and shrink to embers. Her eyes burned from looking into the fire, but then her insides burned, too, which was the best she could do to keep herself from remembering what had happened with Kennedy, how badly she’d muffed this one, the thing she’d lost by it, which was the only thing she’d ever really wanted.

The embers were finally dying when it occurred to her how long the telephone had been ringing. But it was a ghostly ring—too far away to be the
phone in her bungalow. She pressed her fingers to her temples, and wished the sound would go away. But it didn’t, so she poured herself another bourbon and went outside.

The dawn was just beginning; it had no color yet. She blinked and tripped forward along the winding path toward the ringing. The telephone booth was obscured by bushes—in all her stays there, she had never seen it before, but she went ahead, opened the door, stepped inside.

“Hello?”

“N.J.,” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Yeah, well …” She brought the bourbon to her nose, just to smell it.

“We must be careful on the phone now; you never know who is listening.”

“Oh?” she replied disinterestedly.

“How was your day, my dear? You sound tired.”

“It’s over, Alexei. You can snuff me out or ruin my career or whatever it is you’ve been planning. Kennedy’s a dead end.”

He took a breath. “Are you sure? What happened?”

“I fucked him. No pictures, no proof, no information. No state secrets, no honey trap. It’s over. He’ll move on to the next blonde tomorrow, and I’ll be useless to you.”

“Hardly, my dear. We were never after anything so pedestrian. And you forget: There’s no such thing as a next blonde after you.”

Ignoring this, she swallowed hard and said: “If you have a heart, you’ll tell my dad how badly I wanted to meet him, and that I did my best, but it’s hard, when nobody’s ever really loved you, to have the confidence to do a thing right …” And there she stopped herself, for fear she might cry. She’d been putting it on a bit, but found herself moved by her own performance.

“You made love,” Alexei went on, without acknowledging her outburst. “A little soon, perhaps, but not the end of the world. You must have talked first? Or afterward.”

“Not really.” She squeezed her eyes shut and took a gulp of whiskey.
“Just some nothing flirting at Mosey Moses’s, and then we agreed to meet down the road. We didn’t talk at all before—and then afterward, I think I offended him.”