Page 23 of The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe

“A therapeutic —?” Marilyn repeats, certain she’s misunderstood.

“Consequences of late nights.” She looks around knowingly. “I need two hundred dollars by Monday.”

Marilyn unclips her purse. “I have a hundred.”

A week’s wages. She has her rent to pay and a flat tire on her car, and she has nothing to eat at home. But Marilyn knowswhat it is like to go through life without kindness. June needs kindness now.

“You’re an angel,” says June, taking the money.

“Good luck.”

Over at the poolside table, Schenck and DiCicco are so intent on their conversation that neither of them looks up as Marilyn approaches.

“Can I fix anyone a drink? A highball?”

“No,” declares DiCicco, his face twisting as he shares the fate of the man Marilyn met on her first night at the mansion, the one who invited her to Las Vegas on the day after Christmas. “Bugsy Siegel is dead. He was sitting in his own house, minding his own business, reading theLA Times,when they shot him.”

“I told him not to get involved with the Flamingo,” Schenck says.

“They thought he’d skimmed the money,” DiCicco says, rubbing his forehead in disbelief. “The million-dollar building overspend! They thought he’d stolen it. Lined his pockets, given it to his girlfriend. Imagine bushwhacking one of this country’s finest hitmen from behind a hedge? There’s nothing fair about that.”

“They shot the crap out of Bacchus too,” adds Schenck. “That big white marble statue of the god of wine he kept on the grand piano. It’s riddled with bullets.”

“So is Bugsy, as it turns out.”

Both men shake their heads slowly. Johnny Roselli does the same.

“It’s a shame for Bugsy.” DiCicco sniffs, then snaps his fingers. “Hey, Marilyn, be a doll and fix us all a drink.”

CHAPTER 16

YOU’RE HOT IN THIS TOWN, until you’re not.Hollywood is a brutal place where an actor’s world can fall apart in an instant.

“Come in,” Harry Lipton says. The agent at the National Concert and Artists Corporation opens the door to Marilyn, whose complexion is glowing with a light suntan.

It’s hot, unbearably hot. Lipton’s tie is too tight, his shirt ringed with sweat beneath the arms. He’s been pacing around his office, rehearsing the bad news he’s about to break.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, launching into an explanation. “My silly car is broken down and I came on the bus. The buses are terrible in this town.”

She has barely sat down and crossed her legs before Lipton blurts, “Fox isn’t renewing your contract.”

Marilyn looks at him, silently blinking her huge blue eyes. The news is not sinking in.

“But … but. I have just done three films in a row. Small parts, true, but I’m on my way. Are you sure? That can’t be right.”

“They have said no.”

“Mr. Zanuck said that? I heard he calls me ‘Straw-Head.’ Maybe he doesn’t like blondes. What if I changed my hair? Dyed it a different color?”

Lipton holds his breath, digging his fingernails into his palms. He watches as his client’s beautiful face begins to crumple. It’s a marvel how quickly she pulls herself together, shaking her head, setting her jaw, and sucking in her cheeks.

“It’s a case of supply and demand,” she states. “And I’m a contract player who hasn’t fulfilled their demand.”

Her hand doesn’t waver as she signs the notice of termination dated July 26, 1947. The name Marilyn Monroe, with bold flourishes on both M’s, appears beneath the signature of the assistant secretary of the 20th Century-Fox Film Corporation.

One year, nearly to the day, has passed since Marilyn signed her first contract. On August 31, 1947, she receives her final paycheck. After deductions, it amounts to $104.13. Hardly enough to make rent and her car payment.

Her childhood fears return. She knows poverty. She knows how it suffocates lives and dreams. Mostly dreams.

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