As we neared P. J. Clarke’s saloon, I suggested P.J.’s might be a good place to refresh ourselves, but she vetoed that: “It’s full of those advertising creeps. And that bitch Dorothy Kilgallen, she’s always in there getting bombed. What is it with these micks? The way they booze, they’re worse than Indians.”
I felt called upon to defend Kilgallen, who was a friend, somewhat, and I allowed as to how she could upon occasion be a clever funny woman. She said: “Be that as it may, she’s written some bitchy stuff about me. But all those cunts hate me. Hedda. Louella. I know you’re supposed to get used to it, but I just can’t. It really hurts. What did I ever do to those hags? The only one who writes a decent word about me is Sidney Skol-sky. But he’s a guy. The guys treat me okay. Just like maybe I was a human person. At least they give me the benefit of the doubt. And Bob Thomas is a gentleman. And Jack O’Brien.”
We looked in the windows of antique shops; one contained a tray of old rings, and Marilyn said: “That’s pretty. The garnet with the seed pearls. I wish I could wear rings, but I hate people to notice my hands. They’re too fat. Elizabeth Taylor has fat hands. But with those eyes, who’s looking at her hands? I like to dance naked in front of mirrors and watch my titties jump around. There’s nothing wrong with them. But I wish my hands weren’t so fat.”
Another window displayed a handsome grandfather clock, which prompted her to observe: “I’ve never had a home. Not a real one with all my own furniture. But if I ever get married again, and make a lot of money, I’m going to hire a couple of trucks and ride down Third Avenue buying every damn kind of crazy thing. I’m going to get a dozen grandfather clocks and line them all up in one room and have them all ticking away at the same time. That would be real homey, don’t you think?”)
MARILYN: Hey! Across the street!
TC: What?
MARILYN: See the sign with the palm? That must be a fortune-telling parlor.
TC: Are you in the mood for that?
MARILYN: Well, let’s take a look.
(It was not an inviting establishment. Through a smeared window we could discern a barren room with a skinny, hairy gypsy lady seated in a canvas chair under a hellfire-red ceiling lamp that shed a torturous glow; she was knitting a pair of baby-booties, and did not return our stares. Nevertheless, Marilyn started to go in, then changed her mind.)
MARILYN: Sometimes I want to know what’s going to happen. Then I think it’s better not to. There’s two things I’d like to know, though. One is whether I’m going to lose weight.
TC: And the other?
MARILYN: That’s a secret.
TC: Now, now. We can’t have secrets today. Today is a day of sorrow, and sorrowers share their innermost thoughts.
MARILYN: Well, it’s a man. There’s something I’d like to know. But that’s all I’m going to tell. It really is a secret.
(And I thought: That’s what you think; I’ll get it out of you.)
TC: I’m ready to buy that champagne.
(We wound up on Second Avenue in a gaudily decorated deserted Chinese restaurant. But it did have a well-stocked bar, and we ordered a bottle of Mumm’s; it arrived unchilled, and without a bucket, so we drank it out of tall glasses with ice cubes.)
MARILYN: This is fun. Kind of like being on location—if you like location. Which I most certainly don’t. Niagara. That stinker. Yuk.
TC: So let’s hear about your secret lover.
MARILYN: (Silence)
TC: (Silence)
MARILYN: (Giggles)
TC: (Silence)
MARILYN: You know so many women. Who’s the most attractive woman you know?
TC: No contest. Barbara Paley. Hands down.
MARILYN (frowning): Is that the one they call “Babe”? She sure doesn’t look like any Babe to me. I’ve seen her in Vogue and all. She’s so elegant. Lovely. Just looking at her pictures makes me feel like pig-slop.
TC: She might be amused to hear that. She’s very jealous of you.
MARILYN: Jealous of me? Now there you go again, laughing.
TC: Not at all. She is jealous.
MARILYN: But why?
TC: Because one of the columnists, Kilgallen I think, ran a blind item that said something like: “Rumor hath it that Mrs. DiMaggio rendezvoused with television’s toppest tycoon and it wasn’t to discuss business.” Well, she read the item and she believes it.
MARILYN: Believes what?
TC: That her husband is having an affair with you. William S. Paley. TV’s toppest tycoon. He’s partial to shapely blondes. Brunettes, too.
MARILYN: But that’s batty. I’ve never met the guy.
TC: Ah, come on. You can level with me. This secret lover of yours—it’s William S. Paley, n’est-ce pas?
MARILYN: No! It’s a writer. He’s a writer.
TC: That’s more like it. Now we’re getting somewhere. So your lover is a writer. Must be a real hack, or you wouldn’t be ashamed to tell me his name.
MARILYN (furious, frantic): What does the “S” stand for?
TC: “S.” What “S”?
MARILYN: The “S” in William S. Paley.
TC: Oh, that “S.” It doesn’t stand for anything. He sort of tossed it in there for appearance sake.
MARILYN: It’s just an initial with no name behind it? My goodness. Mr. Paley must be a little insecure.
TC: He twitches a lot. But let’s get back to our mysterious scribe.
MARILYN: Stop it! You don’t understand. I have so much to lose.
TC: Waiter, we’ll have another Mumm’s, please.
MARILYN: Are you trying to loosen my tongue?
TC: Yes. Tell you what. We’ll make an exchange. I’ll tell you a story, and if you think it’s interesting, then perhaps we can discuss your writer friend.
MARILYN (tempted, but reluctant): What’s your story about?
TC: Errol Flynn.
MARILYN: (Silence)
TC: (Silence)
MARILYN (hating herself): Well, go on.
TC: Remember what you were saying about Errol? How pleased he was with his prick? I can vouch for that. We once spent a cozy evening together. If you follow me.
MARILYN: You’re making this up. You’re trying to trick me.
TC: Scout’s honor. I’m dealing from a clean deck. (Silence; but I can see that she’s hooked, so after lighting a cigarette …) Well, this happened when I was eighteen. Nineteen. It was during the war. The winter of 1943. That night Carol Marcus, or maybe she was already Carol Saroyan, was giving a party for her best friend, Gloria Vanderbilt. She gave it in her mother’s apartment on Park Avenue.
Big party. About fifty people. Around midnight Errol Flynn rolls in with his alter ego, a swashbuckling playboy named Freddie McEvoy. They were both pretty loaded. Anyway, Errol started yakking with me, and he was bright, we were making each other laugh, and suddenly he said he wanted to go to El Morocco, and did I want to go with him and his buddy McEvoy. I said okay, but then McEvoy didn’t want to leave the party and all those debutantes, so in the end Errol and I left alone. Only we didn’t go to El Morocco. We took a taxi down to Gramercy Park, where I had a little one-room apartment. He stayed until noon the next day.
MARILYN: And how would you rate it? On a scale of one to ten.
TC: Frankly, if it hadn’t been Errol Flynn, I don’t think I would have remembered it.
MARILYN: That’s not much of a story. Not worth mine—not by a long shot.
TC: Waiter, where is our champagne? You’ve got two thirsty people here.
MARILYN: And it’s not as if you’d told me anything new. I’ve always known Errol zigzagged. I have a masseur, he’s practically my sister, and he was Tyrone Power’s masseur, and he told me all about the thing Errol and Ty Power had going. No, you’ll have to do better than that.
TC: You drive a hard bargain.
MARILYN: I’m listening. So let’s hear your best experience. Along those lines.
TC: The best? The most memorable? Suppose you answer the question first.
MARILYN: And I drive hard bargains! Ha! (Swallowing champagne) Joe’s not bad. He can hit home runs. If that’s all it takes, we’d still be married. I still love him, though. He’s genuine.
TC: Husbands don’t count. Not in this game.
MARILYN (nibbling nail; really thinking): Well, I met a man, he’s related to Gary Cooper somehow. A stockbroker, and nothing much to look at—sixty-five, and he wears those very thick glasses. Thick as jellyfish. I can’t say what it was, but—
TC: You can stop right there. I’ve heard all about him from other girls. That old swordsman really scoots around. His name is Paul Shields. He’s Rocky Cooper’s stepfather. He’s supposed to be sensational.
MARILYN: He is. Okay, smart-ass. Your turn.
TC: Forget it. I don’t have to tell you damn nothing. Because I know who your masked marvel is: Arthur Miller. (She lowered her black glasses: Oh boy, if looks could kill, wow!) I guessed as soon as you said he was a writer.
MARILYN (stammering): But how? I mean, nobody … I mean, hardly anybody—
TC: At least three, maybe four years ago Irving Drutman—
MARILYN: Irving who?
TC: Drutman. He’s a writer on the Herald Tribune. He told me you were fooling around with Arthur Miller. Had a hang-up on him. I was too much of a gentleman to mention it before.
MARILYN: Gentleman! You bastard. (Stammering again, but dark glasses in place) You don’t understand. That was long ago. That ended. But this is new. It’s all different now, and—
TC: Just don’t forget to invite me to the wedding.
MARILYN: If you talk about
