Page 18 of The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe

FOX MAKEUP ARTIST Whitey Snyder is doing Marilyn’s hair and makeup.

She’s bought a bright-red low-cut evening gown, “the loudest one I could find,” she tells Snyder.

“Your arrival in that’s going to infuriate half the women present,” Snyder jokes.

But Marilyn is taking a serious approach to the evening that lies ahead. I’m going to Mr. Schenck’s mansion because he is one of the heads of my studio, she reasons.

To Whitey Snyder, she says, “I am sorry in a way to do this, but I have a long way to go and I need a lot of advertising to get there.”

Joe Schenck’s limousine picks Marilyn up from the Fox lot and drives her to the Owlwood Estate, at 141 South Carolwood Drive, in Holmby Hills. Through the imposing gates, she can see the mansion lit up against the night sky.

She steps out of the car, her heels crunching on the gravel of the sweeping driveway. Water flows from a decorative fountain, but her mouth is dry with fear.

They say I’m whistle bait, could be, but I’m forever meeting guys who don’t stop at a whistle. I’ve learned to handle them all.

The double doors open to reveal a large glimmering chandelier illuminating a wide, curving staircase with a wrought-iron balustrade.

“Norma Jeane, is that you?” a woman calls from across the foyer.

Standing at the foot of the stairs is a girl Marilyn knows from her Blue Book Modeling days.

“I am Marilyn Monroe now,” she smiles.

“Well, I’m still June! You look marvelous,” the woman says, coming toward her with outstretched arms. “I love what you’ve done with your hair. The blond suits you.” June links arms with Marilyn and walks her through the hall paneled in dark wood. “Have you ever been here before?”

“Never,” replies Marilyn.

“It’s a gorgeous house!” June squeezes her arm.

“They say the property spans ten acres and I believe it. There’s a tennis court and a theater, where Mr. Schenck shows films that haven’t even played in the movie houses yet!

” She points toward the sound of laughter and through an open door. “Out there’s a swimming pool.”

“I didn’t bring a suit,” Marilyn says.

“Next time,” June says. “I’ve been invited back more nights than I can count.”

They approach a large rectangular pool full of attractive young women cavorting in the water—some in bathing suits and others in various states of undress—as well as a few men.

Four or five other men are seated at a long poolside table, sucking on cigars.

Marilyn recognizes the man from the back of the limousine. “Mr. Schenck!” She waves. She sucks in her stomach and sways her hips, picking her way across the wet flagstones toward Schenk.

What a face, she thinks, as she nears him. It is as much the face of a town as of a man. The whole history of Hollywood is in it.

When she reaches the table, another man beckons her over.

She smiles at the handsome, well-dressed man patting the cushion next to him. His shiny gold watch glints in the lamplight.

“Come and sit, my darling,” he says. “I’m Ben Siegel. Would you like a highball?”

Marilyn happily obliges, sipping her drink and listening as Mr. Siegel talks about his new project, the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada.

There are important people here, she realizes. These aren’t party figures but Mr. Schenck’s personal friends. She knows better than to ever use Mr. Siegel’s hated nickname—Bugsy—to his face.

“Come to the opening,” he tells her. “Jimmy Durante’s the headliner. It’s going to be a swell party.”

“Opening the day after Christmas,” Marilyn says. “What a marvelous idea.”

“Do you like gambling?” Siegel asks. He drops a mention that he also owns the Agua Caliente Racetrack in Baja, California. She’s always welcome to be his guest.

Three highballs later, the noise from the swimming pool has become increasingly raucous.

Empty cocktail glasses are abandoned on lounge chairs and wet bathing suits are piled on the pool deck.

Marilyn glances across and spots a nude girl in the water.

Her dark hair is wet, her makeup smudged, her bare breasts bouncing with the motion of throwing a beach ball across the shallow end of the pool.

In the dim pool lighting, she cannot be sure, but it looks an awful lot like her friend June.

When I started modeling, she reminds herself, sex was part of the job.

All the girls did. They weren’t shooting all these sexy pictures just to sell peanut butter in an ad or get a layout in some picture magazine.

They wanted to sample the merchandise, and if you didn’t get along, there were twenty-five girls who would.

It wasn’t any big dramatic tragedy. Nobody ever got cancer from sex.

Joe Schenck slips his arm around Marilyn’s shoulders, interrupting her thoughts. “Would you like to come inside and play cards?”

“Cards?” she asks.

“Sure,” he nods. “We’re all going in.”

The pool crowd is meandering across the lawn, back toward the house. They’ve paired off into couples, each man with a girl by his side. Some are barefoot, swigging from a bottle of champagne.

“Mr. Schenck, I am not very good at cards.” Marilyn wrinkles her nose.

“Call me Joe,” he says, wrapping his arm around her waist. “You don’t have to play. You can just watch. And fix me some drinks.”

Around a green baize table, a game of gin rummy is in full swing, its players sipping cocktails and smoking cigarettes.

Marilyn sits on one side of Schenck. On the other is a naked redhead who’s intent on the game. The redhead’s playing to win, and when she does, she squeals with delight, throwing down her hand of cards and kissing Schenck hard on the cheek.

“Well done!” he laughs. “Here we go!” He takes a $50 bill out of his wallet. “You won that fair and square.”

“Thank you, Joe!” She plants another kiss. “You are the sweetest.”

“Say, Marilyn? Aren’t you working tomorrow?” Schenck asks. “Let me call you a limousine.”

She’s grateful to have been dismissed. But even more grateful when the invitations keep coming.