BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 17. Bobby's helicoptered evening with Marilyn ends in tragedy (warning-pretty graphic!). Actor Peter Lawford tries to clean up the crime scene.
Here's FULL TRILOGY/book #1 from UK: https://www.amazon.com/Black-President-Historical-Rick-Schmidt/dp/0955861314
Chapter 17 (completes Bobby’s dangerous liaison with Marilyn Monroe).
Marilyn and Bobby’s privacy was a pure illusion, every word and move the two made that night preserved on audio tape that would remain hidden in vaults until the year 2028. And while this last night was being saved for posterity, outside, in the nearby bushes, Joe Kennedy’s man was quietly waiting for an opportunity to “terminate with extreme prejudice.”
Bobby’s first mistake was to ask Lawford to remain in the front room for a second while he talked to Marilyn in the bedroom. As soon as the door closed they embraced. They kissed hard on the lips and then as Bobby kissed her neck, pressing his mouth into her skin, his hands undid the buttons of her dress and it dropped off her shoulders and down. Marilyn lowered one arm then another to free herself. Suddenly she was completely naked and Bobby was tugging at his belt while her breath came in short gasps in his ear. Then, without any warning, Marilyn pulled back and stopped.
“No...NO!”she screamed. Bobby felt the wetness in his pants. “You were right,” she said, “We can’t do this anymore!”
“But honey, you know it will help you relax. You always say it does. I just wanted to help you sleep without those damn drugs.” Bobby felt the tension spreading through his body.
Marilyn didn’t answer, knowing a self-serving male line when she heard one. The man wanted one more little piece of ass before moving on. That’s all it was. All the men she had ever gone with had tried for that “goodbye fuck,” and here it was happening again. Her anger rose to new heights.
“You never gave a damn about me...and neither did your brother. You just passed me around like some Hollywood whore.” Marilyn grabbed her robe off the hook on the door. “Just leave! Get the hell out of here!” She screamed at him.
Suddenly Bobby was the off-balance one. His stomach felt like a hole had been drilled right through it. His tenderness was rewarded with this? No way. No fucking tart was going to shit all over him like that.
“Just a minute here,” he told her, raising his voice. “I’ve done nothing wrong!” As the words escaped, he grabbed her around the waist in a fumbled attempt to shake some sense into her, pull her over to him. But his right hand operated independently, as if controlled by that primitive part of the brain that demands sex when it’s so readily available. As she spun away he was suddenly holding her around her waist from the back and grabbing onto her heavy breasts, feeling her hard nipples. His forceful grope triggered memories of all the sexual abuse she had encountered in her life, from her teenage years as a reluctant bride to the earlier dark days as an orphan – all the manhandling and rapes. Bobby became just another male demanding satisfaction.
Without warning she twisted at the waist and caught Bobby with her elbow, delivering a hard blow to his head. The instant he felt the impact he hit back instinctively, punching her right in the jaw with his balled up fist. Marilyn reeled backward, her head striking hard against the hard wooden bureau as she dropped. Just then Lawford entered the room.
“Jesus Christ, Bobby!” Lawford shouted, moving in quickly to stop the fight. But it was already over, an unconscious Marilyn sprawled out on the carpet. Bobby knelt down beside her stilled body, moving the hair out of her eyes, wrapping her robe back around her naked body.
“Marilyn...Marilyn...” was all he seemed capable of uttering. He looked up at Lawford, visibly shaken, his shoulder’s heaving, eyes puffed up, a red mark glowing on his left cheek.
“Good God, man, I don’t know. I...”
Marilyn looked dead, but Lawford could see her chest slowly rising and falling and pointed that out to Bobby. Lawford got a wet washcloth from the bathroom and applied it to Marilyn’s face while Kennedy stood up, buttoned his pants, tucked in his shirt and tried to compose himself.
“No sense for you to be hanging around here,” Lawford told Bobby as he took charge of the unconscious woman.
“You don’t need to be traced to this house tonight.”
“You’re sure you’re OK with this?” Bobby asked. He was relieved, sick of the problems, ready to offload the mess.
“Then I’ll get out of here, copter back to SF. Talk to you tomorrow morning. Thanks.”
“OK,” said Lawford with a half smile. He didn’t want to get discovered next to Marilyn either, but had accepted his lesser role. Lawford’s next step after Bobby departed was to call a private ambulance service. The vehicle arrived thirty-five minutes later.
As the two male attendants wrapped Marilyn in a blanket and set her on the stretcher, they restrained themselves from asking the obvious questions. Recognizing Lawford, they had to wonder just what in the hell had transpired. Then, as Marilyn was rolled slowly to the waiting ambulance, a figure suddenly appeared out of nowhere, reached Marilyn’s side and injected her with a hypodermic needle, blurting out, "I’m her doctor." The needle was in, emptied, and out of her arm before anyone could ask a question. The only words that trailed the well-dressed man departing down the street was, “She needed that.”
Marilyn stopped breathing, halfway to the ride to the hospital. The attendants worked feverishly for about twenty minutes while Lawford looked on, applying mouth to mouth resuscitation (they later admitted they just wanted to say they’d kissed Marilyn) plus a series of electrical shocks to her chest. Nothing worked. Panic set in, with Lawford realizing that if Marilyn’s deceased body arrived at the hospital, the news crews would be all over it – all over him – with questions. The story would hit before Bobby’s helicopter could land him in the safety of San Francisco. Lawford knew he needed to buy some time.
“She’s gone,” said Lawford, looking at the faces of the attendants. The thinner one responded first.
“Yeah. No chance now to bring her back.”
The driver just looked on silently, perhaps remembering some movie he’d seen her in, the full weight of the moment beginning to hit home.
“I need to ask a favor, gentlemen,” said Lawford, taking advantage of the situation’s solemnity.
“Marilyn always said she wanted to die at home...in her own bed. I promised her that, that I would honor the request. To bring her into the hospital like this...it isn’t pretty. Would you men mind returning to her house and helping me move her to the bed. I think we owe her that....”
The attendants knew that they were still closer to Brentwood than the hospital and that they still had a long night ahead of them. It was around midnight. Though it was against their better judgment, they went along with the movie star’s wishes. After all, this was Hollywood.
She seemed heavier as they hoisted her down from the ambulance tailgate and loaded her body back onto the guerny. It felt wierd rolling her back into the house. After lowering her onto the bed they shook hands with Lawford and departed. After tidying up for an hour or so, packing up anything Kennedy-related (including her red leather diary), he called his wife, who came and picked him up with her Chevy. It was 2AM.
Immediately after the coast was clear, four men entered Monroe’s bungalow and one operative, donning rubber gloves, inserted a suppository into her anus. It contained enough barbituates to kill ten people. The men didn’t even hesitate long enough to discover that she was already dead. They just assumed she was enjoying a very sound, drug-induced sleep.
Within two months, both men from the ambulance company met up with their own fatal accidents, the thin attendant accidentally toppling out of his sixth story apartment window while his heavier-set partner drowned in his own bathtub while his wife was out shopping.
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