“No, she’s not there anymore,” Newcomb said. “She has a house in Brentwood.”

“How’s she doing? This shit in the papers, it just doesn’t let up.”

And it hadn’t.

“It’s a smear campaign by the studio.”

“You’re not asking me to believe Hedda Hopper is untrustworthy, are you? She has such a nice smile.”

“She’s a bitch,” Pat snapped, maybe not reading my sarcasm. “As for Marilyn, she’s had a rough couple days and nights, but… Well, come see for yourself.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. She wants to see you. She likes you.”

“Don’t sound surprised. Haven’t you noticed how lovable I am?”

She wasn’t in the mood for banter, and just gave me the address and the directions.

On the way over, I wondered if I would at last encounter the Marilyn of Hollywood rumor-the notorious drug-addicted dumb-blonde diva. Would I finally see that dark, self-pitying side of her that had caused, supposedly, half a dozen or more suicide attempts? Would she be a slurry wreck, or perhaps a paranoid harridan blaming the Fox executives for all her woes?

The closest I’d come to knowing the troubled Marilyn was the occasional very-late-night phone call from her-I was one of her long-distance buddies who she might reach out to when she was having trouble sleeping. Insomnia was her real archenemy, worse than Fox or Hedda Hopper.

That phone-friend list must have been fairly long, because I’d had only five or six of these calls over the years, coming at two or three in morning, and always starting the same way: “This is Marilyn Monroe. You know, the actress?”

That was silly, of course, but usually enough time had passed since I’d heard from her to make it credible, coming from that oddly shy, modest part of this girl who must have been in some manner an egotist to have made it so far.