By Max Allan Collins
It’s 1962, and 20th Century Fox is threatening to fireside Marilyn Monroe. The blond goddess hires Nate Heller, deepest eye to the celebs, to faucet her cellphone so she is going to have a checklist in their calls in case they take her to courtroom. while Heller starts off listening, he uncovers way over nasty conversations. The CIA, the FBI, the Mafia—even the Russians—are all in favour of activities concerned about Marilyn. She’s the critical American cultural icon, idolized by means of girls, wanted through males, yet her inner most lifestyles is... complicated...and her connection to the Kennedys makes her an item of curiosity to a couple events with sinister intentions. no longer lengthy after Heller symptoms on, Marilyn lands up lifeless of a handy overdose. The detective feels he owes her, and the Kennedys, with whom he busted up corrupt unions within the Nineteen Fifties. yet now, as Heller investigates all attainable people—famous, notorious, or deeply cloaked—who should be accountable for Marilyn’s demise, he realizes that what has turn into his so much not easy task can also be the tip of him. PI Nathan Heller returns in his first new novel in a decade, as Max Allan Collins brings to existence a shiny star-studded forged, from JFK and RFK to Frank Sinatra and Peter Lawford, from Jimmy Hoffa and Joe DiMaggio to Hugh Hefner and Sam Giancana. Bye Bye, child is a Hollywood story you by no means idea may well happen…but most likely did.
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Extra info for Bye Bye, Baby (The Memoirs of Nathan Heller)
Oh. Yes. ” She turned her back to me and trundled across the tile courtyard toward the house, a quietly handsome L-shaped Spanish colonial with stuccoed adobe walls. But this absentminded troll belonged guarding a ramshackle middle-of-nowhere mansion, the kind where you ask to use the phone because your car broke down, and wind up a mad doctor’s next experiment. She was reaching for the front door, but I said, “Let me get that,” ever the gentleman. Glancing down at the four tiles on the doorstep, depicting a coat of arms, I noted an inscription in blue on gray: Cursum Perficio.
From what I’d read, it wasn’t much of a picture, and of course getting stuck with lousy scripts had been why Marilyn had walked from Fox back in the fifties and gone east to form her own company. She’d wound up in the prestigious Actors Studio, a fairly unlikely berth for a bombshell. Not that Marilyn was your average bombshell. She’d married Joe DiMaggio and Arthur Miller, hadn’t she? She even turned her bubbleheaded shtick into something more with her Bus Stop and Some Like It Hot performances.
There’s always shopping to be done. ” She’d anticipated this and drew a checkbook out of her capris. She was handing me the check with her famous signature still glistening when Mrs. Murray stuck her head out of the house, like a cuckoo from a clock, and informed Marilyn that Mr. Zanuck was on the line. I wasn’t an actor, but I knew my cue. We both stood, then I got one more quick kiss from Marilyn, and took my leave. Pulling the Jag away from the peaceful little hacienda, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than Marilyn was sharing.