The Monroe Massacre

By Ken Kaye

Marty Allen, veteran news reporter, is given the most challenging assignment of his career: determine if iconic movie actress Marilyn Monroe machine-gunned down seven bikers in 1961.
At the same time, he wants to know why his girlfriend, a hard-nosed police detective, left him for a cop who abuses women and breaks legs, a quest that will nearly cost him his life.
According to a tipster, the bikers almost assaulted Monroe while she was strolling along the beach in Hollywood, Florida.
But four mafia soldiers, secretly providing her protection at the behest of their boss, rescued her. They were about to blow away the would-be attackers in a warehouse – until Monroe, seeking retaliation, asked to do the honors.
Lending a modicum of credibility to this account, the tipster asserts that it happened shortly after Monroe was released from a psychiatric hospital.
Marty, who works for a news and entertainment magazine, doesn’t buy any of it initially. Yet he digs deep to learn about Monroe’s difficult life and her controversial death at a young age.
He discovers her alleged incident is remarkably similar to the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, where mobsters blasted away seven men in a Chicago garage in the 1920s. He examines Monroe’s ties to a mafia kingpin. And he even tracks down the Tommy Gun she supposedly used and verifies it’s the same model involved in the earlier Chicago mob hit.
Ultimately, Marty will find the shocking truth behind the tipster’s claim the actress was a mass murdererer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Sep 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642377842

Ken Kaye

Ken Kaye's fiction, available from online booksellers, includes the collection of short stories "Birds of Evanston" and five novels: "Eve" (Adam's memoir, a novella), "The Net", "Eye of the Storm", "Survivors", and "Be the Best".Kaye lives in Evanston, Illinois, where he has worked as a college professor, a family therapist, and a consultant to family-owned businesses. (His nonfiction books are in the field of psychology.) Thirty-five years after his Ph.D., he earned an MFA in creative fiction from Bennington College.email: [e-mail] (and please remember to leave a review of my book at your favorite online retailer)

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1

IN THE GRAND finale of a nasty hissy-fit, the girlfriend rammed an elbow into my gut on an otherwise warm, pleasant Sunday night. That hurt like a son of a bitch, to put it mildly, and it was for no good reason. I was still aching and more than a little bummed out when I walked into the Universal Planet ’s organizational meeting on Monday morning.

Normally this weekly gathering was loose and lively, fueled by doughnuts, bagels, coffee and creativity. Writers, editors and online producers would exchange ideas and discuss issues. But now the staff, seated around a long conference table, was tense and fidgety. No one got up to grab the goodies laid out on platters on a side table. Stomachs were too jittery.

I knew why, of course. The Universal Planet was undergoing major changes after being purchased by The Kimberley Corporation, a huge Australian media conglomerate. Previously a supermarket tabloid, concocting the most shocking, fictional stories possible, the Planet was now to be considered a news and entertainment magazine per the new regime. It would publish only real stories of broad interest and based on credible sources.

Although the weekly publication had been moving in this direction for months, the transition still posed a challenge for young staffers. Most lacked formal journalistic training and were mainly interested in becoming screenwriters, comedy writers and the like, not investigative reporters.

Now they were required to find blockbuster exclusives and back them up with documentation. The Kimberley Corporation not only wanted to keep pace with the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, it planned to compete head-on against the likes of TMZ and Access.

As one top manager put it, "We want the Planet to combine the best of intriguing features, celebrity gossip and hardcore news. We want to stomp out the fake news stigma and revolutionize the news industry."

If all this wasn’t intimidating enough, word was The Kimberley Corporation intended to streamline the operation, and those who couldn’t hack the new demands would be fired.

None of this should have fazed me. Having been an investigative reporter at the Los Angeles Times in a previous life, I was already producing legitimate stories on a routine basis for the Planet. But as the most senior writer on the staff, and thus one of the highest paid, I had a target on my back.

Was I worried? Hell yes. The only thing I knew how to do with any expertise was write stories. If I got canned, I’d probably have to wash dishes, not a pleasant prospect for a forty-three-year-old man with a mortgage and a car payment.

Marty Allen is the name, by the way.

I was about to get up and grab a bagel when Jeffrey Rucker, the Universal Planet’s editor-in-chief, sat at the head of the table. A rather short man with a beer belly, a black beard and a combover, he wasn’t all that imposing.

Yet all the staff members went deathly silent. The glass-enclosed conference room, which used to possess the warmth of a family den, now felt as cold as a county morgue.

Leaning back, Rucker adjusted his thick, turtle-rim glasses and surveyed all the faces full of apprehension. Although he used to leave his shirt collar unbuttoned, he now wore a tie pulled snuggly against his neck like a good company man.

Folks, it’s a new day, he commenced solemnly. All of you were told to come to this meeting with a new mindset. I hope you came prepared because time is of the essence. That said, let’s get right to it.

Rucker went around the room asking the writers what stories they had to offer for the print edition and online. Most everyone was still in tabloid mode.

One young writer, who I only knew as Jake, pitched a story about an eight-year-old boy who enjoyed catching, cooking and eating pythons. Rucker rejected it. That would have worked last week. Come up with something better.

Another writer named Susannah proposed a piece asserting that reality star Kim Kardashian had offered Alexa Bliss, a professional women’s wrestling champion, ten million dollars to be the surrogate of her next child.

Is that true? Rucker asked.

Right now, it’s just a tip, Susannah meekly answered.

Find something with real potential, Rucker demanded. Don’t come to this meeting with speculative horseshit.

Susannah nodded and shrank in her chair.

The next several reporters didn’t fare much better. One even proposed a farcical story about how some computer viruses could spread to humans. Rucker vetoed them all.

Folks, you’re not getting the hang of this, he growled.

Despite the tension in the room, I got up and went to the side table and all those platters. I placed a cinnamon bagel and a small tub of cream cheese on a paper plate, picked up a plastic knife and a napkin and returned to my seat. I didn’t care if I interrupted the flow of the meeting; I was that hungry.

Rucker, meanwhile, called on George Leon, another veteran writer and my newsroom buddy.

Seems Melania Trump, the president’s wife, has requested to ride the next rocket to the international space station to spend time away from her husband, George said, drawing some nervous chuckles.

For real? Rucker asked.

For real according to one of my more reliable sources.

Rucker raised an eyebrow. That’s closer to what we’re looking for. Check it out further.

George gave the boss a mock military salute.

Rucker finally looked in my direction. As he still had nothing solid to rely on, I knew he was counting on me to save the day—as usual. Unfortunately, I wasn’t prepared, thanks to the previous night’s theatrics with the girlfriend.

Whatcha got, Marty?

How about a piece on how more men are growing beards to save money on shaving supplies? I replied, slathering half of the bagel with cream cheese.

Rucker cracked a grin. I suppose that’s why you’ve got all that stubble on your ugly puss.

I reckon, I said, taking a big bite of the bagel. Sensing some of the cream cheese ended up on my goatee, I wiped my chin with the napkin.

Rucker’s smirk disappeared. "You are kidding, right?"

I nodded while chewing. Yes, I’m kidding, Jeffrey. But I confess, I need more time to come up with the kind of story you’re looking for.

You’ve had a week like everyone else in this room.

Just being honest. I don’t have anything to offer at this point, I said a bit too defiantly.

Rucker glared at me. See me in my office after the meeting.

I immediately regretted being a smartass. In this new cutthroat atmosphere, I might have bought my ticket out the door. Several staff members gave me sympathetic looks. Marty’s history, they were no doubt thinking. I put down the bagel, no longer all that hungry.

After the meeting concluded, I gently knocked on Rucker’s door. In keeping with the rest of the Planet’s newsroom, his spacious office featured royal-blue carpeting and white, contemporary furniture. Because it was glass enclosed, I always felt naked while in there; the entire staff could view in.

Rucker swiveled his executive chair to face me. Outside his large picture windows, the mid-September sun was already burning bright. He had a not-so scenic view of the Interstate 75 corridor as it meandered south toward Miami. Sit down, he sternly instructed.

Look, Jeffrey. I’m sorry about before, I said, closing door. I wasn’t trying to be snide. I just had some personal business I had to deal with last night and –

I don’t give a flying fuck about your personal business, he snarled. I should can your ass. You think you’re indispensable? You’re not.

I sat down in a white leather chair in front of his desk, surprised to see Rucker so uptight. Even during high-pressured times, he was usually level-headed. Now he seemed desperate.

Again, Jeffrey. I’m sorry. I’ll have something to offer by this—

Don’t bother. I have a story for you.

I nodded, relieved that I hadn’t been summarily axed. Lay it on me.

A man called with an interesting tale. He claims that Marilyn Monroe killed seven men with a machine gun, mob style, in a warehouse in Hollywood, Florida, not Hollywood, California.

I grinned. It was typical of the assignments dished out while we were a supermarket tabloid, so absurd that it made for great fiction.

The same Marilyn Monroe who was a blond bombshell in the 1950s? The same Marilyn Monroe who had an affair with JFK?

The same.

And she just happened to blow away seven guys? That wasn’t very nice of her.

Rucker ignored my skepticism. Supposedly, according to this guy, Monroe was cozy with the mafia in those days. This bigtime mobster named Sam Giancana was about to have the men executed. But for some reason Monroe was in that warehouse. One of Giancana’s soldiers put a tommy gun in her hands and she mowed down the poor bastards without a second thought.

Really, I deadpanned. Any chance she was the second gunman at the grassy knoll?

Rucker leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk, a gesture that implied, you better take this seriously. I know it’s off the wall, Marty. But I want you to talk to our tipster and check it out. If his version is anywhere near correct, we got a real blockbuster.

I threw up my hands. Christ, Jeffrey, why waste the time? There’s no way any such thing ever happened. There have never been any reports that –

He claims his father witnessed it. He swears up and down that his father ‘would never lie to me,’ quote, unquote.

I was amazed that Rucker was buying this baloney. Jeffrey, get real. If anything like that actually happened, it would have come to light by now. Too many people have scrutinized every aspect of Monroe’s life. No way something that outrageous could have gone unnoticed.

I don’t care. I want you to go after it with both guns blazing. I need something big to impress the new owners, and right now we got jack.

I stared at him. Let me get this straight. You want me to conduct a full-blown investigation and find conclusive proof that Marilyn Monroe was a mass murderer. You want fries with that?

Rucker leaned back and clasped his hands together over his big belly. "I want you to round up enough information to indicate that such an event could have occurred."

In other words, don’t necessarily prove it. Just get someone to say it might have happened. Sounds like we’re still doing the tabloid thing.

Not really. I want you to get someone credible on the record. Someone who might even do a video segment for us.

I shook my head. Jeffrey, you are putting me squarely between a rock and a hard place.

How so?

If I find someone who says maybe, just maybe, Monroe did this thing, I end up writing a questionable story that defames a legendary actress. Meanwhile, if I fail to nail down this completely preposterous story, you’ll probably toss my ass out the door.

I’m just asking you to give it your best shot, Marty. You’re the only one who could possibly pull this off.

Yeah? Well, it sounds like you’re setting me up for failure. If that’s the case, just fire me now.

Rucker spoke in a low, confidential tone, even though no one could hear us. I’m not looking to fire you, Marty. But the truth is, no one is safe under the new owners. As risky as it might be, we need to pursue a story of this magnitude. Otherwise, both of our jobs could be in jeopardy.

I could tell from the angst in his eyes that he wasn’t bullshitting me. Despite the growing tensions between us, I knew I had to help him out. I owed him.

Long story short, several years earlier, the Los Angeles Times fired me after I ran into a rough patch in my personal life. I spent several days sitting in a dark room, growing a beard. Quite certain that I would never be hired again, I had no desire to apply to another newspaper.

Then Rucker called. After hearing about my termination on the journalistic grapevine, he proposed a tryout. I flew to South Florida for a week and wrote a bunch of stories for the Universal Planet, both fake and legit. He offered me a job and, in the process, pulled me back from the dead. Now he was asking me to save both our asses.

How about if I find another story, one that’s more feasible, I suggested.

Rucker shook his head. You’ll never find anything as sexy. To be honest, I’ve already told this muckety-muck over at Kimberley about the Monroe thing, and he loved it.

You told him we have a story that’s likely a complete falsehood?

I didn’t tell him we had the story yet. But I did tell him that if it’s for real, I have every confidence that you’ll reel it in.

Christ. No pressure there.

I sighed. What’s my deadline?

Soon as possible. Preferably within two weeks. If you need to travel, no problem, spare no expense. I’m willing to pull out all the stops.

You got a phone number for this tipster?

I don’t. He’ll only talk face to face.

Where do I find him?

He says he has a late breakfast every morning at the Compass Tiki Bar in Hollywood. He looked at his watch. You might even catch him there now.

What’s his name?

Eddie Fontana.

I got up, went to the door and turned back to Rucker. If this is how The Kimberley Corporation plans to overcome the fake news stigma, we should have remained a tabloid.

Rucker cast weary eyes up to me. Too late now, he muttered.

2

THE U NIVERSAL P LANET made its home in a five-story office building about fifteen miles west of Fort Lauderdale, out in the boonies not far from the vast, open Everglades. It also was adjacent to a massive interchange where Interstates 75 and 595 and the Sawgrass Expressway converged, providing easy highway access to almost anywhere in the region.

Taking advantage of this convenience, I aimed my Mini Cooper east on Interstate 595 into morning sun, windows down, enjoying a warm breeze. After driving across Broward County, I parallel parked near Hollywood’s Broadwalk, a beachside promenade lined with outdoor cafes, bars, sundry shops and hotels.

The Compass Tiki Bar faced the Broadwalk and the Atlantic Ocean. I walked in the front entrance with a brown leather satchel strapped over my shoulder. The satchel contained an iPad, a digital voice recorder and a notebook, tools of the modern-day reporter.

Despite the pungent smell of smoke, the place was open and airy with a large dining area and a half-circle bar. It appeared to be an upscale establishment with polished hardwood floors and blue-leather barstools. I told a hostess that I needed a drink.

Bar’s right there, she said, pointing.

Although several people were congregated at the bar, my eyes were drawn to a man camped out on a corner stool. Appearing to be in his mid-sixties, he sported gray hair and a beard, both short-cropped.

Wearing dark aviator sunglasses, he was smoking a stubby cigar and holding the New York Times in both hands. A half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs and bacon sat in front of him as well as a fresh Bloody Mary, complete with a celery stalk.

I casually approached. Eddie Fontana?

He lowered the newspaper and gazed at me over the top of his sunglasses. He puffed a cloud of smoke from the cigar. Who wants to know?

"Marty Allen, reporter for the Universal Planet. My editor, Jeffrey Rucker, sent me. He tells me you have an interesting tale."

It’s not a tale. It’s the God’s honest truth. I thought I made that clear to him.

About Marilyn Monroe, right?

He nodded and temporarily removed the cigar from his mouth to slurp the Bloody Mary. His clothing was casual yet trendy, multi-pocket cargo shorts, a collarless, white shirt and denim sneakers, no socks. He wore a gold watch on his left wrist and a gold bracelet on his right. Try one of these, he said, holding up the glass. They make them good and strong here.

I took the stool next to his. Don’t mind if I do.

He raised a hand to the bartender, a young woman who flaunted flaming red hair and had squeezed into tight blue-jean shorts. Sweetheart, fix this guy a Bloody Mary, please.

Sure thing, Eddie baby, she said with a tolerant smile, indicating that Fontana was a regular customer and probably a pest.

Thanks, dear. We still getting married someday?

Sure thing, Eddie baby.

She winked at me and went about preparing my drink. Fontana returned to reading his paper as though I wasn’t there. Angela soon delivered the Bloody Mary. Nodding my thanks, I took a sip. Fontana was right; it was loaded with vodka.

My editor tells me Monroe gunned down seven men in a warehouse here in Hollywood, I said to him. Is that what really happened?

He lowered his paper again and puffed on his cigar, its aroma strangely pleasing to me. The cigar wrapper next to his ashtray showed that he was smoking a Romeo Y Julieta Corona.

Yeah, that’s what really happened. But from that shit-eating grin, I can tell you’re not buying it. So, fuck you.

He snapped the newspaper open and pretended to read some story. I stopped smirking. Even though this Monroe thing was likely pure poppycock, I had to take it seriously. My job was quite possibly on the line.

Listen, Eddie. I’ve covered a lot of unusual stories in my time. I always keep an open mind. I want to hear about Monroe, honest.

He regarded me a moment, folded the paper and put it down on the bar. "I gave your editor the Reader’s Digest version. There’s a lot more to it than Monroe killing seven men."

I’m listening.

You just going to listen or take notes like a good little reporter?

I almost told the guy to take his Monroe story, his cigar and his Bloody Mary and shove them all sideways up his ass. I don’t like condescending jerks. But again, there was a lot riding on this assignment, mainly my future.

Politely nodding, I opened the satchel, fished out the digital recorder and placed it on the bar. I clicked it on. Lay it on me, Eddie.

He blew out a stream of smoke. Back in sixty-one, early February, Monroe was institutionalized in a psychiatric hospital in New York after some kind of breakdown. She hated the place and begged her closest friends to get her out. But no one wanted to see her on the loose. Except for Joe DiMaggio. Know who he is?

Of course. The New York Yankees great.

He was also her ex-husband at the time and always bailing her out of trouble. He managed to spring her and convinced her to rest up at another funny farm, one that was more comfortable.

A funny farm? For insane people?

Actually, it was a neurological institute there in New York. After she got out of that one, she claimed she felt great. But in reality, she was a depressed, fucked-up mess. Joe took her to a secluded resort in St. Pete for a couple weeks, hoping to lift her spirits.

I worked on my drink, feeling the alcohol warm my guts. Never knew she had a breakdown, I said, making a mental note to double check whether that was true.

She did, and it was bad. But the Florida trip helped her recover. She and Joe hung out on the beach and took in some Yankees spring training games. She enjoyed those games so much that they drove to Fort Lauderdale to watch the Yankees play. That’s when things got interesting.

How so?

Fontana took a gulp of Bloody Mary. Some tomato juice remained on the whiskers of his upper lip. Monroe was no prude. She slept around and, in the process, made a bunch of pals in high places. One of them was Sam Giancana, a Chicago mobster.

She slept with Giancana?

If you believe some people, yes. One thing was for sure, he was smitten with Monroe, didn’t want her to be with other men, including DiMaggio. Sam was constantly monitoring her whereabouts, always hoping she’d make time for him.

In other words, he was stalking her.

Maybe he was, but it saved her life or at least her dignity.

And how was that?

While she was here in Hollywood, she enjoyed walking on the Broadwalk, Fontana said, pointing toward the promenade, now crowded with sunbathers and tourists. "She and Joe had been staying at some hotel on the beach, and she wanted to be alone. So, he let her go off by herself.

One night, she was moseying along a darkened stretch of the Broadwalk when these seven bikers grabbed her. Not just any bikers but hardcore, big-ass gorillas who busted heads. They were about to push her into an alley and run a train on her.

What were they, Hell’s Angels?

I don’t know, but they weren’t choir boys.

OK. Go on.

She started screaming but the area was so deserted back then that no one heard her, except four men in black suits, carrying high-powered machine guns. They were Sam Giancana’s soldiers, ordered to tail Monroe in case she needed protection.

They had been watching her all night?

"That’s right. The four gunmen jumped out of the