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 celebrities, to faucet her telephone so she's 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 desirous about activities fascinated with Marilyn. She’s the critical American cultural icon, idolized via girls, wanted by way of males, yet her deepest 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 indicators 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 can be liable for Marilyn’s dying, he realizes that what has develop into his such a lot difficult task can also be the top of him. PI Nathan Heller returns in his first new novel in a decade, as Max Allan Collins brings to lifestyles a shiny star-studded solid, 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 inspiration might happen…but most likely did.
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Additional resources for Bye Bye, Baby (The Memoirs of Nathan Heller)
This group included Snyder and other hair and makeup techs, as well as Marilyn’s acting coach, Paula Strasberg, a fat witchy-looking figure in a black muumuu. Another slant board was waiting for Marilyn between takes, but the truth is—except for a lunch break, which for her was coffee—she never got completely out of the pool, once she got in. She just swam happily, the center of attention in the elaborate set in the cavernous soundstage, queen of her domain. At first—when she slipped out of the blue terry-cloth robe, and into the pool—she wore a flesh-colored swimsuit.
She even turned her bubbleheaded shtick into something more with her Bus Stop and Some Like It Hot performances. Who but Marilyn could have found nuances in dumb-blonde roles? She was special, and I liked her, on-screen and off. She had a reputation for driving directors and costars and studio execs crazy, but I knew that came from a kind of cockeyed perfectionism born out of insecurity. The hard-drinking, drug-abusing Marilyn of rumor was a stranger to me. I’d always found her sweet and sexy and funny, if needy, and if she had a bad side, I’d been privileged not to see it.
A skinny effeminate man also in a pale blue smock had begun spraying hairspray that turned her platinum locks, already put to the test by God knew how many and what chemicals, into something brittle and stiff. “Everybody! This is my friend Nate Heller—you know that private eye on TV? Peter Gunn? …” Everybody gave me a fraction-of-a-second glance, and a few even pretended to be impressed. They’d have been more impressed if Peter Gunn hadn’t been canceled recently. ” I ran along. ) When I climbed into the Jag, Sam gave me a wide-eyed welcome.