Misfit by Adam Braver Page A

back at Sinatra that his plan is to see the fear in this guy’s face. “I want to hear his skull cracking on top of her. Like an egg.”
    â€œWell, I’m sure you three will work it out,” Sinatra says. He slides over into the driver’s seat. “I’m going to move this car over a couple of blocks. Out of sight. No need to make it too easy on the cops.”
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    Sinatra and DiMaggio were eating at Villa Capri when the call came in from Ruditsky. Irwin had spotted her. She’d gone into the house on North Kilkea they had under surveillance, the one they were sure was the cover for her affair. Sinatra took the call from the maître d’. He didn’t have a good feeling about where this was heading. They had knocked back a few over dinner, and though not fully anticipating this development, it was as if they’d been preparing for it. DiMaggio had been jawing on and on about her. Knowing she was putting the hump on that clown, Hal Schaefer. A stinking vocal coach. And a fucking queer, if he didn’t know better. And he was just supposed to sit here accepting it because a court had granted her an interlocutory decree ; but that meant there was still a waiting period before the divorce was legal, therefore she was still his wife, and if she was still his wife, then she didn’t get to do that kind of shit . . . And he went at Sinatra nonstop until the phone call, never betraying an emotion,
just getting more stiff and more wooden with every thought.
    But that was dinner.
    After confirming that Ruditsky was certain, Sinatra said he’d take it to DiMaggio.
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    Just to be clear: The interlocutory divorce decree was granted to Marilyn Monroe by the Los Angeles Superior Court on grounds of mental cruelty.
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    Sinatra comes walking around the corner, dancing a mock jitterbug as he approaches the boys, Sanicola and Karen in tow. Irwin stands alone, a cigarette between his fingers, pointing the red ember toward the shadow where Ruditsky and DiMaggio huddle.
    Ruditsky looks as though he’s working hard to keep his cool. He’s no piece-of-shit private eye. Making his reputation as a New York City cop in ’28, he went undercover beneath a bedsheet on a slab in a Second Street Turkish bathhouse, with his piece on his stomach, just waiting to bust up the so-called “Poison Ivy” gang. After that he collared the likes of Legs Diamond and Dutch Schultz, and the main West Side thugs, such as the “Pear Button” gang. He came west after the TV studios decided to make a series, The Lawless Years , based on a memoir he’d published. He worked as a technical consultant on the show and then moved on to movies, making sure the police and criminals were portrayed with some degree of accuracy. The PI work
came on the side, only the right cases when the right people asked. He doesn’t quite know why he has to answer to DiMaggio. After all, it was Sinatra who hired him. Yankee Clipper or no Yankee Clipper, Ruditsky has little patience for this kind of amateur bullshit about cracking skulls. “But I’m telling you,” DiMaggio is saying, “I’m not fooling around here any longer. Let’s just kick the door in.”
    Ruditsky says, “We have to make it count for something.”
    â€œNo need to worry on that.”
    â€œPictures, for example . . . Something to hold over her, rather than giving her something to hold over you. A good photo will be worth thousands to you, Joe. Your lawyer shows it to her lawyer, and there you go. Thousands saved.” Ruditsky motions for Irwin to get the camera out of the trunk, mouthing to remember to charge the flash.
    â€œI don’t like this,” DiMaggio says. “Don’t like this at all . . . Frank, do you like this?”
    â€œI think we should listen to Barney.”
    DiMaggio looks at Ruditsky. “He says I should listen to you.”
    â€œWe get the pictures, and then we