Rocco wore a white sportshirt and gray slacks and canvas shoes; he was smoking a cigar and leafing through
Charley — his hair was blond, like mine, also a dye job — wore gray shorts and a white blue-checked shirt which hung open revealing a tanned hairy chest and small paunch; he was stretched out in a lounge chair, smoking his cigarette-in-holder, watching pretty girls in swimsuits, of which there was no shortage.
But pretty girls in swimsuits was one thing, and Vera Jayne Mansfield in a bikini, that was a whole other thing.
In my sunglasses and tourist attire, the camera blocking my face, I shot picture after picture of Vera, in and out of the pool, preening, posing, sticking out her chest, pushing out her bottom, peeling those lush lips back across the white teeth. I was whispering photographer type things at her, complimenting her, directing her; but she didn’t need any direction. She knew just how to handle herself in front of a camera.
Every man around that pool — and this included young men, old men, married men, single, even guys on their honeymoons — watched the brunette babe in the bikini like they’d just heard about sex for the first time, and were really, really impressed...
And in many of those shots, I caught Charley and Rocco Fischetti on film. Neither one of them — nor their bodyguards — thought a thing about it.
The problem was, the brothers were under that umbrella, sitting in shade, and I didn’t have what I needed, not yet. We had talked about this, Vera and I, and as she climbed from the pool and I helped her into a hooded terrycloth robe that ended midthigh, I whispered, “We haven’t got it yet.”
“He’s leaving,” she said, looking past me.
“What?” I said, but Vera was on the move.
I turned to see Charley and Rocco getting up, their two thugs falling in line — it was almost noon, so this was simply lunch, most likely. We could have waited for another time, but she was going right up to him...
...and I moved in — clicking.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, in that Betty Boopish voice, “I hope you don’t mind my saying how elegant you look.” She was standing in front of him, the robe open onto all that bikini-bound, water-pearled flesh of hers, and Charley smiled, tightly.
Her smile radiant, she said, “I mean, that cigarette holder — you just look so... continental.”
This gibberish was holding Charley hostage. Rocco was gazing at her suspiciously, but neither he nor his brother — or their idiot retinue — seemed to have noticed me, moving in ever closer, snapping photos.
“Thank you, my dear,” Charley said. “You’re a lovely girl. Are you in show business?”
“I want to be.”
And now Rocco stepped up to the plate, his suspicions gone. “We have business associates in that field,” he said. “Ever hear of the Chez Paree?”
“Oh yes!”
“We own a piece.”
I faded back — I had all the photos I needed, but she was still talking to them. Finally, she beamed at them and said something — I was out of ear range, now — and bounced over to me.
“I think I made a good impression,” she said.
“They’re making impressions in their pants right now,” I said, taking her gently by the arm and walking her over to our room. I unlocked the sliding doors and we stepped in.
She jumped up and down, jiggling in all the interesting places. “They liked me! They said they’d give me an audition.”
“Vera. Sit down.”
She sat on the side of the bed and I told her about Jackie Payne. I gave her a fairly detailed version, starting with the religious parents in Kankakee and ending with death by overdose. When I was finished, Vera wasn’t crying or anything, but her expression was sober and her eyes melancholy.
“You didn’t have to tell that story,” she said. “I know they’re gangsters. I don’t want anything to do with them.”
“I know. But you’re just starting out — and I saw today the effect you have on men.”
“It’s just my body.”
“No, lots of girls have big tits, kiddo. You have confidence, and stage presence. You’ll go somewhere. Just try not to do it by getting in bed... literally or figuratively... with the likes of Charley and Rocco Fischetti.”
She grinned up at me. “Hey — I wouldn’t care if that was Darryl Zanuck out there... I’m here with Nate Heller.”
“Actually, you’re here with Joe Samuels... who has work to do.”
I dropped the Kodak rolls in a packet off at the front desk; arrangements had been made for my film to be taken by courier to Mexico City and delivered directly to the Associated Press office, where it would be developed and the best shots of the Fischettis wired to Washington... where both Drew Pearson and representatives of Senator Kefauver would receive them.
From our poolside room I made two calls: room service, to bring us lunch; and the American consulate, where a lanky, well-tanned Narcotics Bureau agent named Dennison was waiting to hear from me.
“The photos are on their way,” I said.
