Before there was Marilyn…
How a silver-screen starlet, the mob, and a beachside café foreshadowed Hollywood’s darkest déjà vu.
If you’re the kind of reader who likes your true crime served up with a twist of scandal, a splash of conspiracy, and a big ol’ Marilyn Monroe-shaped cherry on top—then sugar, Mike Rothmiller’s Bombshell is your cocktail.
Forget those dry-as-toast whodunnits—Bombshell is a high-stakes, high-octane piece of tabloid noir, all dolled up in an LAPD dossier. And its central claim? Oh, nothing major… just that Robert F. Kennedy may have had a starring role in Marilyn Monroe’s final curtain call. Bless his heart.
Now, the book’s got enough political poison to leave your jaw sittin’ on the floor, but it’s one of the side stories that stuck with me like gum on a hot sidewalk: the last night of Thelma Todd.
And don’t you worry, honey—I’m not here to spoil Marilyn’s fate. If you want all that, you can sip on the book yourself. Instead, let me tell y’all about a starlet who took her final bow down the same shadowy road Marilyn would someday face—only Thelma got there when little Norma Jeane was still just eight years old.
💄 Meet Thelma Todd
Back in the 1930s, Thelma Todd was everything Hollywood could’ve dreamed up—pretty as a peach, sharp as a tack, and charming enough to hold her own alongside the Marx Brothers in Monkey Business and Horse Feathers. She made it big, sure enough. Trouble is, she made it dangerous too.
Enter Pat DiCicco. Bootlegger. Mobbed-up bruiser. Best pals with “Lucky” Luciano. And honey, what could go wrong? Bless her heart, everything. They tied the knot in 1932, and by ’34 the whole thing had gone up in smoke—leaving Thelma with nothing but bruises, a bottle of pills, and a bad taste in her mouth.
But you know the mob. They don’t just pack up and leave when the party’s over. Oh no, sugar—they were only gettin’ warmed up.
👊 Married to the Mob
After shaking off DiCicco, Thelma landed herself a shiny new gig—a darling little sidewalk café tucked inside a fancy three-story beachside building. Thanks to director Roland West, she scored a penthouse up top for free and her name lit up the sign downstairs like it was dipped in stardust. Sound like a win-win? Well—not quite.
See, that second floor wasn’t serving up flapjacks and coffee. No ma’am—that was mob turf, a private club where Luciano and his pals played kingmaker over gin and poker chips. Naturally, Thelma’s success didn’t slip past those good-for-nothin’ mobsters, and before long they came sniffin’ ‘round wantin’ a slice of her pie—bless their greedy little hearts—even anglin’ to turn the place into a full-blown gambling hall.
But Thelma? She wasn’t about to let them turn her café into some smoke-choked poker parlor. Lord, no. She stood her ground with all the fire of a Southern mama at a PTA meeting. She even circled a date—December 17, 1935—with the district attorney himself, planning to spill every last drop of mob-flavored tea.
Spoiler Alert: she never made it.
🥂 One Last Party
Two days before her big appointment with the DA, on the night of December 15, Thelma lit up this swanky shindig at a former speakeasy on the Sunset Strip like the Fourth of July. Dressed in silver and mauve, she floated through the room like a Hollywood butterfly, and honey, every head turned her way.
But come 10:30 the next morning? Lord have mercy—she was found slumped in her chocolate-brown convertible, stone cold dead.
Busted nose. Bloodied face. Broken ribs. And wouldn’t you know it… they had the gall to call it an “accident.” The DA’s office signed off on that autopsy like, immediately. And then they had her cremated so fast it was like, ‘Okay, chill, we get it—you’re totally covering something up.
The club? Oh, it got its gambling license, nice and tidy. The mafia? They got their playground.
And DiCicco? Well, sugar, he ended up right back at the center card table, sipping his drink and flashing his hand of gin rummy—smack dab in the very club that used to bear Thelma Todd’s name. And sitting across from him? Just a bright-eyed little actress starting to turn heads. Her name? Marilyn Monroe.
💋 Final Blessing… (or Burn)
Bombshell might put Marilyn front and center, but stories like Thelma’s remind us this tale ain’t just about one doomed starlet. It’s about a whole city—glitterin’ on the outside, rotten in the middle, and held together with more scandal than duct tape at a county fair.
So if you’ve got an appetite for the underbelly of old Hollywood—served up with mob ties, murder cover-ups, and a heaping spoonful of heartbreak—Bombshell will fill your plate and linger on your mind long after. Frank Sinatra, Joe DiMaggio, Howard Hughes and more… there is more Hollywood gossip in this book that Truman Capote’s diary. I can not recommend this book enough.
Just do yourself a favor, sugar: don’t read it alone… especially if you’re sittin’ in a convertible.
Anyway, time for this Byrd to fly. Bye Bye Now.