The Prince of Beverly Hills

by Stuart Woods

  PIANIST KILLED IN SUNSET BLVD ACCIDENT

  Somebody got it in the paper at the last minute, he figured. That way, there was no time for anybody at the paper to investigate before they went to press.

  Lillian Talbot, a professional musician, was killed in a traffic accident on Sunset Boulevard early this morning. Police say Miss Talbot, who was on her way home from a party at which she had played the piano, ran a stop sign at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Camden Drive and drove into the path of an oncoming car, the resulting crash killing her instantly. The other driver was examined by a doctor and pronounced unhurt. The Beverly Hills Police Department released a statement that said, in part, “The accident was witnessed by one of our officers on patrol, and a thorough investigation indicates that Miss Talbot was at fault. A test of the other driver’s blood found no trace of alcohol, and no charges will be brought against him.

  Well, that wrapped it up neatly, Rick thought. He washed the dishes and put them away. Rick was neat by nature, and, as a result, the little apartment in West Hollywood seemed a better place than it really was. He got dressed, and in changing the contents of his pockets from the uniform to his civilian clothes, he came across Eddie Harris’s card. “Edward R. Harris, Executive Vice President,” it read. Rick picked up the phone and called the number, which turned out to be a direct line.

  “Mr. Harris’s office,” a woman’s voice said.

  “My name is Rick Barron. Mr. Harris asked me to call him this morning.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Barron,” she replied. “Mr. Harris would like it if you could come to see him at four o’clock this afternoon. Would that be convenient?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “There’ll be a pass for you at the main gate. Come to the administration building. The guard will direct you.”

  “I’ll be there at four.” Rick hung up. A future for him at Centurion? It was nice to know there might be a future for him somewhere.

  RICK DRESSED IN HIS BEST SUIT, drove his Chevrolet coupe down to the Beverly Hills Hotel and went to the barbershop. He had a shave, a haircut and a manicure and, feeling fresher, had a club sandwich in the garden of the Polo Lounge. He couldn’t really afford all this anymore, in his reduced circumstances, but he felt like keeping up appearances. Word had already gotten around about his being busted, and he wanted to be seen doing the usual things. He didn’t want people feeling sorry for him. He spoke to a few people he knew, left a generous tip and went back to his car. He didn’t have anything to do until four, so he drove out to Santa Monica, to Clover Field, and parked at the tin hangar that was Barron Flying Service. He looked into the office and found only the bookkeeper.

  “He’s in the hangar,” she said, barely looking up from her ledgers.

  Rick strolled into the hangar to find his father changing the oil in the smaller of his two airplanes. He was dressed in his suit trousers, a white shirt and a tie. Rick grabbed two sets of coveralls from a shelf, got into one and handed the other to his father. “Put these on, Dad. You’ll ruin your clothes.”

  “You sound just like your mother,” Jack Barron said, struggling into the coveralls. “What brings you out here?”

  Rick walked around the airplane and peered at the other side of the engine. “It’s my day off. I thought I’d see how you’re doing.” He picked up a wrench and tightened a fuel line fitting, then began looking for other anomalies.

  “I’m doing fine,” Jack said. “You want to fly a party down to San Diego for me this afternoon?”

  “Sorry, Dad, I’ve got an appointment at Centurion Studios at four.”

  “They making you a movie star?”

  “I don’t think that’s what they’ve got in mind,” Rick said, laughing, “but a guy named Eddie Harris seems to have something in mind.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Jack said. “I could use some business from those people, if you get a chance to mention it.”

  “I’ll do that at the first opportunity.”

  Rick noticed an airplane he hadn’t seen before—a Lockheed Vega—parked in a corner of the hangar. “Who belongs to the bush plane?” he asked.

  “New customer. I’m leasing it from him.”

  The two men worked on quietly for a while.

  “I heard you’re back in uniform,” Jack said.

  “Afraid so,” Rick replied.

  “Heard it was something to do with a girl.”

  “It was.”

  “Figures.”

  “You want to hear about it?”

  “Only if you want to tell it.”

  “I was seeing this girl, and she turned out to be Captain O’Connell’s niece.”

  “Wouldn’t think that would upset anybody all that much, unless you got her in trouble.”

  Rick blushed, in spite of himself. “Well, yeah.”

  “She still in trouble?”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not going to be a grandfather.”

  “Not ever?”

  “Never say never.”

  “Well, I guess you can handle it. You always land on your feet, you do.”

  “I try.”

  “You ever want to fly for me, come into the business, it’s here.”

  “Thanks, Dad, I appreciate that.”

  “So how long’s it going to take for you to get the gold badge back?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want it back.” That was a lie.

  “What do you want? I’ve always wondered.”

  “Me, too,” Rick replied.

  The two men continued working on the airplane.

  3

  THE GUARD AT THE CENTURION main gate wrote down Rick’s name and issued him a visitor’s pass, then gave him directions to the administration building. Rick put the pass on the dashboard of his ’32 Chevy coupe and drove onto the studio lot. The night before had been his first visit to a movie studio, and he was interested to see it in daylight. He drove down a street that looked like New York, with neat brownstones lined up, curtains in their windows. When he turned a corner, he saw that they were only facades, propped up by scaffolding.

  He found the administration building and parked in a visitor’s spot. There was an array of expensive cars in the lot—sedans, convertibles and roadsters—with people’s names lettered in gilt on little signs. In Eddie Harris’s spot was parked a black Lincoln Continental convertible, very new. Rick entered the building and came to a desk where a uniformed studio guard took his name and directed him to an elevator to the third floor.

  A receptionist greeted him and asked him to take a seat. The waiting room was lushly furnished, with movie posters on the walls and an array of trade publications arranged on a coffee table. He had been seated for only a moment when a handsome woman in her forties appeared.

  “Mr. Barron? I’m Celia Warren, Mr. Harris’s assistant. Would you come with me, please?”

  Rick followed her through another, smaller reception room, where two secretaries worked at desks, and into a large, sunny office furnished in dark mahogany furniture and paneling, with a conference table at one end and a group of sofas at the other. Eddie Harris was seated at his desk, his feet up, talking on the telephone. He waved Rick to a chair, and the assistant left them. A moment later, Harris hung up the phone.

  “How you doing?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Get any sleep last night?”

  “Nearly enough.”

  Harris laughed, something he seemed to do easily. “What do you know about Centurion Studios?” he asked.

  “You’re the new kid on the block, and you’re growing fast,” Rick replied. “That’s about it.” He read Variety once in a while.

  “That’s it in a nutshell,” Harris said. “Sol Weinman and I were at MGM, until a couple of years ago. Sol had his own unit, and I was his production manager. When Irving Thalberg died, Sol didn’t want to work directly for Louis B. Mayer, so he rounded up some investors, including me, and with some of their money and a lot of his wif
e’s, he bought this property, which had been a poverty-row studio with a lot of real estate. He got it at Depression prices. It originally had two soundstages. We’ve built another two, and there are two more under construction. We’re already making two pictures a month, and by this time next year we expect to be making one a week. We’re hot, and the whole town knows it. Being new, we’ve had to borrow a lot of stars for productions, which puts our costs up, but we’re building a stable, and since we stole Clete Barrow from Metro, it’s getting easier. What Clark Gable is to Metro, Clete Barrow is to us.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Rick said.

  “It is. Now, enough about us, let’s talk about you.” Harris opened a manila file folder on his desk and consulted the contents. “You know what I found out about you that really surprised me?”

  Uh-oh, Rick thought.

  “You and I were born sixteen miles apart.”

  Rick relaxed. “Where were you born?”

  “In Greenville, Georgia, right near Delano, where you were born.”

  “Well, we left there when I was a kid and came out here, so, apart from a couple of visits to my grandparents there, my only claim to Delano is my birth certificate. What happened to your Southern accent?”

  “It comes back when I’ve had a couple of bourbons. You know who else is from Greenville?”

  “Nope.”

  “Y. Frank Freeman, who’s head of production over at Paramount. Frank and I grew up together, came out here together, but we were too close to work together, if you know what I mean.”

  “I can see how that could be tough in business,” Rick said. He had no idea what he was talking about.

  “How did you come to be born in Georgia?” Harris asked.

  “My old man is from Minnesota, but he was a barnstorming pilot in the old days, and he met my mother when he blew through Meriwether County. It was a whirlwind courtship, and I’m the result. My mother and I stayed on for a while in Delano while he barnstormed and saved his money, then he joined the Lafayette Escadrille during the first war and flew over there for two years. When he came back, he moved us out here. He was planning a solo flight across the Atlantic, but his friend Lindbergh beat him to it.”

  “Your folks still alive?”

  “My mother died when I was ten. Dad has an FBO over at Clover Field in Santa Monica.”

  “What’s an FBO?”

  “Fixed Base Operation, as opposed to barnstorming. He has two airplanes—a Beech Staggerwing and a Lockheed Electra—for air taxi work, and he gives flying lessons and maintains a few airplanes for private owners.”

  “What’s the FBO called?”

  “Barron Flying Service.”

  Harris made a note of it. “Maybe I can throw some business his way.”

  “He’d like that, and you’d like him.”

  “You fly, too, it says here.” Harris consulted his folder again.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a commercial license and a few thousand hours.”

  “Why did you become a cop? Didn’t you have any interest in the family business?”

  “Not really. I enjoy flying for recreation and as a means of travel, but if you’re doing it for a living, you’re just a glorified taxi driver, and on somebody else’s schedule. I intended to become a lawyer, but after UCLA and a year of law school I found it pretty dry stuff. Torts were not for me. The practical application of the law on the street seemed a lot more interesting.”

  “You were with the LAPD first?”

  “Yes, for three years. I’ve been with the Beverly Hills Department for five. I switched to get a detective’s badge quicker.”

  “You ever expect to get it back?”

  Rick shrugged. “Not while Larry O’Connell can still draw a breath.”

  “I talked with him about you,” Harris said.

  “Then you must have a low opinion of me.”

  “Nah. I can read between the lines. He couldn’t find anything bad to say about you as a cop. I talked to a few other people, too—cops, headwaiters, bartenders. You and I have the same barber.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if we’re kinfolks,” Rick said. “So what did you find out?”

  “You’re unmarried, smart, good at your job, cool under pressure, discreet, reasonably honest, for a cop. You can hold your liquor and you get your hair cut twice a month.”

  Rick laughed. “What else is there to know?”

  “Not a hell of a lot,” Harris said. “I’m a good judge of character, and last night I made you for a fellow of some substance. You handled a difficult situation well, you were calm, thorough, and you wouldn’t let Clete Barrow have another drink. You saved this studio one hell of a lot of money. Barrow is in the middle of the most expensive production we’ve ever filmed on this lot, and if you’d arrested him it would have been very difficult to keep him out of jail. You can’t recast the lead in the middle of a picture, you have to start over. I like it that you didn’t try to put the arm on me, either.” Harris opened a desk drawer, took out an envelope and tossed it to Rick. “That’s a week of Clete’s salary,” he said. “You deserve it more than he does.”

  The envelope felt thick, and Rick slipped it into his inside pocket without looking at it. “Thank you,” he said.

  A buzzer sounded, and Harris pressed an intercom button. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Harris is here,” a voice said.

  “Send her in.” He turned back to Rick. “My wife. This’ll just take a minute.”

  A tall, blond woman in her mid-thirties swept into the room and gave Harris a big kiss. “Hey, honey,” she said.

  Rick was on his feet.

  “Rick, this is my wife, Suzanne,” Harris said.

  She offered her hand, and Rick took it. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said.

  “So has your husband, apparently,” Rick replied. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “Eddie is naturally nosy,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive him.”

  “Would it do any good?”

  “No.” She laughed. “I guess not.” She turned to her husband. “I need some money, sweetie.”

  Harris reached into the desk drawer and came out with a check. “Put that in your account,” he said. “I hope it’ll last you a while.”

  “Probably not,” she said. “Rick, it’s very nice meeting you. I have to run, dear. See you at dinner.” She whispered something in her husband’s ear, kissed him again and left.

  “She’s lovely,” Rick said.

  “Thanks. She is, isn’t she? I love it that she was never an actress. She was an agent, if you can believe it.” Harris walked around the desk. “Come on, let me show you the lot, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

  Rick followed along like a puppy. He was dying to find out what Harris had in mind.

  4

  OUTSIDE THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING, they got into a small, open electric vehicle with a fringed canvas top, and Harris drove down the nearest street.

  “You ever visited a movie studio before?” Harris asked.

  “Not until last night.”

  “Well, the big, hangar-like buildings are soundstages, where the interior shots of movies get shot, and sometimes exteriors, too. Over there is the props warehouse, and next door is costumes and makeup. The stars all have bungalows. All the other actors get made up en masse over there. Remember where the wardrobe department is.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me tell you about my problem, Rick,” Harris said. “You remember hearing about a murder-suicide in town last month?”

  “Up in the Hollywood Hills somewhere?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I read about it in the paper. It wasn’t in my jurisdiction.”

  “Fellow named John Kean shot his wife—she was twenty years younger than he was, and the thinking is he thought she was screwing around. Then he shot himself. Kean was chief of the studio police here, and he was good at his job.”

  “I see.” Now Rick began to g
et the point of his visit.

  “I’ve already replaced Kean with his deputy, Cal Herman.”

  Now Rick was back to square one. If he’d already replaced the guy, why was Harris talking to him?

  “Cal’s a good cop, very competent,” Harris said, “but there were a lot of things that Kean took care of that Cal isn’t really suited for, if you get my meaning.”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” Rick replied.

  “As our chief of police, Kean was in charge of more than just studio security. He handled a lot of the more delicate matters having to do with the press, the public’s perception of the studio, and . . . well, the sort of thing you handled last night.”

  “I see,” Rick replied.

  “Have I explained what I do here?”

  “No, you haven’t. Your card says ‘executive vice president.’ ”

  “Right. I’m the number-two man at the studio. Sol Weinman is my only boss. As such, I do a lot of things. I produce movies; I hire and fire administrative and financial personnel, as well as producers and directors; I approve the casting of every movie we shoot; the head of production reports to me, and so do the studio police. I’ve got a public relations director, but I still spend a lot of time seeing that what gets into the press about the studio is favorable.”

  “Sounds like a big job,” Rick said.

  “It is, and it’s getting bigger. I’m trying to delegate more work, and with that in mind I’ve decided to create a new position at the studio. Let’s call it director of security. Instead of reporting directly to me, the chief of studio police will report to this man. I wouldn’t expect the new man to spend a whole lot of time overseeing the studio cops, because Cal Herman can do that. The principal job of the new man will be to protect the studio and its people from scandal, from the press, and, if necessary, protect it from the unwarranted attention of the police—sometimes even protect it from its own employees.”

  “You mean, embezzlement, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, but more than that, I mean the behavior of some employees.”

  “What kind of behavior?”