by Stuart Woods
8
THEY COASTED DOWN TO SUNSET in the gathering night.
“Ciro’s?” Clete asked.
“Why not?” Rick replied, turning onto Sunset. As they approached the nightclub, he began automatically looking for a parking spot, then realized he didn’t have to save money on tips anymore. He pulled up front and gave the car to the valet, and they walked inside. The Latin strains of the Xavier Cugat Orchestra wafted across the room from the dance floor.
Rick was a few paces behind Clete, and he was glad, because the man knew how to make an entrance, and Rick wasn’t accustomed to the attendant glad-handing. While Clete received admirers, Rick went over to the bar and found a stool.
“Your usual bourbon, Rick?” the bartender asked.
Rick had spent a fair number of evenings at this bar, though not in a tuxedo in the company of a movie star. “Not yet, Charley,” he said.
“Heard you had a little trouble with the Beverly Hills PD,” Charley said. “Sorry to hear it.”
Rick put one of his new cards on the bar. “Let’s just say I left for better things.”
Charley perused the card and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Congratulations,” he said, obviously impressed. “I’m buying. What’ll it be?”
The house had never bought him a drink before. “Oh, all right, an Old Crow on the rocks.”
Charley produced a different bottle. “Try the Wild Turkey,” he said, pouring a more-generous-than-usual slug of the bourbon.
Clete shook hands with his admirers and walked over. “Evening, Charley.” He turned to Rick. “Bring it with you to the table.” He turned and walked toward the maître d’.
Rick was still playing catch-up. He had never sat at a table at Ciro’s, and there wouldn’t have been one available if he’d asked.
“Evening, Mario,” Clete said, shaking the man’s hand. “We’ll be two, but we might get lucky, so you’d better make it four.”
“Of course, Mr. Barrow,” the man said.
“Oh, and let me introduce Rick Barron. He’s the new head of security at Centurion.”
Mario, who had never let his gaze fall upon Rick during his days at the bar, was wreathed in smiles. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barron,” he said. “Please follow me.”
They descended to the dance floor level and were given a front-row table, discreetly to one side.
“I see you’re drinking that awful colonial brown stuff,” Clete said as the waiter scurried over, carrying a glass of another brown liquor.
“Johnnie Walker Black, Mr. Barrow,” the waiter said. He bowed in Rick’s direction. “Good evening, sir.”
“Pino, this is Mr. Barron, Centurion’s head of security.”
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Barron,” the waiter said. “I see you already have a drink. May I offer you a menu?”
“What are you feeling like, Rick? Hungry?”
“You bet I am,” Rick said.
“Let’s split a porterhouse, all right?”
“All right.”
“Medium rare?”
“Fine.”
“Pino, the porterhouse medium rare and a couple of your Caesar salads. And let’s have some champers.”
“The Krug, of course, Mr. Barrow.”
“Of course.”
The man went away, leaving the two to sip their drinks. Cugat stood in front of his orchestra, a violin in one hand and a tiny Chihuahua in the other, while a buxom woman in a long, low-cut evening gown began to sing something in Spanish, surrounded by men in big-sleeved costumes playing conga drums and maracas.
“I love this Latin stuff,” Clete said. “You?”
“I prefer jazz and swing,” Rick said, “but the lady is easy to look at.”
“She’s Cugat’s wife,” Clete said. “You don’t want to mess with a Latino’s wife.”
“I wasn’t considering it,” Rick replied, “just admiring.”
“And admirable she is.”
Several couples occupied the dance floor now.
“I’d ask you to dance,” Clete said, “but people might talk.”
Rick laughed.
“Oh, now, what have we here?” Clete asked, nodding toward the maître d’, who was leading a man and two very beautiful young women toward the next table.
“Very nice,” Rick said appreciatively. “Pity they’re with the guy.”
“The guy is a studio flack,” Clete said, waving them over to the table. “He’s making sure they get seen.” They both stood up.
“Evening, Clete,” the young man said. “May I introduce Carla and Marla?”
“Carla and Marla?” Clete laughed. “How absolutely charming. Why don’t you all join us?” He introduced Rick, and a waiter rushed over with another chair.
They had hardly sat down when the young man looked at his watch. “Will you excuse me? I have to make a phone call.” He got up and walked toward the bar.
“He won’t be back,” Clete said in an aside to Rick. “He’s done his work.” He told the waiter to adjust their dinner order, then turned to the two young women. “Now tell me again, which one is Carla, and which one is Marla?”
But Rick’s attention had been drawn to the other side of the room, where the maître d’ was seating a man and a woman.
Clete followed his gaze. “You know who that is, don’t you?”
“No, do you?”
“It’s Lara Taylor, the new hot young thing at Metro,” Clete said.
“Oh, yes.” He’d seen her in a picture, but she wasn’t who interested him. “Who’s the man?”
“The latter-day Valentino? His name is Chick Stampano. Word has it he works for Bugsy Siegel.”
Rick didn’t have to ask who Bugsy Siegel was; everybody knew he ran the LA branch of the mob. He looked carefully at Stampano, who was wearing a white dinner jacket with a red carnation in the lapel. He was as sleek as an otter, flashing white teeth at other patrons nearby.
“Why are you so interested in Stampano?” Clete asked.
“I saw a photograph of him once,” Rick said, “but I didn’t know who he was.” The photograph was in his safe at the office.
9
THE GIRLS WERE PRETTY and fun, and they were thrilled to be having dinner with Clete Barrow, peppering him with questions about his next film. Finally, one of them—Marla or Carla, Rick wasn’t sure which—turned to Rick.
“Are you an actor, too?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well, you’re good-looking enough to be an actor,” she said. “I thought you were on the Centurion roster, too.”
“Well, I am, in a way,” Rick replied, “but not as an actor. I’m the head of security at the studio.”
She seemed impressed. “And what does the head of security do?”
“That remains to be seen,” Rick replied. “I just started today, and I sort of have to invent the job. If you ever get into trouble, I’m the guy who’ll try to get you out of it.”
“Well, I must get into trouble right away,” she said, batting her eyes.
Their salads came and went, and Rick excused himself to go to the men’s room. He was standing at a urinal when he heard the door open behind him. He zipped up and was washing his hands when he looked into the mirror and saw Stampano leave another urinal and approach the sink. The attendant was not there, so they were alone.
Stampano looked at him in the mirror. “So, why were you staring at me?” he asked.
“Sorry, I wasn’t aware that I was,” Rick replied.
“You weren’t aware?” Stampano said, and suddenly he was seething.
Rick paused a moment to figure out what was happening. “No, I wasn’t aware that I was staring at you. In fact, I was staring at Miss Taylor. You’re not my type.”
Stampano turned to face him, and Rick heard a metallic snap. Switchblade, he thought, and took a step back.
“Maybe I ought to teach you something about staring at other men’s women,” Stampano said.
His right hand was slightly behind him.
Rick was drying his hands, and he wrapped the towel around his left hand, while reaching into his coat pocket with his right. He flashed his brand-new LAPD detective’s badge. “Back off, greaseball,” he said. He did not ordinarily indulge in such epithets, but he wanted to insult Stampano.
Stampano looked at the badge, then back at Rick. “Maybe I’ll meet you sometime when you’re not carrying the badge.”
“I doubt it.”
“Then we’ll meet sometime when the badge don’t matter.”
“Put the knife away or I’ll cuff you and take you down to headquarters, and Miss Taylor will have to find another ride home.”
Stampano thought about it for a moment, then his hand went to a pocket, and he held up the empty hand. “What knife?” he asked.
“After you,” Rick said, ushering him toward the door. He wasn’t going to turn his back on this guy.
Stampano turned and walked out of the men’s room.
Rick followed a moment later. Stampano was standing at the bar, watching him pass. When Rick got back to the table he glanced back toward the bar. Stampano was saying something to the bartender. Charley reached into his shirt pocket and handed him a card. So now Chick Stampano knew who Rick was, and Rick didn’t much like that.
“You were a long time for a boy,” Marla/Carla said.
“Someone struck up a conversation,” Rick replied.
“Someone interesting?”
“Not as interesting as you,” Rick said.
Their steaks arrived, and Rick watched as Stampano returned to his table and the waiting actress. He said something brusque to her, and she shook her head. He repeated himself and threw some money on the table. She got up, annoyed, and followed him out of the place.
“Is that who you had the conversation with in the men’s room?” Clete asked.
“Yes, and it wasn’t very pleasant.”
“I wouldn’t want to meet that guy in a dark alley,” Clete said.
“Neither would I.”
“I’d watch him, if I were you.”
“I don’t want to watch him or even know him.”
“Good.”
THE FOUR OF THEM drove back to Clete’s house. Clete mixed them a drink, then disappeared with Carla/Marla into what Rick assumed was the bedroom, leaving him on a sofa with the other girl.
“I’m sorry,” Rick said, “tell me again, are you Marla or Carla?”
“I’m Carla,” she said, “and I have a last name—Travis.”
“You’re a very beautiful girl, Miss Travis,” he said.
“Well, we don’t have to be so formal,” she said. She nodded toward the bedroom. “Marla told me they’d like us to join them in there.”
“Where are you from, Carla?”
“Omaha, Nebraska.”
“Is that what girls do in Omaha?”
“If we had a movie star to do it with.”
“Well, you do. You can go in there and have a threesome, if you like.”
She frowned. “Don’t you find me attractive?”
“I just told you so, didn’t I?”
“Finding me beautiful isn’t the same as finding me attractive.”
“It is to me.”
“Well, I guess this sofa is big enough.”
“Carla, let me tell you something: You might advance your career a little by sleeping with a movie star or a producer, but not by sleeping with the studio cop. I’m just an employee, and I can’t do a thing for you.”
“You must be more than a studio cop if you’re hanging around with the studio’s biggest star.”
“I’m here to make sure he makes it to work sober tomorrow morning, that’s all.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. She looked at her watch. “Well, it looks as though they’re going to be in there for a while. Would you mind taking me home?”
“I’d be glad to,” Rick said, rising. He walked her out to his car and opened the door for her.
“Wasn’t this the girl’s car in Bank Job?” she asked as he got in.
“That’s it!” Rick said. “I’d been trying to remember which movie I saw it in. Where do you live?”
“On Doheny, the other side of Sunset.”
Rick started the car and headed down the hillside. They had gone less than a quarter of a mile when, in his headlights, he saw a man and a woman standing in the street, arguing. The man was wearing a white dinner jacket. As the car got closer to them, Rick saw the man slap the woman, hard, and then she staggered back against a parked car, a black Cadillac.
Rick stopped the car, put on the hand brake and got out. “Do you need help, Miss Taylor?” he asked.
“No, it’s all right,” she said shakily, sounding frightened.
“Would you like me to escort you to your door?”
Stampano wheeled on Rick, the knife in his hand.
Rick didn’t wait even a split second. He kicked Stampano in one knee, which brought him down on the other. Rick grabbed the wrist of the knife hand and twisted. He took the knife and closed it against his thigh.
“Is this your home, Miss Taylor?” Rick asked, keeping the pressure on the wrist.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you go inside. I’ll see that this . . . gentleman . . . doesn’t follow you.”
“Thank you,” she said, then ran into the house.
Rick dragged Stampano closer to the Cadillac, then he opened a door, snapped open the switchblade, kicked the door shut on the blade and snapped it off. He tucked the broken knife into Stampano’s pocket. “Now,” he said, “I want you to get into your car and drive away. I’m going to have a patrol car here in a minute, so you’d better not come back. Got that?” He twisted the wrist for effect.
Stampano nodded.
“Now, I’m going to let you go, and if you give me any more trouble, I’m going to put a bullet in you.” Rick let go of the wrist and stepped back.
Stampano hobbled into his car, started it and drove away.
Rick got back into his own car.
“You did that very well,” Carla said, “as if you’ve done it before.”
“I used to be a cop,” Rick said. He drove Carla home and saw her to the door of her apartment building.
“Would you like to come up?” she asked.
“Thanks, but I’m tired, and I have to work tomorrow.” He shook her hand and left.
10
IT WAS PAST ONE A.M. when Rick got to bed, but he woke up at six, with one thought in his head. He had to get Clete to the studio and the girl home, since Clete didn’t have a car. He showered and shaved and was at the actor’s house at seven-thirty. To his surprise, the couple were having breakfast on the terrace beside the pool, attended by a Filipino houseman, and they were both stark naked.
“Morning, old chap,” Clete said. “Join us for some breakfast?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Rick said, sitting down and trying not to stare at Marla.
“Manuel, this is Mr. Barron. Please get him whatever he wishes.”
“What time are you due on the set?” Rick asked.
“Not until eleven,” Clete said. “Lucky day.”
Rick cursed himself for not having asked the night before; he could still be asleep. “In that case,” he said to Manuel, “I’ll have two eggs over easy, bacon, toast and orange juice; coffee later.”
“Yes, Mr. Barron,” Manuel said, then disappeared.
“Lovely evening, wasn’t it?” Clete asked.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Pity you and Carla didn’t join us.”
Rick glanced at Marla. She didn’t seem in the least embarrassed. “I was tired. Big day yesterday.”
“How about today?”
“I’ve no idea,” Rick said honestly.
Clete thought that very funny and laughed heartily. “That’s right, you have to make up the job as you go along, don’t you?”
“Maybe I should just go around the studio checki
ng the locks, the way I did when I was an LAPD rookie.”
“Oh, no,” Clete replied, “you must think of yourself as a studio executive. No one really knows what they do, so no one will question you.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Rick said. His eggs arrived and he fell upon them, while Marla excused herself to go and find her clothes.
“Marla’s not working today,” Clete said. “We can drop her at home on the way to the studio.”
“There’s a stop I’d like to make after that,” Rick said. “Shouldn’t take long.”
“I’ll come along for the ride, then,” Clete said, “after I’ve put on a few duds.” He got up and went to join Marla.
After Rick had finished his breakfast and had sat for a while, wishing he could smoke a cigarette, the couple still didn’t appear, and he figured they were doing again whatever they had done the night before. He sipped his coffee and watched the view change as the sun climbed.
THEY DROPPED MARLA OFF AT the same apartment building where Rick had taken Carla, and he wondered if they were roommates.
“Where to now, old bean?” Clete asked, turning his face to seek the morning sun.
“A place on Melrose,” Rick said, driving away. Ten minutes later, they sat in front of Al’s Armory, waiting for the shop to open.
“You’re gun shopping?” Clete asked.
“Yeah. When I left the force, I gave them back their gun, and I sold two of my own a while back, when I needed a few bucks.”
“Some special reason why you need one?”
Rick shrugged. “Seems like a good idea, since I’m in the security business.”
“You’re in the movie business, my friend. You’re worried about Chick Stampano, aren’t you?”
“He pulled a knife on me in the men’s room,” Rick said, “and again later, when I found him in the street about to beat up Lara Taylor.”
“Are you joshing me?”
“He hit her only once, before I could get out of the car.”
“I’m sure Metro will thank you. I happen to know she’s in the middle of a big production right now. You’re lucky Mr. Stampano’s knife didn’t end up in your gizzard.”
“I took it away from him and broke the blade.”
