by Stuart Woods
“Jenny, who supplies the weapons for the studio?”
“There’s an armory,” she said, “but I’ve never been there.” She opened her studio directory and looked it up, then got out a map of the property. “It’s way over here,” she said, pointing to the back lot.
“Can I borrow your map?”
“Sure, keep it. I’ve got another. You have any work for me to do?”
“Not yet. I’ll see what I can scare up. I’m going over to the armory, if you need to reach me.” He got into his car and, following the map, drove to the back lot, where he found the armory in a long, low building. He went inside and found a man working on a dismantled rifle at a workbench.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
Rick handed him a card. “I’m new here.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Barron,” the man said. “I’ve heard about you. I’m Mike Schwartz.” He offered his hand.
Rick shook it. “I want to do some shooting,” he said. “Where would I best do that?”
“Right through that door,” Schwartz said. “We’ve got a fifty-yard range. You want something to shoot?”
“I brought my own,” Rick said, “but I could use a couple of boxes of .45 hardball.”
“Sure thing.” Schwartz went to a large steel cabinet and unlocked it, revealing boxes of ammo. He took out four boxes and handed them to Rick, along with a set of rubber earplugs. “Live it up,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Rick went into the range and found a young man firing a Winchester ’73. He put in the earplugs, unloaded his magazines and reloaded with the hardball ammo. The targets were on a pulley system and he moved one in to about twenty-five feet, figuring that was as far as he was likely to have to shoot. He fired a magazine into the target, then pulled it in for inspection. His group covered a good twelve-inch spread. He was going to have to improve on that.
He spent the rest of the afternoon improving, until he was down to a four-inch group. It wasn’t great, but he reckoned he could put seven rounds into a man’s chest, if he had to.
13
RICK LEFT HIS OFFICE at six o’clock and departed the studio through the main gate. Immediately, he thought he had made a mistake. A black sedan containing two men in suits and hats pulled away from the curb across the street and fell in behind him.
Rick tried to keep track of the big car in the mirror without turning his head, so they wouldn’t know he was on to them. When he sped up, the black car sped up; when he slowed, it slowed. He was approaching a traffic signal, and when it turned red, he plowed through the intersection, narrowly missing a large truck. He checked the mirror and saw the car blocked by crossing traffic, and he took an immediate left, then another, and finally turned back toward his original route. He stopped at a corner, got out of the Ford and looked down the street. The light changed, and he saw the black car drive through the intersection.
He got back into the Ford and made the next left, putting him back on his route, then he stopped the car and waited five minutes by his watch. The men in the black car would be looking for him in the side streets, so he continued on his way home, checking the mirror often for signs of the black car. He did not want Stampano’s people to know where he lived.
He made his way to Bel-Air without the attentions of the two men, went home, changed and then drove up Sunset, toward Doheny and the girls’ apartment house. He collected Marla and Carla without incident and drove up into the hills toward Clete’s place.
“Why are you looking in the mirror all the time?” Marla, who was sitting in the front seat, asked.
“I like to know who’s behind me,” Rick said. “Do you two girls live together?”
“We do everything together,” Marla said.
“Are you related?” he asked.
“We’re twins,” Marla replied.
“You don’t look all that much alike.” Marla was a blonde, Carla a redhead.
“We’re fraternal twins, not identical,” Marla said.
“Oh.” Rick turned into Clete’s drive and got the girls out of the car and into the house.
Clete greeted them, martini pitcher in hand. “Just in time,” he said, stirring furiously. He began pouring the drinks, then looked at Rick. “I know; you’re going to want bourbon, aren’t you?”
“If you’ve got it,” Rick said. “I never acquired the taste for martinis.”
Clete handed the girls their drinks, then rummaged in a cabinet until he came up with an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “This do?”
“That will do just fine.” Clete handed him the bottle, and he poured his own drink.
“Happy days,” Clete said, raising his glass.
He led them out onto the terrace, and they took seats. Marla and Clete were being especially affectionate, having broken the ice on the previous occasion.
Carla sat down next to Rick on a sofa and turned to him. “Are you queer?” she asked pleasantly.
“What?”
“I mean, it’s all right if you are. I have nothing against pansies; half the men at the studio are pansies.”
“I’m not queer,” Rick said.
“Then what was the problem last night?”
In fact, he wasn’t sure what the problem had been last night. God knew, the girl was lovely, and he wasn’t in the habit of avoiding sexual opportunity. “I just broke up with somebody,” he said. And that might even have something to do with it, he thought. He missed Kathleen, but she was out of his reach now, probably in a convent somewhere.
“Oh,” she cooed, putting her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, I know how tough that can be. Did you end it, or did she?”
“Her family ended it,” Rick said.
“They objected to you? Why? You seem like such a nice boy, handsome and everything, and you certainly have a good job.”
“They objected to anybody who wasn’t Catholic. And I was a policeman at the time, and I don’t think they looked at that as much of a career.”
“Oh. Well, there’s no accounting for human nature, is there?”
“I guess not.”
“Aren’t you attracted to me at all?”
“You’re very beautiful.”
“But you’re not attracted.”
“Didn’t we talk about this last night?”
“I didn’t get a satisfactory answer.”
Rick hooked a finger under her chin and kissed her.
“Mmmm,” she said. “That’s better. What’s next?”
He reached out a finger and scratched at a nipple through her dress.
“That tickles,” she said, drawing back.
“Let’s finish our drinks, Carla, then maybe have another, then some dinner, then . . . who knows?”
Manuel came out of the house with a sack of charcoal and began building a fire in the brick barbecue near the pool. A woman followed him with a tray of large steaks. Inside the house, a phone rang, and Manuel went to answer it. He came back a moment later.
“Mr. Barron, there’s a telephone call for you.”
Rick was taken aback. “Who is it?”
“He didn’t give a name, sir.”
Clete looked at him. “Did you give anyone my number?”
“I don’t have your number,” Rick replied. He got up and went into the house with some trepidation and picked up the phone. “Hello?” He fully expected Stampano to be on the other end.
“Rick Barron?”
“Yes?”
“This is Eddie Mannix.”
Rick managed to say, “How do you do, Mr. Mannix?”
“I do very goddamned well, thanks. You know who I am?”
“Of course.”
“Maybe Eddie Harris mentioned that I appreciate what you did for our girl?”
“Yes, he did. You’re very welcome.”
“Then why did you try to shake my boys?”
“Your boys?”
“Who did you think was following you from the studio?”
“Oh,
of course. I’m sorry, I thought it might be . . .”
“Somebody else?”
“Somebody else.”
“They were there to protect you, not hurt you.”
“Well, I appreciate that, Mr. Mannix, but—”
“My friends call me Eddie.”
“Thank you, Eddie, but—”
“I’m not going to have somebody sticking a shiv into a friend of mine.”
“I appreciate your concern—and your help.”
“So don’t try and shake my boys again.”
“How am I going to tell your boys from Stampano’s boys?”
“They’ll be the ones who ain’t shooting at you.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“You didn’t shake them; you just thought you did.”
“Well, I have to tell you, they did a very fine job of not letting me know they were there.”
“They wouldn’t be working for me, otherwise.”
“I guess not. How did you get this number?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve got everybody’s number.”
“Oh.”
“I hear you’re packing these days.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Don’t shoot my boys,” Mannix said, “and don’t try to lose them again.”
“I won’t.”
“This will blow over in a few days, and we can get back to normal, and we can get back to shooting Lara from both sides.”
“I hope so.”
“Count on it. Ben Siegel runs the mob out here, and I’m going to talk to him about this, but he’s out of town. When he gets back, I’ll straighten this out.”
“Thank you, Eddie,” Rick said, but Mannix had already hung up.
Rick walked back out onto the terrace, where he was greeted by the aroma of seared meat.
“Who was on the phone?” Clete asked.
“I’ll tell you later.” Rick picked up his drink and snuggled up to Carla. He felt a lot more relaxed now.
14
RICK WOKE SLOWLY, at first disoriented, then he realized there was a lump in bed beside him—a lump with red hair. He was about to reach for her when the door opened and somebody pulled the cord on the venetian blinds, flooding the room with sunlight.
“Come on, old chap,” Clete said. “I’ve got an eight o’clock call today, and it’s seven-twenty. You’re supposed to be the one getting me to work on time, not the other way around. Manuel has made some coffee.”
Rick grabbed a quick shower, and Carla joined him.
“You were just swell last night,” she said. “I’m sorry I thought you were a pansy.” She kissed him and took him in her hand. “My mistake.”
“Listen, I hope you won’t think I’m a pansy if I tell you I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got to get Clete to work.”
“What are you, his chauffeur? He’s got a car.”
Rick grinned. “You’ve got a point,” he said, yielding to her idea.
WHEN THEY CAME OUT of the bedroom, Clete was pacing the floor.
“I’ve got to get going,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“So get going,” Rick replied. “You’ve got the Packard.”
“Christ, I forgot. Will you see the girls home?”
“Sure.”
Clete ran down the stairs, and Rick had some breakfast with the girls. He wasn’t due in early. After he’d dropped them off, he went back to his place for some clothes and was surprised to see the big black car a couple of cars back on Sunset. Mannix was taking care of him. He shaved and changed, then stopped. If this was the kind of life he was leading, he’d better take some clothes to the office. He packed a bag and threw it in the car.
Rick was still new enough at this that he greatly enjoyed the guard’s salute at the Centurion main gate. He returned the salute and drove to his office. To his surprise and discomfort, Eddie Harris was sitting on his leather couch, waiting for him. Rick snuck a look at his watch: eight forty-five. “Good morning, Eddie,” he said.
“Congratulations. That’s two days in a row you’ve gotten Clete to work on time. You’ve saved us at least twenty-five grand.”
“Clete has been the soul of cooperation.” Rick sat down at his desk. “It’s strange how he can handle the booze when he wants to. We had dinner with some girls last night, and he had a couple of martinis and some wine, but he never got drunk.”
“There are drunks and drunks,” Eddie said. “I’ve known all kinds.”
“Is this a social call, Eddie, or is there something I can do for you?”
“I’m going to have to fly somewhere next week,” Eddie said. “I want to meet your old man.”
“Right now?”
“Why not?”
“Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“Nah, I’ll drive you.”
Rick followed Eddie out of his office, stopping to whisper to Jenny, “Call my old man at Barron Flying Service at Clover Field and tell him I’m bringing him a customer and to put on some clean clothes and get the grease from under his fingernails.”
She nodded, and Rick followed Eddie into a Lincoln Continental convertible, top down.
“It’s beautiful,” Rick said.
“It’s the 1940 model—delivered this morning. That’s half of why we’re going to Santa Monica; I want to drive it.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“How’s the Ford working out?”
“It’s a beauty. I love it.”
“I took it off the books. It’s yours now. Hiram will send over the pink slip.”
“Eddie, that’s extraordinarily kind of you.”
“I like it when people meet my expectations,” he said. “And you’re doing just fine.”
“To tell you the truth, once I get Clete to work, I’m having a little trouble filling my time. Anything you want done?”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
They drove out the main gate and headed for Santa Monica. Rick tossed his straw hat in the backseat and enjoyed the sun on his face and the wind in his hair.
“Ah, California, huh?” Eddie laughed.
“You bet. I don’t know why anybody lives anywhere else.”
“The way the state is filling up with Easterners, pretty soon nobody will live anywhere else. Want some advice? Invest in real estate. If you see something you want and you think it’s too expensive, buy it anyway.”
“That’s good advice. I’ll save my money so I can do that.”
“Borrow, if you have to,” Eddie said. “Money’s cheap—one of the few advantages of the Depression. I can send you to the right people.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. You know, a week ago, after some years of doing pretty well, I was back at the bottom in my job, and I had hardly any prospects. I was thinking about quitting the force and going in with my dad. Then, all of a sudden, I meet you, and my life goes off on a completely new tangent.”
“You deserved a break,” Eddie said, “and I’m happy to have had something to do with it. By the way, I talked to Eddie Mannix last night, and he tells me he’s having somebody keep an eye on you.”
“I’ve put myself in his hands,” Rick replied. “He says he’s going to straighten things out with Ben Siegel.”
“That’s a good move,” Eddie said. “He knows those people better than I do. I try to steer clear of them.”
“Good idea,” Rick said. “They may be colorful, but dealing with them is dangerous. I saw enough of their handiwork on the force to want to stay away from them. Not everybody did; I knew some cops who took their money, who were in their pocket. They’d do them a few favors, take a few bucks and suddenly they found themselves covering up a murder.”
“It’s a dirty town,” Eddie said, “and it’s not our job to clean it up.” They drove on toward Santa Monica in silence.
When they were nearly to the airport, Eddie spoke up. “I see Mannix is keeping his word,” he said, lookin
g in the rearview mirror.
Rick looked back. “I don’t see them.”
“Gray Chevy,” Eddie said. “They’ve been behind us almost since we left the studio.”
“Earlier this morning, it was something big and black,” he said.
“You think . . . ?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t hurt to lose them. I don’t want them following me to my dad’s place.”
Eddie took a sudden hard left and gunned it.
15
IT TOOK EDDIE TEN MINUTES to lose the gray Chevy and another five to be sure. “You think we’re okay?” he asked.
“I think so,” Rick replied. “Let’s get back on course.”
Ten minutes later, they pulled up at the hangar that housed Barron Flying Service. Rick led Eddie inside, and they found Jack Barron at his desk, in a suit, looking at papers. His dad had gotten the message.
“Morning, Dad,” Rick said. “I want you to meet Eddie Harris, who runs things at Centurion. Eddie, this is Jack Barron.”
“How are you, Jack?” Eddie said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Harris.”
“Please, call me Eddie.”
“Thank you.”
“Rick has told me about your flying service, and I wanted to see what you’ve got in the way of airplanes.”
“Let me show you my Lockheed Electra, then,” Jack said.
“You two go ahead,” Rick said. “I want to use the john.” He walked back through the offices and to the back door of the hangar. He stopped, yanked the .45 from the shoulder holster. Then, holding the small gun concealed in his hand, he stepped outside and had a look around. There was a small parking area behind the hangar, and Rick walked through it, checking every car. Every one was empty, and there was no gray Chevrolet.
He circumnavigated the hangar, looking for cars that might have driven onto the field. A Beech Staggerwing took off and turned north, and Rick watched it for a moment, admiring the beautiful airplane. It was one he fantasized about owning. Maybe he would make his dad an offer for his, when he got a little ahead. He continued his walk around the hangar, then went back inside through the back door. He put the gun on safety, holstered it, used the john, then went back to join his dad and Eddie, who were deep in conversation.
