by Stuart Woods
“Your dad tells me you’re his number one pilot,” Eddie said.
“A father’s pride; take it with a grain of salt,” Rick replied. “He’s got half a dozen good guys on his list.”
“I don’t employ a full-time pilot,” Jack said. “It makes more sense to hire them by the hour. I’m not running an airline, after all.”
“I see your point,” Eddie said. “Jack, I’ve bought a house down in Palm Springs, and I expect to spend a lot of weekends there, but it’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive. How long would it take you to fly my wife and me and maybe some friends down there in the Electra?”
“Half an hour, forty-five minutes each way, depending on the winds.”
“How much?”
Jack scratched his head and named a price.
“Sounds good. How about this weekend?”
“When do you want to take off, and when do you want to come back?”
“Outbound, Friday at three; coming home, pick us up in Palm Springs at four on Sunday.”
“You’ve got yourself a charter. Every weekend, if you like.”
“Let’s see how Suzanne likes the ride, then we’ll talk.”
“That’s fine with me.”
Eddie turned to Rick. “We’d better get back to work,” he said. He shook Jack’s hand, and they walked back to the car.
“You disappeared for a few minutes,” Eddie said. “Looking for the gray Chevy?”
“Just being careful,” Rick replied.
They got into the Continental and started back.
“Rick, our executives do a fair amount of flying, so much so that we’ve been thinking about buying an airplane. I’ve heard good things about the Electra.”
“So did Amelia Earhart. The Electra is a good airplane, but it might be a little cramped for the studio’s purposes. I’m inclined to think you’d be happier with the Douglas DC-3. It’s bigger, just as fast and a damned fine machine. It would get you to New York a lot faster than the train.”
“How would you like to operate an aviation department for us at the studio, in addition to your security duties?”
“I’m not sure that would be a good use of your money, Eddie,” Rick replied. “It might make more sense for my dad to do that for you. He could hangar the airplane, hire another mechanic to see to its maintenance and find you a regular pilot.”
“Suppose we expanded to two or three airplanes—eventually, I mean.”
“Dad could handle it for you, and one of these days he’s going to retire; he’s sixty now. Maybe you could buy him out in a few years and then own the hangar and his equipment. You might defray some of your costs by flying charters.”
“That’s good thinking,” Eddie said. “I’ll talk to Sol about it.”
They drove back to Centurion, and as they were turning through the front gate, Rick saw the big black car and Mannix’s two men sitting outside. They had missed his leaving, since they hadn’t expected him to leave in Eddie’s Continental. But whoever had been in the gray Chevrolet had not missed him.
16
RICK SPENT THE AFTERNOON reading Gone with the Wind in his office. He had somehow not gotten around to it when the book had been published three years before, but it was being filmed at Metro, and he wanted to read it before seeing the movie. He felt guilty about reading at his desk, but his job was turning out to be a little like police work—long periods of boredom, punctuated by occasional more exciting moments.
Later, he drove over to Clete’s cottage and waited for him to come back from the set. He turned up in the same beautiful uniform, with its red tunic, that Rick had seen him in before, but this time it was dirty and torn, and Clete sported a four-inch gash in his forehead. Rick was alarmed, until he realized it was makeup. He had a Coke and waited for Clete to shower.
“Well, old sport, what say we go over to Dave Chasen’s place for some chili?”
Rick had passed Chasen’s Southern Pit in West Hollywood, but had never been in. “Sure, why not?”
“Been there?”
“Nope.”
They got into Rick’s car. “Dave is an old vaudevillian,” Clete said, “and he makes a mean bowl of chili.”
THEY WALKED IN WITHOUT a reservation, and as usual Clete got the welcome treatment from the owner and the best available table. They were about to sit down when a handsome, well-dressed woman in a large hat approached Clete.
“Hedda!” he roared, kissing her hand. “How are you, my darling?”
“I’m very well, Clete, and I hear that Khyber Uprising is on schedule—or have you managed to slow it down, as usual?”
Clete laughed as if this were very funny. “You know me, darling, always right on time. Have you met Centurion’s new chief of security? This is Richard Barron.”
“How do you do, Mr. Barron?” she said.
“I’m very well, Miss Hopper,” Rick replied. “And please, call me Rick.”
“Of course, my dear. And has the studio assigned you to see that our Clete shows up on time and sober?”
“Miss Hopper, I don’t think anyone in the world could make Clete be either on time or sober, unless he really wanted to. He seems to be enjoying himself on this picture.”
“I don’t know your name,” Hopper said. “Where were you before? Metro? RKO?”
“I was with the Beverly Hills Police Department,” Rick said.
“I suppose Eddie brought you in to replace that John Kean fellow, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I never liked him, and I never understood that murder-suicide business. What really happened?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea. That business was handled by the Los Angeles department, and they didn’t confide in me.”
“I’d like very much to have that story, when it’s solved,” she said. “Will you promise to bring it to me first? I’d be very upset if I read about it in Louella’s column.” There was an edge to her voice.
“I’ll certainly be happy to bring you anything I learn,” Rick said. Hopper had started her column in the Los Angeles Times earlier that year, but she had already earned a reputation as a bitch, and Rick didn’t want to get on her bad side.
“Do that, and I’ll put in a good word with Eddie Harris for you,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Must run, darling,” she said, kissing Clete on both cheeks and shaking Rick’s hand. “I’ve all of Hollywood to cover.”
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” Clete said, waving her off. He sat down. “Whew,” he said, “it’s hard work being nice to these columnists. You say something innocuous, and it turns up in the papers the next day as entirely another thing.”
“I hear she’s a bitch,” Rick said.
“And proud of it,” Clete replied. “She revels in her bitchery. Louella has, at least, an air of sweetness about her, but of course, I wouldn’t trust either of them as far as I could throw them.”
A waiter brought them a drink and menus, and Rick looked around. Jack Benny and his wife were across the room, in a booth next to Spencer Tracy and a woman Rick assumed to be his wife. “This place must be catching on,” he said, nodding toward the two stars.
Clete looked over and waved at Tracy. “Evening, Spence, Louise.” He turned back to Rick. “Yes, word does get around when a place is good, and almost everything on the menu is. I do recommend the chili, though.”
Rick ordered the chili and sipped his bourbon while he watched the room fill. The headwaiter had just assigned the last remaining table when Rick looked up and saw Chick Stampano at the door with a beautiful young woman.
“Who are you staring at?” Clete asked, looking over his shoulder. “Movie people don’t like to be stared at.”
“He’s not movie people,” Rick said, pretending to look somewhere else, but keeping an eye on Stampano.
“Oh, it’s your friend, the Eyetie gentleman, isn’t it?”
Stampano seemed to be arguing with Dave Chasen, who shrugged and waved an arm around the
room, indicating the lack of available tables. Then Stampano’s eye fell on Rick, and he seemed to turn to marble, standing and staring.
Rick gave him a little salute, which seemed to annoy him even more. Not only could he not get a table, but Rick had one. Stampano grabbed the girl’s arm and hustled her out of the restaurant.
“What is it with you two?” Clete asked.
Rick told him about the conversation with Eddie Mannix and the people following him.
“I see,” Clete said. “Tell me, are you carrying that pistol you bought?”
“Yes,” Rick said.
“Oh, good. Then at least you’ll be able to shoot it out with Stampano when we leave. Try to aim away from me, will you?”
17
CLETE HAD THE WEEKEND OFF, and he invited Rick to play golf at the Bel-Air Country Club. No matter how much he had drunk the night before, Clete never seemed to be hungover, but Rick was.
They stood on the first tee. Clete teed up, took a couple of practice swings and faded the ball down the right side of the fairway.
“That’s about two-fifty, Mr. Barrow,” the Negro caddie said.
“Not bad,” Clete murmured to himself.
Rick teed up and hit a long draw.
“That’s a good two-eighty, Mr. Barron,” his caddie said, lording it over his co-worker.
“Shit, old boy,” Clete said, “where’d you learn to hit it like that?”
“I played for UCLA,” Rick replied, “and I had a good coach. You didn’t think I was going in the tank for a movie star, did you?”
“What’s your handicap?”
“Two,” Rick said. “How about you?”
“Six.”
“Five bucks a hole?”
“You’re on, laddie. I hope you’ve been practicing.”
“I haven’t, but I’m going to start. I’ve got to join a club.”
They walked briskly down the fairway toward their balls.
“Eddie Harris is a bigwig in this one,” Clete said. “I’ll second you, and we’ll scare up some supporters.”
“Thank you, Clete, I appreciate that. It’s a beautiful course.”
“And conveniently located. Golf courses always make me think of England—so green.”
“Do you miss England?”
“At times. I’m very worried about what’s going to happen to the old girl if they don’t start listening to Winston Churchill.”
“I don’t think Hitler really means to go to war,” Rick said. “He’s got the Rhineland back, he’s annexed Austria, and now he’s got Czechoslovakia. What more could he want?”
“The whole pie,” Clete said.
“What do you mean?”
“Europe, all of it, maybe a lot more than Europe. I think he’s thinking in global terms.”
“Come on, how many Germans are there? Fifty million? How are they going to take all of Europe, let alone the world?”
“We haven’t seen anything like Hitler since Napoleon,” Clete said, lining up his shot to the green. “And Hitler’s a lot meaner.” He swung and lofted the ball onto the green. It stopped four feet from the cup.
Rick walked farther down the fairway to his ball. He had only a sand wedge to the flag, and he put it a foot outside Clete’s ball.
“You said you held a commission?” Rick asked.
“I do.”
“What will you do if war breaks out in Europe?”
“Not much I can do, legally,” Clete replied, accepting his putter from the caddie. “I’ve got nearly four years to run on a seven-year contract.”
“You think Eddie would let you out of the contract if England goes to war?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think Sol ever would. And if I jump ship, I’ll never make another film, even in England, unless Sol allowed it. I’d have to eke out a living on the stage.”
Clete sank his putt, and so did Rick. They played on.
AT LUNCH ON THE TERRACE of the clubhouse, Clete continued. “I’m in a tough spot,” he said. “My family would expect me to fight, not to mention my regiment.”
“How much family do you have?”
“I have a father, a mother and a younger brother. Pater is a clergyman—an Anglican priest—and my brother is in the City.”
“The city?”
“The City of London—shorthand for the financial world, like Wall Street. He’s a partner in a merchant bank, and they expect great things of him. He invests most of my money.”
“That’s convenient. Now that I’m making good money, I’m going to have to start investing. Eddie has suggested real estate.”
“That’s what all the smart people seem to be doing,” Clete said. “It’s too much bother for me. I prefer stocks and bonds. I wouldn’t like being a landlord.”
“You know, until I started this job, I never had more than a month’s pay in the bank, and when I got broken down to patrolman, I didn’t expect to ever have more than a week’s salary saved. I thought I was going to have to go to work for my old man.”
“What does he do?”
“He has a flying service down at Clover Field, in Santa Monica.”
“What would you have done for him?”
“Fly charters, help run the place.”
“You fly?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“Funny, I was thinking of going up to Oregon with a couple of chums, do some trout fishing, when we wrap the film. How’d you like to fly us up there? You fish?”
“Never have, but it sounds like fun. Dad is leasing a Lockheed Vega that would be perfect for the trip. You charter it from him, and I’ll throw in the piloting for the loan of some gear.”
“Sounds perfect. Book it, will you?”
“Will do.”
“You’ll like fly-fishing. It’s a world of perfect peace and good eating. You’ll like my chums, too.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Rick looked up to see Eddie Harris, dressed in plus fours and kneesocks, making his way across the terrace toward them. “Look who’s here,” he said.
“He doesn’t look all that happy,” Clete remarked.
Eddie reached their table. “There you are,” he said. “Clete, your houseman told me where to find you.”
“What can I do for you, Eddie?” Clete asked.
“Not a thing. I’m looking for Rick.” He clapped a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “You come with me, pal. You and I have a date. I hope you finished your round.”
“Yes, thanks,” Rick said. “Do I have time to finish my lunch?”
“Nope,” Eddie said, starting back across the terrace.
“Sounds serious,” Clete said. “You’d better hurry.”
“Sorry about this, Clete.”
“Call me when you’re free. We’ll have dinner.”
“Sure.” Rick threw down his napkin and started after Eddie, wondering what the hell could be wrong.
18
EDDIE DROVE THE CONTINENTAL fast and without saying anything, so Rick didn’t, either. Eddie’s expression was, if not worried, then at least intent. He was ordinarily so relaxed and amiable that it began to worry Rick.
They drove down Stone Canyon to Sunset and turned east. It was a glorious California day, the perfect sort of weather to be driving through Beverly Hills in an open car, but in deference to Eddie’s mood, Rick tried not to appear to be enjoying it too much.
They finally stopped, to Rick’s complete surprise, in front of the Trocadero, which was probably the hottest nightclub on the Sunset Strip. Eddie left the car at the curb, and they went inside.
The place was dimly lit and smelled slightly of spilled alcohol and disinfectant and strongly of stale cigarette smoke. The chairs in the large main room were all stacked on the tables, and a man was using a noisy vacuum cleaner on the carpet.
“He said to wait here,” Eddie said, parking himself on a banquette in the bar.
Rick wanted to ask who but didn’t.
Ten or twelve minutes ticked by, then the front door opened a
nd a tall, well-built man, also in golf clothes, came in.
“Eddie,” Eddie said.
“Eddie,” the man replied.
“Rick, this is Eddie Mannix.”
Rick stood up and shook his hand. “How do you do?”
“Pretty good. Are they keeping us waiting?”
“You guessed it,” Harris replied.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to be kept waiting by these fucks,” Mannix said, and turned toward the door.
A man in a double-breasted suit came through an inside door. “Okay,” he said, “you can come in.”
Mannix looked nearly disappointed, as if he would have preferred walking out on the meeting. He turned and led the way through the door and down a hallway to a set of double doors. Before he could open them, two men came out, looking annoyed, and brushed past them in the hallway.
Mannix pushed open a door and walked into the room, followed by Harris and Rick.
It was an office, large and well furnished. One man sat behind the desk, another in a leather armchair, and, across the room on a leather sofa sat Chick Stampano. The two Eddies shook hands with the man behind the desk and the one in the armchair. They all seemed well acquainted.
“Siddown, everybody,” said the man behind the desk. “How you doin’, Eddie, Eddie?” He laughed at his own joke.
The two Eddies murmured their well-being.
“Is this your studio cop?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Eddie Harris said. “Rick Barron, Jack Dragna.”
“I heard about you,” Dragna said to Rick.
“Same here,” Rick replied.
“So, what are we going to do about this?” Dragna asked the room at large.
Stampano’s glare was fixed on Rick. The man in the armchair, handsome in a linen suit, simply looked bored.
“That’s what we want to hear, Jack,” Mannix said. “What do you propose?”
“A thing like this shouldn’t be worth everybody’s time,” Dragna said. “What are we doing here?”
“You called the meeting,” Mannix said.
“So, what’s your beef, Eddie?” Dragna asked Mannix.
