The Prince of Beverly Hills

by Stuart Woods

  “Eddie’s going to expect him to work tomorrow morning,” Rick said. “What about his feet?”

  “He’s just going to have to tough it out,” the doctor said. “I’ll go by his bungalow at the studio at eight tomorrow morning and rebandage his feet. If he busts his stitches, call me and I’ll resuture them.” He took a small bottle of pills from his bag. “You can give him one of these every four hours if he’s in pain, but no more than that. For God’s sake, don’t let him have the bottle.”

  Rick nodded.

  The doctor packed up his equipment. “When he wakes up, he may get . . . obstreperous. Keep him off his feet and don’t let him drink any more.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call me if you can’t handle him, and I’ll come over and sedate him.”

  “Okay.”

  The doctor left, and Rick called Eddie Harris.

  “What now?” Eddie asked, when he had been called to the phone.

  “Clete’s had an accident and cut both feet pretty badly. Dr. Judson was here and sutured them, but it’s going to be painful for him to walk tomorrow.”

  “Oh, shit, is he drunk?”

  “Yes, and passed out. I’ll have him at work tomorrow. What time is his call?”

  “Not until nine.”

  “You might think about shooting scenes in which he’s sitting down, if there are any like that.”

  “I’ll call the director and see what we can do to keep him off his feet. Thanks.” He hung up.

  Rick hung up and went to Clete. He pulled him into a sitting position, got down on one knee and rolled him onto his back, in a fireman’s carry. He staggered to his feet, barely managing it, then carried Clete into his bedroom, pulled the covers back and lowered him as gently as he could onto the bed. He got the robe off him, then pulled the covers over his naked body.

  Rick went back and took the bloody cotton slipcover off the ottoman, took it into the kitchen, ran some cold water in the sink and left the slipcover to soak. He looked in the icebox and found some cold chicken and potato salad and had some dinner, then he found a magazine and went back to Clete’s room, settling into an easy chair.

  It was going to be a long night.

  24

  RICK WAS JARRED OUT OF a sound sleep by a loud groan. He lifted his head off the back of the chair and was greeted by a terrible pain in his neck, the result of sleeping upright. Clete was sitting up on his elbows.

  “Christ!” he said. “What happened?”

  “You tied one on, pal, that’s what happened.”

  Clete rolled over and started to get up.

  “Careful, you cut both feet on a broken scotch bottle.”

  Clete felt at both feet carefully, then he put them on the floor and stood up slowly. “I can walk on the outsides of my soles,” he said, making his way awkwardly toward the bathroom. “Anyway, I’ve got to pee or die trying.” He peed loudly, then returned. “What time is it?”

  Rick glanced at his watch. “A little after seven. We’ve got to get you to work. You want some breakfast?”

  “Good God, no,” Clete replied, pulling some clothes from a drawer. “I’ll have some coffee at the bungalow.”

  Rick helped him to the car and drove toward Centurion. “How often does this happen?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Getting drunk and passing out.”

  “Oh, not too often, sport. Now and then it all gets to be too much, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. What set you off?”

  “I don’t remember a hell of a lot about last night. The servants were off, and I meant to fix myself some dinner, but I guess I drank it, instead.”

  “You keep at it and you’re going to end up with brain damage, drooling your way through your days in some nursing home. Not to mention what you’re doing to your liver.”

  “Heard it all before, sport,” Clete said, waving the words away.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like death, once removed.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot about death,” Rick said. “That could happen, too.”

  “Please, please. Wait until dinnertime, then you can chastise me all you like, but not now.”

  They arrived at the bungalow, and Rick helped Clete inside and into his makeup chair. “See what you can do with this,” he said to the makeup girl.

  “I’ve dealt with worse,” she said, then went to work.

  “Anybody home?” The voice of Eddie Harris rang out from the front door. He came into the makeup room pushing a wheelchair. “I hear you’re non-ambulatory,” he said to Clete.

  “Don’t worry, I can work.”

  Eddie looked at his bandaged feet. “The doc will be here in a minute. I want him to have a look at them before we leave for the set.”

  “He’s already had a look at them. I’m fine.”

  “We’ve got three scenes to shoot today that we can accomplish with you sitting,” Eddie said. “Tomorrow, you’re going to have to bite the bullet.”

  “Then bite it I will,” Clete said. “I want to finish this bloody picture almost as much as you do.”

  “If you can hobble through the rest of August, we’ll have it in the can.”

  “Then hobble I will.”

  Rick made some coffee and had a cup waiting when the makeup girl finished.

  “Do I need pants for these scenes?” Clete asked. “I don’t relish pulling those jodhpurs on and off.”

  “Maybe not. We’ll take them along, just in case.”

  Dr. Judson showed up, unbandaged Clete’s feet and inspected and rebandaged them. “I’ve brought some sulfa,” he said, drawing some into a syringe. “Let’s not wait until you have an infection.”

  “Oh, all right,” Clete said, offering a bare arm.

  Rick pushed the wheelchair to an electric cart, helped him in, and stowed the chair in the rear. They drove to the set, and Rick got him inside. The setup was of a broad veranda outside military headquarters, and they got Clete into one of two wicker chairs drawn together with a tray of cold drinks between them.

  Clete sampled a drink and wrinkled his nose. “Could somebody put some gin in this, please?”

  “Absolutely not,” Rick said. “You’re going to have to do this sober.”

  “Who says I’m sober?” Clete read through a couple of pages of his script, another actor sat down beside him, and he did three flawless takes. He didn’t even look hungover.

  After a break for lunch, Clete changed into a dress uniform tunic, complete with medals, and was wheeled onto a dining room set, where a table had been lavishly decorated with dishes, glasses and food. Other actors came in and took their places, and they ran through a brief rehearsal.

  Rick thought one of the girls looked familiar, and it took him a couple of minutes to see past the ball gown and the wig and recognize Martha Werner. She had two lines, and she delivered them with a perfect English accent.

  Eddie dropped by and watched a take, including Martha’s performance. “She’s not bad,” he said to Rick.

  “You sure got her here in a hurry,” Rick replied.

  “I think we’ll put her under contract. We can hardly call her Martha Werner, though. Think of a new name for her.” He left.

  Rick sat down in Clete’s set chair and took out his notebook. Yet another new assignment.

  WHEN THERE WAS A BREAK, Rick went over to Martha. “You were very good,” he said.

  “Oh, hi,” she chirped. “You must have put in a word for me.” Her Midwestern accent was incongruous, given her costume.

  “Eddie Harris liked your work today,” Rick said. “Expect something good to come of that.”

  “Oh, really? You’re not kidding?”

  “You’ll be hearing from him. In the meantime, you need a name change. Martha Werner won’t do.”

  “Barbara Kane, with a K,” she said immediately.

  “That’s not bad,” Rick said, putting away his notebook with its list of names.

  “It’s
my mother’s maiden name,” she said.

  “Mention it to Eddie when he speaks to you.”

  She stood on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek, leaving a smear of makeup. “Thank you, Rick,” she said. “All I wanted was a chance.”

  “Well, now you’ve got it.”

  A makeup man came and patched up her face.

  They shot one more scene, then Clete wheeled himself over to where Rick stood.

  “Had you nothing better to do all day but watch this boring stuff?”

  “It was pretty interesting, actually,” Rick replied. “I learned something about how movies are made. Tell me, why don’t they use more than one camera, instead of shooting a scene over and over with the one, in order to get all the angles?”

  “Because actors are cheaper than cameras, old sport. Now get me out of here. I need a drink.”

  Rick pushed Clete’s wheelchair out of the soundstage to the cart, determined not to make a career of keeping him sober.

  25

  AFTER DRIVING CLETE BACK to his bungalow, Rick called his office to check for messages.

  “There’s somebody here to see you,” Jenny said.

  “Who?”

  “His name is Ben Siegel.”

  Rick was taken aback. “He’s there now?”

  “Reading one of my movie magazines. He’s been here for over an hour.”

  “How did he get past the front gate?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want me to tell him?”

  “Tell him I’m on my way over there.” He hung up and went to Clete, who was applying cold cream to his makeup. “You look darling,” he said.

  Clete laughed. “If my fans could see me now.”

  “I have to go over to my office for a few minutes. I’ll come back and drive you home before long.”

  “I can get a studio car to take me.”

  “Stick around. I’ll be back.”

  “Whatever you say, old dear.”

  Rick drove his car back to the administration building and parked. He had thought this business with Stampano was over, but what the hell was Bugsy Siegel doing in his office? He took a few deep breaths so that it wouldn’t seem that he had hurried, then walked into his office.

  Siegel was stretched out on his leather couch, reading a Photoplay. He sat up and offered his hand. “How are you, Rick?”

  “Just fine, thank you,” Rick replied, shaking the hand. He took the armchair next to the sofa. “What can I do for you, Ben?”

  Siegel sat back on the sofa. “I just wanted to see if Chick is leaving you alone.”

  Rick shrugged. “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”

  “Good.”

  There was a silence, and Rick wondered again what the guy was doing in his office.

  “How’d you get onto the lot?” Rick asked.

  “Through the main gate.”

  “Without a pass?”

  “I’m known all over,” Siegel said, smiling.

  “Oh.” He would damn well see that the gangster wouldn’t be known next time.

  Another silence.

  “Come on, Ben, what’s this about?” Rick tried to keep his voice genial.

  “Well, there is a little business we could discuss.”

  “Business?”

  “How’s the new job coming along?”

  “Just fine.”

  “You enjoying it?”

  “Yes, I am.” Why wouldn’t the guy get to the point?

  “I’m just wondering if you’re the right guy.”

  “The right guy for what?”

  “For the job.”

  “For my job?”

  “No, for the other one.”

  “I’m sorry, Ben, but I’m not getting you.”

  “Your predecessor . . .” Siegel drew out the word syllable by syllable, as if trying it out “ . . . did a little business with me from time to time. I was thinking that maybe you and I could do a little business.”

  Now a dilemma: Rick wanted to know about this, but he didn’t want to know about it. If he asked, he might hear something he didn’t want to hear. He decided to say nothing.

  “It wouldn’t require a lot of your time,” Siegel said.

  Rick still said nothing.

  “In fact, hardly any time at all. And the money’s good.”

  Rick decided he didn’t want to know. “Ben, I’m afraid that this job takes all my time.”

  “I said it wouldn’t take a lot of time.”

  “I’m on call twenty-four hours a day,” Rick said. “There’s no time for anything else.” Suddenly, he really wanted to know. “What was Kean doing for you?”

  Siegel shrugged. “If you don’t have any time at all, then maybe you don’t need to know that.”

  “Maybe I don’t.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I hear you do some flying.”

  “I used to. That’s something else I don’t have the time for anymore.”

  “Once in a while I take a trip to Mexico. Maybe you could fly me down there—just overnight, sometimes not even that long.”

  Rick shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Ben, but you can go out to Clover Field and pick up a charter.”

  “Maybe from your old man?”

  Rick felt a little chill. Siegel was letting him know he knew about his father.

  “I’m afraid he can’t send airplanes to Mexico,” Rick lied. “He had some problems with the authorities on the other side of the border once, and it took him nearly a month to get his airplane back. Cost him a lot of money.”

  “We don’t have problems with authorities,” Siegel said. “We solve that kind of problem on the spot.”

  “It’s a small business, and he has his hands full.”

  “We could put some money in his hands.”

  Siegel had started saying “we,” and Rick didn’t like that at all.

  “Can I be frank with you, Ben? Without meaning any offense?”

  “Sure you can, Rick.”

  “You seem like a nice guy, but I don’t want to be in business with Jack Dragna and Chick Stampano.”

  “Jack’s a nice guy, too,” Siegel said. “As for Chick . . . Well, he doesn’t have too much to do with business.”

  “I don’t want anything at all to do with him.”

  “What you got against Jack?”

  “Nothing, personally, but people who do business with him sometimes end up dead.”

  “If you’re straight with Jack, he’ll be straight with you.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but still . . .”

  “You know, our money is just as good as Eddie Harris’s and Sol Weinman’s. Spends real nice, and it’s always cash—no taxes, no bother.”

  “Thanks, Ben, but no thanks.”

  “If that’s how you feel about it.”

  “I’m sorry, but yes, that’s how I feel about it. I’m speaking for my father, too.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet he could use some nice, tax-free cash.”

  “Ben, I would take it kindly if you didn’t speak to him about this, and I’d appreciate it if you’d see that nobody else speaks to him about it, either.”

  Siegel stood up. “Whatever you say, Rick. Why don’t you and I have dinner sometime, maybe with some girls?”

  “Right now, all my evenings are taken up with studio personnel.” That was certainly no lie, but it probably sounded like one. “Eddie has me bird-dogging his favorite leading man, making sure his picture finishes on time.”

  “Maybe later, then.”

  “You never know.”

  Siegel shook his hand. “Be seeing you, Rick.”

  Rick certainly hoped not. He walked Siegel to the door and said goodbye.

  As soon as Siegel had time to drive out of the parking lot, Rick headed for the fourth floor and Eddie Harris’s office.

  26

  EDDIE WAS STANDING, CLEARING his desk, stuffing papers into drawers, when his secretary s
howed Rick in.

  “Hey, boy, what’s up?” he asked.

  “I just had a visit from Ben Siegel,” Rick said.

  Eddie stared at him for a moment, then sat down. “What the hell did he want?”

  “He wanted to hire me.”

  “To do what?”

  “We never really got around to that, because I turned him down flat before he got started.”

  “Well, I’d hate to think you’d leave us so quickly.”

  “He didn’t want me to leave. He had some sort of side deal in mind, payment in cash.”

  “And he wouldn’t tell you what?”

  “At first, I didn’t really want to know, and by the time I decided I did, he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Oh.”

  “The only real information I got is that my predecessor, the late John Kean, was working for Siegel.”

  Eddie’s eyebrows went up. “What do you think he was doing?”

  “I don’t know, Eddie. I wish I’d strung Siegel along for a while, until I found out.”

  “Me, too.”

  “He also made noises about hiring my father, but I think that was just to let me know he knew about my father.”

  “He was trying to intimidate you?”

  “It was very subtle, but yes, I think so.”

  Eddie turned and stared out the window.

  “Eddie, you mentioned that you didn’t want to be involved with these people. Have they approached you in the past?”

  Eddie nodded slowly. “Last year, when we were starting to build the two new soundstages, we had a little difficulty with the banks, and suddenly Ben Siegel was there, offering the money.”

  “At loan shark rates, I imagine.”

  “No, at a very good rate. But he wanted equity.”

  “In the studio?”

  “Yes. He was representing Jack Dragna and his friends in New York, like Meyer Lansky, of course, but he made out that it was his own money. I didn’t buy that for a minute.”

  “Why would they want into a movie studio? I wouldn’t think they would like the return on the investment. They’d make a lot more money on gambling and prostitution and loan-sharking, and it would be tax-free.”

  “You’re right, of course. My thought was that they wanted access to the girls we have signed to contracts, but that doesn’t really make sense. If they’re looking for whores, they’d do better among the girls who come out here and don’t get signed.”