by Stuart Woods
“Say it.”
“I hear you,” he finally managed to say.
“Now go get in your car and drive away from here. And remember this: You ever mess with anybody in this town again, Ben Siegel won’t be able to help you; Charlie Luciano won’t be able to help you. You’ll be done.”
Stampano turned around and walked down the beach, followed by his man. The fog had lifted, so Rick could see them all the way to their car, see them drive away.
“Okay, Al!” he shouted. “Come get your money, and let’s go home!”
55
RICK DROVE BACK TO THE STUDIO, to his office, and waited. Ten minutes later, Ben Morrison and Tom Terry showed up with a handful of envelopes.
“You got it all?” Rick asked.
“We cleaned out two safes, one in Stampano’s house, one in Ben Siegel’s office at the Trocadero and a locked filing cabinet in the photographer’s darkroom. You were right; Glenna wasn’t the only girl he was blackmailing. There’s pictures of Lara Taylor and some others.”
“Did you pay Hans?”
“We did.”
“Here’s another five hundred apiece for a job well done.” Rick doled out hundreds. “Ben, thanks for your help. I still want you to keep an eye on Stampano, especially for the next month or so.”
“Will do.”
“I need to talk to Tom for a minute, so I’ll say goodbye.” They shook hands and Morrison left.
“Sit down, Tom.”
Terry sat down.
“Tom, it looks as though I might be moving up at the studio pretty soon. How would you like my job?”
Terry grinned. “I’d like that just fine.”
“Don’t say anything to anybody yet. I still need to get Eddie Harris’s approval, and that may take some time, but I think we can get this done by the end of the year. You’ll like the money, I promise.”
Terry left, grinning broadly, and Rick began opening envelopes. Stampano had been a busy boy. He had photographs of half a dozen actresses at different studios. Rick locked all of them in his safe, except those of Glenna and the Keans, then he left his office and went to the soundstage and Glenna’s trailer. She was just waking up as he came in.
“You slept well,” he said.
“I must have been out for nearly twenty-four hours,” she replied, kissing him. “What’s happened?”
“We’re done with Stampano,” he said, holding up the envelope. “I have all the prints and negatives. Do you want to see them?”
She shook her head.
Rick retrieved a steel wastebasket and set fire to the envelope, and they both watched it reduced to ash. “Now all you have to worry about is doing good work on these last scenes,” he said.
She stood up and came into his arms. “I will, I promise.”
“This is going to be a good film,” he said, “and with this success on top of the musical, you’re going to be the newest star in this town.”
HE WATCHED HER WORK that morning, then, satisfied that she was doing well, he went back to his office, retrieved the photographs of the other actresses and went to see Eddie Harris.
Eddie was at his desk, going through a budget. “How’s Caper going?” he asked.
“On schedule and a little under budget,” Rick said. “We lost a day’s shooting, but Glenna is back on the job, and she’s looking great.”
“How did it go with Stampano?”
Rick handed him the envelope with the five five-thousand-dollar bills. “I gave him a third of the notes and told him he’d get the rest in a year if he behaved himself. Frankly, I don’t care whether you give it to him or not. You’ve got two-thirds of each bill there, and that’s enough to take them to the bank. He can’t do anything with what he’s got, except frame them.”
“You think he’ll behave himself?”
“I’ve explained to him that if he doesn’t, bad things will happen to him. Do you have any way to get to Luciano?”
“I know somebody who knows somebody who knows him.”
“I think he’s the key. If you can persuade him to bring Stampano back to New York permanently, then he’ll be out of our hair for good.”
“He’s going to want something from us to do that.”
“Tell him we’ve got the goods to send Stampano to prison for twenty years.”
“Do we?”
Rick handed him the envelope with the photographs of the actresses. “My guy took these out of two safes and a filing cabinet in Stampano’s house and at the Trocadero while I was talking to Stampano out at the beach.”
Eddie went through the envelope quickly. “This is the most appalling stuff I’ve ever seen,” he said. “There are two girls from Metro here, one from RKO, one under contract to David Selznick and one with Sam Goldwyn.”
“And they’ve probably all paid Stampano money.”
“I’d love to prosecute the guy, I really would, but I can’t see these girls or the studios ever testifying against him.”
“He’s counting on that, I think, but maybe the threat will keep him in line.”
“I hope so.”
“You should know that some of those came out of the safe in Ben Siegel’s office at the Trocadero, so he’s got to be in on this.”
“Then I’m going to have to get to Luciano, one way or another.”
“That would be a good idea. There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.”
Eddie grinned. “You found a property.”
Rick nodded.
“I was impressed with how quickly you learned on Caper, and I’ve seen the rough cut to date, so I think you’re ready. What do you want to do next?”
“I found a script in your slush pile that I like. It needs some work, though.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a kind of screwball comedy called Ready to Go.”
“I remember liking that when I read it, but you’re right, it needs work. I’ll assign you a writer.”
“So, I’m a producer?”
“Just as soon as you can replace yourself.”
“I can do that today. Tom Terry was a big help on the Stampano thing. I think he’d do a great job for us.”
“Then hire him. Offer him a little less than you’re making and let him pick out a car for himself. When can he start?”
“Right away, I should think. I’ll call him today.”
“Then today, you are a producer, my son. Here’s what I have in mind.”
Rick listened as Eddie sketched out a production deal, and he liked what he heard.
“But, Rick, you’ve got to remember that in this business you’re only as good as your last movie.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’ll find you an office in this building and a new secretary.”
“I’d like to bring Jenny with me, if that’s all right.”
“Okay, I’ll find Tom Terry a new secretary.”
“And if you’d still like him to move into your guest house, I think he’d like that.”
“Absolutely. Suzanne will like him.”
The two men shook hands, and Rick walked out of the building on a large cloud. He headed back to the soundstage to tell Glenna the news.
56
THE NEXT MONTHS WENT briskly and happily for Rick and Glenna. He finished shooting on Caper and simultaneously worked on the post-production for that film and the pre-production for Ready to Go. He discovered that he loved editing and spent many hours in a darkened room with an editing machine and an editor.
They went out often, to Ciro’s and Mocambo, or dined at Chasen’s and the Brown Derby. The columnists, particularly Hedda Hopper, were kind to them, and Rick’s new sobriquet—the Prince of Beverly Hills—stuck, and was referred to whenever they were mentioned in the press. He also got good ink on his elevation to producer. He had become a player.
They were taking Rick’s dad to dinner a couple of times a month, and Jack and Glenna were practically in love with each other. Jack had never been one for dini
ng out a lot, and Rick was happy to have more time with him.
Glenna’s musical came out in the spring, and they attended a gala Hollywood premiere at Grauman’s Chinese Theater. She got spectacular reviews in the papers, and fan mail began to come in, first a trickle, then a torrent. Rick looked forward to the premiere of Caper, which would have huge momentum following the success of the musical, and he hoped for an Academy Award nomination for Glenna’s performance.
Rick continued to receive letters from Clete Barrow, usually through Montreal, but sometimes through Gander, Newfoundland. Clete had found friends among pilots who were traveling to Canada in order to ferry bombers back across the sea, and who would transport his letters that far, then mail them, avoiding the hazards of mail sent via the North Atlantic, where the submarine war was in full force.
Clete exhibited a boyish enthusiasm for everything he was learning in the Royal Marines, and especially for commando tactics, which had yet to be used in the war. Clark Gable passed on a couple of letters from David Niven, too, which were hilariously funny.
In early May a letter came from Clete, describing his regiment’s “foray into Norway,” as he called it, in which they fought bravely, but received “a bloody nose” and had to be evacuated. “It is the first time we’ve seen action,” Clete said, “and as badly as it turned out, we learnt what it was like to fight and gained experience that will be valuable to us in days to come. My men were all pleasantly surprised to find that they were still alive, and that did wonders for morale.”
At the end of May, the Battle of Dunkirk ensued, during which more than 300,000 British troops were taken off the beaches of France in a flotilla of ships, big and small, and returned to England to fight again.
In early June, another letter came from Clete, written before Dunkirk, enthusing that Churchill had been made prime minister, after Chamberlain had gone through a vote of confidence in Parliament that he had won, but in which so many Tories had voted against him or had abstained that his position as prime minister was no longer tenable. “There’s a whole new attitude here, now that we have a real leader in command,” Clete said. “We’ll be off to France soon, is my guess.”
The next day, Rick was at his desk, having completed shooting on Ready to Go, and working on the budget for his next film, when Jenny came in with a telegram from London. Rick ripped it open and read the short message:
BARROW KILLED AT DUNKIRK
STOP LETTER TO FOLLOW.
NIVEN
Rick felt as if he had been standing in surf and hit by a very large wave. The breath was taken from him, and he seemed to tumble, head over heels, through a montage of dinners out with Clete, of fishing on the Rogue River, of laughing at anything and everything.
He remembered what Clete had said that night at Jimmy’s, that half the young men in the place were going to die in the coming war. It had never occurred to Rick that Clete would be among them, let alone among the first.
After a few frozen minutes, Rick got up and walked down the hall to Eddie Harris’s office, where a meeting was in progress. He walked into the room without knocking. Someone was in the middle of a budget presentation, but Eddie took one look at Rick’s face and held up a hand for silence. “What is it, Rick?” he asked.
Rick handed him the telegram. Eddie read it and reacted as though he had been slapped across the face. Apparently unable to speak, he passed the cable around the table, which was filled with people who had worked with Clete over the years.
“We’ll resume this later,” Eddie finally said to the group. When they had left, he motioned for Rick to sit down, then buzzed his secretary. “Clete Barrow is dead,” he said. “Have maintenance lower the flag in front of the building to half mast, then come in here with your pad.”
“I don’t think I would have believed it if the telegram hadn’t come from Niven,” Rick said.
Eddie’s secretary came in, looking shocked, and sat down. “Yes, sir?”
“Take this down,” Eddie said. “ ‘The studio has received reliable word that Clete Barrow died in the Battle of Dunkirk.
“ ‘When war broke out in Europe, Clete did not hesitate. He went home at the first opportunity and rejoined the regiment with which he had served some years ago. We hated losing him, but it was no less than we would have expected of him.
“ ‘A patriot has died and a brilliant career has been cut short. Everyone at Centurion Studios mourns his loss.’
“Messenger that to the columnists, wait an hour, then call the AP and UP and read it to them. Then run off some copies and post it on every bulletin board on the lot. Get some help and call all the soundstages and shops and tell everybody to shut down—the studio is closed for the rest of the day.”
The woman left in tears.
“I never had a brother,” Rick said, “but I feel as though I’ve lost one.”
“Same here,” Eddie said, then stood up. “I can’t work anymore. I’m going home. I suggest you do the same.”
Rick went back to his office, broke the news to Jenny and told her to go home, then he sat in his office, alone, for a few minutes and tried to compose himself. Then he got into an electric cart and began looking for Glenna, stopping whenever he saw someone he knew to break the news. Everywhere he went, people were holding each other and weeping. Clete would be astonished, he thought.
He found Glenna in the costume shop, being fitted for a dress. He told her what had happened.
Glenna sat down heavily in a nearby chair, ripping a seam. “God, but that takes the wind out of your sails, doesn’t it?”
Rick nodded.
She stood up and shed the dress, then came and sat in his lap. “I hardly knew him,” she said, “and I can only guess how you feel. But he was the most charming man I ever met.”
Rick buried his face in Glenna’s breasts and cried like a child, while she held his head.
57
IT WAS THE FIRST OF JULY before David Niven’s letter arrived, postmarked Gander, Newfoundland. Rick saved it until he had a quiet moment alone, then opened it and unfolded the onionskin airmail paper.
My Dear Rick,
I trust that you received my telegram, telling of Clete’s death at Dunkirk. I am sorry to have been so blunt, but getting a telegram out of London in wartime can take a while, so brevity is encouraged. The following is what I have put together after speaking with two old chums who served with Clete.
In mid-May, Clete’s regiment was sent to Belgium to bolster defenses there. Almost before they could take up positions the Germans attacked the Benelux and low countries, driving them north and toward the French beaches. Clete’s regiment fought, if personal accounts can be believed, a brilliant rear-guard action against tanks and overwhelming numbers, taking many casualties, until they finished up at Dunkirk.
The battle there raged for more than a week, as British ships came to take troops off, and they were constantly being strafed by German fighters, as well as bombed. Unaccountably, the Germans withdrew their tanks from action, leaving the battle to their infantry, and this break gave our people time to evacuate many more troops than might have otherwise been possible.
Finally, with what seemed like every small boat from the south coast of England massed off the beaches, something like 320,000 had been taken off, and the figure may have been higher. Clete’s company, their numbers reduced by a third by casualties, were among the last groups off the beach. As Clete, his exec and one other officer were wading out to a small motor cruiser, a Messerschmidt made a low pass, guns ablaze, and Clete took a single round in the neck.
The other two officers got him aboard, and a medic attended him, but he was losing blood rapidly, and the flow could not be stanched. His exec told me that during this time, Clete looked down at his feet and said, “Damn, these boots were new a month ago.” Those turned out to be his last words. He died before the boat reached England.
His body will be interred on the Duke of Kensington’s estate in a few days, and I will be the
re to bid him farewell from both you and me.
One final irony: Clete’s father, who had been Duke of Kensington for only a few months, died in a motor accident in London at almost precisely the moment when Clete was being taken off the beach at Dunkirk, so Clete was duke for an hour or so and will be buried as such, next to his father and uncle.
I can hear the old boy laughing now.
With kind regards,
David
Rick laughed, too, through his tears. He sent a copy of the letter to Hedda Hopper, who called him and said she would run it as her column the following day.
THAT AFTERNOON, Rick heard the news on the car radio: Congress had passed a new Selective Service Act that day, by one vote. All men between nineteen and thirty would have to register for the draft immediately, and inductions would start in the fall.
Rick was driving past the intersection of Hollywood and Vine, and while stopped at the traffic light, he saw a Navy recruiting office with a poster featuring an aircraft carrier landing by a Navy fighter. Impulsively, he parked his car and walked into the office. A dozen young men were filling out forms.
The yeoman at the front desk looked up as he walked in. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.
“I’d like to speak to someone about flying for the Navy.”
“Just a moment, please, sir.” The young sailor left his desk, walked to an office at the rear, knocked and stuck his head through the open door. Then he looked at Rick and waved him back. “This is Lieutenant Commander Chelton,” the yeoman said, then went back to his desk.
The officer, who appeared to be in his fifties, waved Rick to a chair and offered his hand. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m Rick Barron.” He noted the wings on the man’s tunic. “I’ve read in the papers about this new program you’ve got for training Navy pilots,” Rick said. “I’m interested.”
Chelton leaned back in his chair and regarded Rick. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-nine.”
“You look older.”
