The Prince of Beverly Hills

by Stuart Woods

  Rick was carried along with the moment, until they finished the number and began to play “Begin the Beguine.” At that he was overwhelmed with memories of Ciro’s and the Shaw band and Glenna singing “Stardust.” He got up and, choking back tears, made his way back to his cabin and threw himself on his bunk. From down the companionway, he could hear the band on the squawk box, and he pulled a pillow around his ears to blot it out. Soon he was asleep, until he found himself being shaken by a yeoman.

  “Mr. Barron,” the man said, “the air officer wants you in the briefing room on the double!”

  Rick shook himself awake. The music could no longer be heard. He checked his watch: after eleven. He splashed some water on his face and made his way to the briefing room. A night mission? What was going on?

  He entered the briefing room, only to find it empty, its lights dimmed. A large-scale map of Guadalcanal was up on the board, showing their most recent targets. They would be going back tomorrow. He took a seat in the front row, then he heard the door open and close behind him.

  “Rick?” A woman’s voice. There were no women on the Saratoga. He got up and turned around. She was standing in the shadows by the door, and he began walking toward her. “Glenna?” he said, though he knew it couldn’t be.

  “I found you,” she said.

  He swept her up in his arms and held her off the floor, kissing the tears from her face. “Am I dreaming?” he finally managed to ask. “How did you get here?”

  “Artie brought me,” she said. “I’ve been touring the Pacific with the band.”

  He held her back and looked at her. The face was nearly, but not quite, the same. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “If I am, you can thank a doctor in New York.”

  He led her to a chair and sat down beside her. “Tell me everything.”

  She took a deep breath. “First of all, I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

  “That’s all right, you’re here now. Just tell me what’s happened.”

  “I woke up in the Judson Clinic, and Eddie Harris was there. I didn’t—still don’t—remember what happened. Eddie told me that Stampano was dead and that Bugsy Siegel was looking for you, and that you’d had to leave LA. He told me you were joining the Navy. I had known something like that was coming, of course, but I hadn’t expected it so soon.”

  “Neither had I,” Rick said.

  “After the swelling went down on my face, a few days later, Barbara came to get me, and I took the train to New York and moved in with a girlfriend, another actress I’d known at home in Wisconsin. I found a doctor and had three operations to repair the damage.”

  “You look wonderful.”

  “Oh, I’ll never be quite the same again, but he did a good job with what he had to work with.”

  “You look wonderful to me.”

  “When my doctor was satisfied that he’d done all he could, he said all I needed was time to heal, so I went back to Wisconsin and stayed with an aunt. An agent I’d met in New York wrote me and said that Artie had joined the Navy and formed a band. He knew that I’d sung with Artie on occasion, and he sent Artie a telegram asking if he might want me for a tour. And, three months later, here I am. Did you hear me sing ‘Stardust’ for you?”

  “No, I went back to my cabin as soon as Artie began playing the familiar stuff. The memories were a little too much.”

  “I thought you’d find me, but when you didn’t, I asked one of the ship’s officers and he took me to the air officer, and he sent me here. Now tell me about what’s been happening to you.”

  Rick told her about his training and his assignment to the Saratoga, about his letters from Eddie, too. “You should write to Eddie,” he said. “He’s worried about you.”

  “Oh, Eddie will just want me to come back to work.”

  “No, not yet. Not until he knows you’ll be safe.”

  “I won’t feel safe in LA again until you’re there with me. Oh, and neither of us should go back there. Ben Morrison told me before we sailed for the Pacific that Siegel is still determined to get you.”

  “Well, it may be a while before I get stateside again. I’m here for the duration. How long can you stay?”

  “Only until they come for me. The band’s instruments are being loaded on launches right now. We’re sleeping on a hospital ship tonight and giving a show there tomorrow.” There was a knock on the door.

  “Go away!” Rick yelled.

  The door opened and the air officer came in. “Sorry, Miss Gleason, but you’re needed at the gangway immediately. The boat is ready to leave. Rick, let go of that girl.”

  They stood up and embraced. “I want to hear from you often,” she said, pressing her address into his hand. He gave her his APO number and kissed her once more, then she was gone.

  He sank back into his seat, trying to remember every moment of their short time together.

  63

  IN LATE AUGUST, Rick and his squadron were summoned to the briefing room and told that there were reports of a large force of escorted troop transports approaching Guadalcanal, in an attempt to reinforce the Japanese presence on the island.

  Rick led his squadron in search of the convoy, but they failed to find it and returned to the Saratoga, short of fuel. As they were landing, another report came in of a contact report on enemy carriers, and as soon as they were refueled, Rick’s squadron launched again.

  Shortly after midafternoon, Rick spotted a carrier dead ahead and mustered his group for a bombing run. As he dived on the carrier, Rick could see that aircraft were being readied for launch, and he wanted badly to put one into the deck to prevent them from taking off. His angle of attack was steep, and he cut loose his bombs at five hundred feet, then pulled away in a climbing right turn, looking over his shoulder for results. He saw one of his bombs strike the carrier’s deck amidships and another, not his, farther aft, and he identified the carrier as the Ryujo, as he had been trained to do.

  As he continued his turn, he heard a loud bang and felt something shake his airplane and, simultaneously, severe pain, as if someone had kicked him in the right knee. He continued his climbing turn away from the carrier and set a rough course for the Saratoga. Then he saw that his instrument panel was spattered with blood and, looking down, found a hole six inches across in the fuselage, through which he could see the leading edge of his wing. His ass felt warm and wet, and he knew he was losing blood rapidly.

  He yanked the scarf from around his neck, tucked it under his thigh and made a tourniquet, while flying the airplane left-handed.

  “Skipper, one more run?” his number two called on the radio.

  “Affirmative,” Rick replied, “but I’ve been hit, and I’m heading for home. The squadron is yours.”

  “I’m with you, Skipper,” he heard his wingman say, and he looked out to see the airplane flying formation with him.

  “They didn’t have a chance to launch before we bombed,” Rick said, “but they could’ve gotten something up before we got there. Keep a sharp eye out.”

  “Wilco. Are you hurt?”

  “I took something in my right knee, but I’m controlling the bleeding. How’s your fuel?”

  “Nearly half full; no sweat.”

  Rick felt a wave of nausea and fought it off. He took a long swig from his canteen and began looking for the Saratoga.

  “We’ve got an undercast ahead, three miles, looks like tops at one thousand,” his wingman said.

  “Roger, let’s get under it now,” Rick replied and pushed the stick forward while retarding the throttle. The tops were at seven hundred feet, not a thousand, and he wasn’t under the clouds until two hundred feet. He leveled off. “Saratoga, Sparrow One, coming in damaged but controllable. Give me your heading and a short transmit.”

  “Sparrow One, read you loud and clear. Heading is three, zero, zero. Did you get my transmit?”

  Rick had already watched the radio direction–finding needle swing left fifteen degrees, and h
e adjusted his heading. “Roger.”

  “We have a three-hundred-foot overcast here. Are you on top?”

  “Negative, Sparrow One and Two level at two hundred. We’ll be straight in.”

  “Roger, Sparrow One. We’re painting you at twelve miles with numerous aircraft eight miles behind you on your heading. Is that your squadron?”

  “Negative. My group is making a second run. Those will be bandits, but they’ll have a hard time finding you, what with the overcast.”

  “Roger, Sparrow One, continue your approach. Call deck in sight.”

  Rick saw the Saratoga ten miles away and turned slightly to line up on the deck. “Saratoga in sight, nine miles, straight in. Sparrow Two is behind me.” He saw his wingman drop back to line up behind him and kept his speed up for a moment longer to allow him spacing.

  “Roger, Sparrow One. Will you require assistance?”

  “Affirmative, leg wound.”

  “Do you want to ditch?”

  “Negative, airplane is controllable.” Rick dropped the gear, put in a notch of flaps and retarded the throttle.

  “You’re hot and low, Sparrow One.”

  “Roger, slowing.” He put in another notch of flaps and watched his airspeed come down, then, two miles out, the final notch of flaps.

  “You’re still hot, Sparrow One.”

  “I may need the net,” Rick said. “Sparrow Two, you read that?”

  “Roger.”

  “If I need the net, go around.”

  “Roger.”

  Rick was still ten knots hot at five hundred feet, and he wasn’t going to get any slower. He watched the deck man with his paddles and hoped to God he didn’t get a waveoff. He was a little light-headed now. The deck rushed up at him, and the deck man waved him in. He touched down and felt the hook grab, then he fainted.

  HE FELT PEOPLE CLAWING at his clothing as he came to. He didn’t have a left sleeve anymore, and he saw a medic standing above him, holding a pint of blood, which was draining into his arm.

  “Easy there, Lieutenant,” the man said. “We’re cutting your clothes off.”

  “Do I still have two legs?” Rick managed to ask.

  “So far,” the man replied.

  Rick fainted again.

  HE WOKE UP two days later. A doctor came and looked into his eyes with a flashlight. “Can you talk to me, Lieutenant?” the man asked.

  “What would you like to talk about?” Rick muttered.

  “You’re on a hospital ship, bound for Pearl,” the man said. “You’re going to need knee surgery, and we don’t want to do it here. There’s a good man at Pearl, though.”

  “I’m thirsty,” Rick said.

  “Scotch or bourbon?”

  “As long as it’s wet.” A straw was stuck in his mouth and he sucked on it greedily. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said when he could.

  “That’s the beauty of morphine,” the doctor said.

  SIX WEEKS LATER, he was wheeled aboard a supply ship returning to San Diego. Two weeks after that, he was in Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles, being examined by the best knee man on the West Coast, courtesy of Eddie Harris.

  Three weeks after that, he was home. So was Glenna. He was a civilian now. Two studio cops were guarding the house at all times.

  IN MARCH OF ’43, assisted by a cane, he hobbled down the aisle next to Glenna at Eddie and Suzanne Harris’s house. Among the ton of flowers, Rick had seen a large horseshoe of roses with a card reading, I wish you both every happiness. Ben Siegel.

  Rick didn’t believe it for a moment, but he had been awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross for his squadron’s sinking of the Japanese carrier, and Siegel wouldn’t want to mess with a war hero. Not yet, anyway. He would bide his time, and Rick would just have to be ready.

  64

  JUNE 1947. Eddie Harris sat in Sol Weinman’s old office, going over the plans for a new soundstage. Weinman had been dead for a year, and Eddie was now chairman and CEO of the studio. Rick was head of production and working in Eddie’s old office.

  Building materials had been in short supply since the beginning of the war, but lumber was starting to become available again, and Eddie was thinking about starting construction on a new soundstage. He was going to need it, if his plans for a television production department were going to develop on schedule.

  Eddie’s phone buzzed, and he pressed a key. “Yes?”

  “A Lieutenant Ben Morrison for you. He says you know him.”

  “I know him. Put him through.” He picked up the phone. “Ben?” He had spoken to Morrison often over the past seven years.

  “Yes, Mr. Harris.”

  “Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I hoped I wouldn’t have to make this call, but you told me if it became necessary, to call you and not Rick Barron.”

  “Yes, I did, Ben. Tell me about it.”

  “This is for your ears only.”

  “Of course.”

  “My people arrested a medium-level mob guy a couple of days ago.”

  “He works for . . . ?”

  “He’s out of New York, the Genovese family. They were looking at him hard for two murders back East, and he came out here to reduce the heat.”

  “I see. And this affects us how?”

  “We’ve been sweating him, and he’s starting to play ball a little. He wants to go to Mexico, but we’re in his way, so we have some leverage with the guy.”

  “Go on.”

  “This guy has just come back from Naples, where he took a vacation, and where he spent a fair amount of time with Charlie Luciano.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah, it is. He says that during this time, he and Charlie Lucky fell into conversation about West Coast activities, and Charlie tells him, in the way of an anecdote, about a blackmail thing that Ben Siegel was running out here.”

  Eddie froze. “Are we talking about . . .”

  “We are.”

  “And Luciano said Ben Siegel was running it?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Did Stampano’s name come up?”

  “It did. Luciano said that Siegel was using Stampano for the legwork, the setting up of the girls.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “How much credence do you place in this guy’s story?”

  “I sat in on the interrogation and we went through this backward and forward, and I can’t see that this guy has any particular ax to grind with Siegel or anybody else out here. He’s just looking to get out from under. I think the subject came up because he was looking to entertain us a little.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s more. He says Siegel sent Rick and Glenna some flowers on their wedding day, with a message. You know anything about that?”

  “Yes, I saw them and the message myself.”

  “This guy says Siegel did that to get them to relax. Then, in due course he would get around to them. This guy says Siegel is still deeply angry about the busting up of his plans and the killing of his guy.”

  “I haven’t heard much about Siegel lately.”

  “He’s been spending his time up in Las Vegas. He bought this hotel and casino, and he’s expanding it—word is, with mob money.”

  “Yeah, I did hear something about that.”

  “We’ve had reports that Siegel has given up all his mob activity except this casino, but our guy says that’s not entirely true.”

  “What is true?”

  “Siegel flies back and forth to LA in a private airplane, makes him hard to keep track of at times. This guy says that soon, on one of his trips back, he’s going to personally settle the score for Stampano. Siegel has always been known to be a guy who holds a grudge forever.”

  “Personally?”

  “That’s what this guy says.”

  “And you think he’s credible?”
<
br />   “There’s no way to check this, of course, unless it’s finding Rick with a bullet in his head, but this guy has given us other stuff that’s been verifiable. I tend to believe him.”

  “Where is Siegel now?”

  “I hear he’s coming back to LA today, to meet with some people from New York. Seems he’s into a lot of cost overruns with the casino, and it’s not going down well with the boys putting up the money.”

  “Does Siegel still live in that house he made Lawrence Tibbet sell him?”

  “No, he had to sell the place to raise money for the casino. He lives at Virginia Hill’s house now, when he’s in LA.”

  “I know the place. Well, Ben, thank you very much for the information. I’ll see that you get a little something in the mail very soon.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Harris.”

  Eddie hung up and sat thinking for a moment, then he rooted around in his desk drawer for a slip of paper he knew was there somewhere. He found it and dialed the number. It rang several times then was finally answered.

  “This is Al,” a voice said.

  65

  RICK, DRESSED IN TENNIS CLOTHES, lay on a blanket in the backyard of his newly built house, watching, fascinated, as his two-year-old daughter ran through the grass chasing a retriever puppy. Both of them seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, he thought.

  He could see Glenna leaving the house with a tray of glasses, heading his way. She was past playing tennis now, being due for another child in a month, but Eddie and Suzanne Harris were expected, and they had said they were bringing a fourth.

  He loosened the brace on his knee a notch. He didn’t want it too tight, it would cut off the circulation. He’d been playing again for a month or so, and he was getting around the court quite well.

  Glenna set the tray on a nearby table. “They should be here soon, shouldn’t they?”

  “Soon.”

  “Your dad is coming at one, for lunch.”

  “Great.”

  Rick looked back toward the house and saw the Harrises and another couple coming. As they got closer, he saw that the man was David Niven. They had not seen each other since the war. He got to his feet.