by Stuart Woods
“I can’t deny that,” Stone said, “any more than I can extricate myself from your clutches.”
She tightened a few muscles and accentuated the clutch.
“How do you do that?” Stone asked, breathing faster.
“Practice,” she said, doing it again.
They continued in that fashion until they both came noisily. She gave him a wet kiss, then rolled off him.
“I still can’t seem to move,” Stone said, “but for entirely different reasons than before.”
“Then I’ll move first,” she said, getting out of bed and padding, naked, toward the bathroom.
Stone watched the body that had graced dozens of movies float across the room. He was either a very lucky man or doomed-he wasn’t sure which. He waited impatiently for her to get into the shower, then ran into the bathroom and, with a sigh of relief, let go.
“Join me?” she called from the shower.
He looked over at the half-misted glass door and watched for a moment. “Oh, what the hell,” he said, flushing, then opening the door and stepping in.
“Scrub my back?” she asked, handing him a brush.
He scrubbed her back.
“I’ll do yours, too,” she said, turning and reaching around him, pressing her body against his.
He marveled at how she could keep him interested, even after what they had just done in bed. He managed to extricate himself and found them robes.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
“Eggs Benedict, please.”
Stone called Manolo and ordered the dish for both of them. They managed to get dressed before breakfast arrived, Charlene in a minidress she had tucked in her large handbag.
Dino joined them in the garden.
Charlene kissed him loudly on the ear. “Good morning, Dino,” she said.
“What’s that you say?” Dino asked, feigning deafness.
“Easy, you two,” Stone said. “Charlene, tell me about this guy who runs the Prince hedge fund.”
“His name is Prince,” she said.
“Just one name, like the singer?”
“First name, Terry. There are rumors about how he got the money to start the fund.”
“Tell me.”
“You remember, some years ago, there was a guy named Prince running a huge drug business based in the Colombian jungle, way up the Amazon?”
“Yeah, the Colombian army raided it, didn’t they?”
“Yes, and Prince was killed when he ran in front of a small airplane that was taking off.”
“So it’s not the same guy?”
“Terry is that guy’s younger brother,” she said. “Nobody’s been able to prove it, but it’s been talked around that his original money came out of that drug operation-a hundred million, or so. Then he got very lucky investing in films, two of them enormous worldwide hits that each took in over half a billion each. He used his profits to start the hedge fund and got a lot of Hollywood money invested with him. I had a couple of million in the fund, but I took it out shortly before the last market crash.”
“You’re a smart girl,” Stone said.
“No, I wasn’t smart; I invested in two films that I expected big things of.”
“How’d you do?”
“One made money, one flopped; I just about broke even.”
“Tell me more about Prince.”
“He started a hotel group and bought four or five superluxury hostelries around the country. He was hot after the Bel-Air, where you’ve stayed, but he got outbid.”
“What’s the word on him now?”
“Well, he’s left the drug money rumors behind him, and seems to be squeaky clean these days. He wants to put a new, super hotel on the Centurion property, along with some houses and condos and office buildings, sort of like a bigger, fancier Centurion City.”
“So he’s not interested in the studio as a business?”
“Apparently, the production end has never excited him; he just wants to make money.”
“Do you know him?” Stone asked.
“I didn’t until he went after Centurion; then he made a point of meeting me and pitching for my shares. He’s very charming and persuasive.”
“Is he the sort of guy who might kill to get his hands on Centurion’s property?”
Charlene stopped eating. “You mean like murdering Jennifer Harris to get her shares?”
“It crossed my mind.”
Charlene shook her head. “He doesn’t strike me as the type. I mean, if he doesn’t get Centurion, he’ll just move on to another project. He’s a businessman.”
“I hope you’re right,” Stone said. “That will make him easier to deal with.”
Manolo brought Stone a phone.
Stone picked it up. “Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Rick Barron. It’s been a while since you were out here; I thought you might like to take a look at Centurion this morning.”
“I’d like that, Rick,” Stone replied. “Any news on the cause of death of Jennifer Harris?”
“We’ll talk about that when I see you. Come to my office at eleven, and bring Dino; I’ll buy you both lunch.”
“See you then,” Stone replied, then hung up. “Dino, we’re invited to the studio by Rick Barron for a tour of the place and lunch. You available?”
“Do I look busy?” Dino asked.
7
The guard at Centurion’s main gate took Stone’s name, then placed a pass on the dashboard of his rented Mercedes and waved him through.
“How do we know where to meet Rick?” Dino asked.
“You forget, I’ve been here before,” Stone said. “His office will be in the main administrative building.” He made a turn, pulled into the parking lot, and left the car in a guest slot.
At the main reception desk they were directed to an elevator that opened into a paneled area and were met by a middle-aged woman in a smart business suit.
“Mr. Barrington? Mr. Bacchetti? I’m Grace Parsons, Mr. Barron’s executive assistant. Please follow me.”
They walked past half a dozen people working at desks and into a small sitting room, then through double doors into a large office, where Rick Barron was seated at his desk, talking on the telephone. He waved them to a seating area with comfortable chairs, finished his conversation, then joined them.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, sinking into an armchair. “I trust you slept well.”
“I did,” Dino replied. “I can’t speak for Stone.”
“Very well, thank you,” Stone said, ignoring Dino.
“I was just on the phone with a homicide detective of my acquaintance,” Rick said, “a Lieutenant Joe Rivera. Jennifer Harris’s death is being treated as a natural one, but Joe is going to see that the medical examiner takes a closer look.”
“I see we’re on the same page,” Stone said. “Do you think this Prince fellow is capable of murder to get what he wants?”
Rick shrugged. “Who knows?” He shifted positions and looked thoughtful. “I used to be a cop,” he said. “I was a homicide detective, too, until I got busted by a captain whose niece I was seeing.” He threw up his hands. “Oh, hell, whose niece I got pregnant. That’s how I got into the movie business.”
Stone frowned. “By getting a girl pregnant?”
“You might say that. It’s what got me demoted to sergeant and put back in a patrol car. It was patrol duty that got me into the movie business.”
“I’m not following,” Stone said.
“Of course not,” Rick said. “I was sitting in my patrol car one night in 1939, parked just off Sunset, trying to stay awake, when I heard the howl of the supercharger on a powerful automobile. I looked up just in time to see a Model A Ford coupe run a stop sign and start across Sunset, just in time for a Mercedes SS to plow into it and send it tumbling down the boulevard. The coupe came to rest upside down, and the Mercedes veered left into a high hedge.
“I checked the coupe first and found the female driver dea
d, then I ran over and checked on the Mercedes. The driver had been thrown out and into the hedge, and I thought I recognized him. Then it came to me: his name was Clete Barrow, and he was Centurion’s biggest star. He was conscious, but very drunk. He handed me a little black book and said, ‘Call Eddie Harris.’ I knew who Harris was, of course. I got him out of bed, and he told me to get Barrow out of there and to Centurion Studios before anybody else saw him.
“I got him into my car and turned the accident scene over to another sergeant who showed up and who knew the score with movie stars. I got Barrow to the studio, to his bungalow, where a doctor was waiting to examine him, and Harris showed up a few minutes later. The doctor pronounced Barrow well, except for a black eye, and he asked Eddie if he wanted a blood sample taken. Eddie said sure and told me to roll up my sleeve.”
Stone and Dino burst out laughing.
“One thing led to another, and I found myself head of security for the studio, and everything grew from there.”
“That’s a hell of a story,” Dino said.
“Nothing is stranger than real life,” Rick said.
“And then you found yourself in the navy?” Stone asked.
“I didn’t find myself there; I fled to the navy after murdering a man.”
Stone and Dino were stunned into silence.
“His name was Chick Stompano, a mobster connected to Bugsy Siegel who liked to hurt women. He made the mistake of beating up Glenna. I had already talked to a naval recruiting officer, knowing that I’d have to go, and I’d had my physical. I went to Stompano’s house, rang the bell, and when he came out I shot him in the head. I was at the door of the recruiting office when it opened that morning, and before noon I had been sworn in and was on a bus for Officer Candidate School in San Diego, thence to Pensacola, Florida, for flight training.”
“There’s nothing stranger than real life,” Dino said.
“By the time I was invalided out, in ’44, with a shot-up knee, the whole business had blown over.”
“No repercussions?” Stone asked.
“Just one. When Glenna and I got married, a huge floral arrangement was delivered with a card from Ben Siegel, which I took as an overt threat. I don’t know all the details, but I know that Eddie Harris made a call to a guy named Al, who owned a gun store and who was said to do contract killings on the side.
A day or two later, Siegel was shot dead with a Browning Automatic Rifle, and the mob got the blame, because Siegel’s girl had been stealing from them, and they held him responsible.”
“Wow,” Dino said softly.
Rick stood up. “Let’s get some lunch,” he said, leading the way out of his office and down to the parking lot, where they got into a golf cart. Rick drove them down studio streets, past the huge soundstages. People in the streets wearing odd costumes-cowboys, policemen, showgirls-made way for Rick’s cart.
“This is what Prince wants to destroy, so that he can build a hotel,” Rick said, waving an arm. “It took me and others more than half a century to build this, and if Prince wins, it will be gone in a month, and so will the movies that would have been made here.”
He parked the cart outside the Studio Commissary and led them inside. The place was packed with producers and actors, some of them in costume. Stone, Dino, and Rick were seated at Rick’s reserved corner table, and a waitress brought menus.
“I had heard of this fellow Prince,” Rick said, “but I had never met him, until he came to see me one day. He didn’t bother with the CEO, he came straight to me, and he told me he was going to buy this studio. He was brazen; he didn’t ask me if we wanted to sell, he just told me, as if it were a fait accompli. I’m afraid I didn’t react very well. I told him to get out of my office, or I’d have security throw him out.”
“That’s one way to begin a negotiation,” Stone said.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” Rick replied.
“Everything is a negotiation,” Stone said. “You and Prince were just staking out your opening positions.”
“I suppose you could look at it that way,” Rick said. “Maybe I’m getting too old to deal with something like this.”
“It seems to me you’re doing a pretty good job of dealing with it,” Stone said. “You haven’t folded yet, and you may not have to.”
“On the other hand…” Rick said.
“Let’s not look at the other hand, until we have to,” Stone said.
8
After lunch they got into Rick’s electric cart, and he took them back via a different route, to show them more standing sets.
They passed down a tree-lined, small-town street, lined with comfortable houses.
“They’re just facades,” Rick said, “nothing behind them. If we did a shot of someone walking through a front door we then cut to a shot on a soundstage of him entering the living room.”
They came to a small city square with a park in the middle and a courthouse facing it. The rest of the square was shops, a department store, and a corner drugstore with a lunch counter. Then Rick turned a corner, and they were in New York.
“Wow,” Dino said, “this gives me chills; it’s like the beats I used to walk. You’ve got street lamps, fireplugs, the works.”
“The fireplugs operate, too,” Rick said. “We have our own firehouse with two trucks.”
Soon they were back at the admin building, standing next to Stone’s rented Mercedes. “Thank you for lunch and the tour, Rick,” Stone said.
Dino thanked him, too.
“What’s your next move?” Rick asked Stone.
“I’m doing some due diligence on the investment Arrington is looking at, and I think I’d better meet Terrence Prince,” he said.
“I’d give you an introduction,” Rick said, “except that he and I are not really on speaking terms, and he might view you as my representative, instead of Arrington’s.”
“That’s all right,” Stone said, “I won’t need an introduction.”
They shook hands, and Stone and Dino got into the car.
“I know Joe Rivera at the LAPD,” Dino said. “I gave him some help on the extradition of a fugitive a couple of years ago. You want me to talk to him about Jennifer Harris?”
“Good idea,” Stone said. He got out his iPhone and Googled Prince Investments. “Wilshire Boulevard,” Stone said. “Drop me there. Then you can have the car.”
“How will you get back to Arrington’s house?” Dino asked.
“I’ll improvise,” Stone replied. He made his way to Wilshire. It was easy to find Prince’s offices, since the name was emblazoned at the top of the tall building. Stone got out, and Dino got behind the wheel. “See you later,” Stone said, and walked into the building.
A large reception desk blocked access to the elevators, and it was manned by uniformed security officers. Stone noted that they were armed.
“May I help you?” a beefy officer asked.
“Yes, I’m here to see Terrence Prince; my name is Stone Barrington.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the man asked.
“No, but Mr. Prince will see me. Let me speak to his secretary.”
The officer dialed a number, then handed the phone to Stone.
“May I help you?” the woman asked in the voice reserved for handling nut cases.
“Yes, my name is Stone Barrington; I’m an attorney from New York, and I represent Arrington Calder. I’d like to see Mr. Prince, please.”
“Does Mr. Prince know you?”
“Not yet,” Stone replied. “Please tell him what I said.”
“Please hold.” She clicked off, and a string quartet kept Stone company. She came back on. “Let me speak to the officer,” she said.
Stone handed the phone to the man, who listened, then hung up. He would either get an appointment or the bum’s rush.
“Please go to the fortieth floor,” the man said, pointing at an elevator with a guard standing in front of it. “You’ll be met.” He waved to the guard.
“Mr. Barrington? I’m Carolyn Blaine. Please follow me.”
“My pleasure,” Stone replied. The view of her from behind was very good. As they crossed the open area, lighted from both ends by floor-to-ceiling windows, Stone reflected that Prince had devoted several hundred square feet of very expensive office space to impressing his visitors.
They passed a dozen offices with glass fronts and closed doors, then a large conference room where a dozen people sat around an acre of mahogany table. Somebody was exhibiting a large chart on a huge, flat-screen monitor. Finally they came to a pair of tall doors. Ms. Blaine placed her right palm on a glass plate and tapped a code into a keypad; then, with a click, one of the doors opened. Stone was faced with a pale mahogany partition containing a large Picasso from his Blue Period. Fifty to a hundred million, he thought. Blaine led him around the partition into a large room with a large desk, large windows, and large furniture. A large man in a pale yellow linen suit stood and began walking around the desk, talking, apparently to himself.
“I have to go,” he said. “Get it done, then get back to me.” He removed a clear plastic microphone boom from his ear and tossed it onto the desk; then he held out a hand. “Mr. Barrington,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting you, though I knew, of course, that you were in town.” He was six-three or -four, of athletic build, and with a mop of blond hair that fell across his forehead. His hand was large and hard.
Stone shook it. “How do you do, Mr. Prince?”
“I do very well,” Prince replied. “Please come and have a seat,” he said, leading Stone toward a seating area, backed by a wall containing a single, very large Rothko oil, one of those that always reminded Stone of an atomic blast. “Would you like some refreshment?”
“Perhaps some iced tea,” Stone replied.
“Of course. Carolyn? I’ll have the same.”
