by Stuart Woods
Peter laughed. “You betcha.”
“Then we’re on.”
“Noon, at my bungalow,” he said.
“See you then.”
Stone turned to Lara. “What time is your appointment at Centurion?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“I’ll give you a lift, then. I’m having lunch with Peter after you’re done.”
“Thanks, but they’re sending a car for me at ten.”
They finished breakfast, and the butler took away the debris. “Where were we?” he asked.
“What time is it?”
“Eight-ten.”
She climbed on top of him. “I like being on top,” she said.
“I like you being on top,” he replied, rising to the occasion.
She did the rest.
* * *
—
Stone arrived at Peter’s bungalow at Centurion Studios at noon.
“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” the receptionist said. “He’s in a meeting, be done shortly. Why don’t you have a seat in the garden?”
Stone strolled out back and took a chaise longue next to a fountain. The garden was soft and lovely, something new at the bungalow. He was about to doze off when voices woke him. He looked up to see Peter and his production partner, Ben Bacchetti, Dino’s son, walking into the garden with a young man and a young woman.
Stone and Peter hugged, then Stone and Ben.
“Dad,” Peter said, “this is Jeff Tatum and Lara Parks, the stars of our new film.”
Stone shook Jeff’s hand, then Lara’s. “Congratulations to both of you,” he said.
“Your father and I have met,” Lara said to Peter. “We’re neighbors at the Arrington.”
“Good. Dad, we’ve just invited these folks to dinner at our house,” Peter said. “Why don’t you join us?”
“What a good idea,” Stone said.
“Unfortunately, they both have plans for lunch, so say goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” Stone said, winking at Lara.
She winked back, and they left.
“Don’t tell me,” Peter said.
“Tell you what?”
“Never mind.”
“Bad news,” Peter said. “Leo Goldman is on his deathbed.” Goldman was the chairman and CEO of Centurion.
“I’m sorry to hear it. Leo’s a good man.”
“Yes,” Peter said, “he is. We’re planning to visit him in the hospice after lunch. Would you like to come with us?”
“Yes, I’ve always liked Leo, and I liked his father before him.”
“I, as well. But Ben is going to make a better CEO. Can we get him elected?”
“Well, if we put together my shares, your trust’s shares, Ben’s shares, and Strategic Service’s shares, we’ll have a narrow majority, I think. Congratulations, Ben.”
Ben threw up his hands. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “Bad luck.”
“You make your own luck,” Stone said. “Both of you always have.”
Stone’s phone went off and he looked at it for the caller: Dino. “It’s your old man,” he said to Ben. “Excuse me for a moment. Hello, Dino.”
“Yeah. You, too.”
“I’m with your son and mine.”
“Great, do you . . .”
“Did you hear that Leo Goldman is in the twilight of his life?”
“Yeah? Does that mean . . .”
“It does. You won’t have to support Ben anymore.”
That got a big laugh from Ben, whose income was a dozen times that of his father’s.
“Shut up and listen,” Dino said.
“I’m listening.”
“Art Jacoby, the detective from D.C. . . .”
“I remember.”
“I told you to shut up and listen.”
Stone said nothing.
“Hello? Are you there?”
“I’m following instructions,” Stone said.
“Okay, anyway, some guys from DCPD showed up here ten minutes ago with a warrant for his arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“I told you to shut up.”
Stone shut up.
“Are you there?”
Stone said nothing.
“He’s charged, along with his girlfriend, with the murder of Patricia Clark.”
“May I speak now?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Wow.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“Is this the girlfriend who was part of the threesome?”
“Yeah.”
“I have nothing else to say.” Dino hung up.
15
They finished a good lunch, then Peter’s secretary came outside. “Leo Goldman’s assistant called. Leo died a few minutes ago.”
There was an audible groan from everybody.
“Send some nice flowers to his house,” Peter said. “I don’t suppose we know anything about the funeral arrangements yet.”
“We know that Leo planned every detail of the funeral. The memorial service will be held in the executive auditorium, at three PM tomorrow, burial afterward at the little graveyard on the back lot, where studio VIPs rest, next to his father.”
“Fine,” Peter said.
Ben spoke up. “Make a note that when I kick off, I’m not to be buried there. I spent enough time in the boardroom with those guys.”
“Me, too,” Peter said. “Dad, where do you want to be buried?”
“I really haven’t given it any thought, but I’d like to be scattered, not buried, from the afterdeck of Breeze, within sight of my house in Dark Harbor, and anybody who won’t make the trip to Maine is no friend of mine. You can have a memorial service in New York, to give them an excuse for not coming.”
“You haven’t given it any thought at all, then?” Peter said.
“Not much.”
* * *
—
On the way home, Stone’s phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Lara. Now that I’ve got the job they’re kicking me out of the Arrington first thing tomorrow morning. I’m not looking forward to going back to my little apartment in Santa Monica.”
“So, why don’t you move in with me?” Stone suggested. “I’ll be here a little longer.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Yes, please.”
“Don’t wait for tomorrow. Pack, and I’ll send the butler over there for your luggage as soon as I get home.”
“I’ll need all of fifteen minutes,” she replied. “Bye.”
As she hung up, Stone’s phone rang again. “Yes?”
“It’s Dino. Shut up and listen.”
Stone sighed.
“Okay, Art Jacoby can’t get a decent lawyer.”
“Indigent?”
“No, shunned. Word has apparently gotten out through Little Debby. Any ideas?”
“Yeah. Where are they holding Art?”
“DCPD detention.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Stone hung up and called Herbie Fisher, a young partner at Woodman & Weld.
“Herb Fisher.”
“It’s Stone. You had a case that required you to qualify for practicing in D.C., didn’t you?”
“Yep,” Herbie said. “I’m still good to practice there. What happened, Holly get arrested?”
“No, she’s still a free woman, but she might as well be a prisoner, since she’s being held in Secret Service detention. There’s a guy named Art Jacoby, who . . .”
“I know him. He worked the case I was trying down there.”
“He’s been arrested for the murder of Patricia Clark.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I’ve gotten to know him, and I think it’s bul
lshit. You know Little Debby Myers?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“She and Donald Clark have been part of a threesome in the past.”
“Wow again. So you think he’s being framed?”
“Maybe, or maybe they’re just rattling his cage, to show him who’s in charge. They transferred him to New York, to get him out of the way, but he was still talking—to Dino and me. I’m sure there’ll be photographers waiting at the police helipad in D.C.”
“Okay, I’ll get a guy over there right now to deal with bail, and I’ll be in D.C. first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve got a thing I have to deal with here today.”
“Good enough. Let Joan know if Art needs bail money.” Stone hung up.
* * *
—
Lara was upstairs unpacking in the women’s dressing room in the master suite. She gave him a big kiss. “How was your lunch?”
“Fine. You know who Leo Goldman Jr. is?”
“Head of the studio? He wasn’t at our meeting.”
“He died while we were having lunch. He had been in a hospice for a couple of days.”
“I never met him, but I saw his name in the trades a lot.”
“Leo, like his father, liked to get his name in print.”
“What does that mean for Peter and Ben? I liked them. I hope Goldman’s death is not a problem for them.”
“It’s more of an opportunity, really. We’ll probably get Ben elected CEO at the next board meeting.”
“Do you have something to do with that?”
“I’m on the board, and I’m sure we can muster enough shareholders’ votes to get the board to appoint Ben. He’s pretty much been doing the job while Leo has been sick.”
“Good for Ben. What about Peter?”
“What’s good for Ben is good for Peter. They’ve been partners since they were kids. I don’t think Peter wants more executive work to do. He just wants to direct, and Ben still produces his pictures.”
Lara stripped down to nothing. “What should I wear this evening?”
“I like that outfit,” Stone said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“But for dinner, I guess something casually elegant.”
“I’ll aim for that.”
“There are some good shops in the hotel. Have a look over there, and charge whatever you like to me.”
“Wonderful.” She took his hand and led him to the bed, then started undressing him. “I need a new agent. You know anybody?”
“Probably. Who’s representing you now?”
“A guy named Guy Baxter is telling everybody he is, except he’s not.”
“Explain.”
“Somebody sent me to see him a couple of weeks ago, and he tried to get me to sign a contract, but I wouldn’t. I found him creepy. And if I think that, the studios probably do, too.” She curled up next to him and put her head on his shoulder.
“Did he arrange the appointment with Peter?”
“No, he didn’t even know about it. Jeff Tatum, my new leading man, told Peter about me, and they called. Jeff’s represented by a guy at CAA.”
“Who sent you to see this Guy Baxter?”
“A bartender at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I was having a drink with a girlfriend, and he waved Guy over and said, ‘This girl needs an agent.’”
“That was it?”
“All of it. Guy actually called Peter and asked to introduce me to him, but Peter smelled a rat, I think. I already had the appointment by that time, anyway.”
“Well, you want to get that out before your casting hits the trades,” Stone said. “When you’re done doing what you’re doing, write down his name and address, and I’ll dictate a letter to him, warning him off.”
“I think I’ll be finished very, very soon,” she said.
“I think you will, too,” Stone said.
16
Stone called Joan. “Take a letter, to one Guy Baxter:
Dear Mr. Baxter,
I am the attorney for Lara Parks, who has heard that you’ve been telling people that you represent her as an agent.
You do not represent her, nor has she authorized you to tell anyone that you do.
I am directed by Ms. Parks to tell you that, unless you cease and desist, forthwith, she will bring a legal action against you and send a copy of the writ to the various trade publications.
“Et cetera, et cetera. Then forge my signature, which you’re good at, and fax it to”—he held out his hand, and Lara gave him the agent’s card—“Guy Baxter.” He gave her the number.
“Got it. Anybody I know?”
“No, but you will. She’s the star of Peter’s new film.”
“I’ll have the fax out of here in ten minutes.”
“Bye.” Stone hung up.
“That sounded good,” Lara said.
“He may not give up. If he calls, don’t argue with him. Just tell him he does not represent you, then hang up.”
“Right.” She started dressing. By the time she had finished, her phone was ringing. “Hello? Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Baxter. You do not now nor have you ever represented me in any fashion.” She hung up. “You were right,” she said to Stone.
Immediately, Stone’s phone started to ring. He looked at his phone. “It’s Baxter. My secretary must have used a letterhead with this number on it. “Hello.”
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Guy Baxter, Lara Parks’s agent.”
“I said in my letter all that I have to say to you.”
“Did she tell you she signed a contract with me?”
“She did not, because she has not done so.”
“I’ll send you a copy,” he said. “You’re at the Arrington, right?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Baxter.” He hung up and turned to Lara. “Did you sign anything when you were in Baxter’s office?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Good.”
“Oh, he asked me for my autograph; I gave him that.”
“What kind of paper?”
“A blank sheet.” Her face fell. “Oh, God.”
“This complicates things. He’s going to send me a contract—a very unfavorable one, I suspect—and it will have your signature on it.”
“No, it won’t,” she said.
“You didn’t sign your name?”
“I gave him my autograph,” she said. “Not my signature. They’re different.”
“How so?”
“My autograph is sort of swirling, and carefully written, to be legible. My signature, as on the checks I write, is smaller, faster, and pretty much illegible.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Stone said. They got into an Arrington Bentley and were approaching the gate when a guard flagged them down. He rapped on Stone’s window.
“Yes?” Stone asked, rolling it down.
“Delivery for you, Mr. Barrington,” he said.
“Thank you.” Stone ripped open the envelope and switched on the reading lamp. “It’s the contract,” he said, leafing through it. “He says he’s not only your agent, but your personal manager, and that you’re paying him fifteen percent for agenting and twenty-five percent for managing, which includes signing your checks and paying your bills.” He showed her the contract. “Is that your signature or your autograph?”
“It’s my autograph,” Lara replied. “I can show you other examples of it on my head shots that I send out with replies to fan mail.”
“You get fan mail?”
“I’m on TV. I don’t get a lot of mail, but enough to have the pictures printed with my autograph on them. The network sends them out; it saves me a lot of time.”
“What are you on, on TV?”
“A series called
Trust Me, which is in the last of its four seasons. We shot the final two episodes last month, and they haven’t run yet.”
Stone called Joan. “Follow up to the fax,” he said.
Dear Mr. Baxter,
Your so-called contract bears Ms. Parks’s autograph, which is sent out to thousands of fans of her TV show by the network. This is not her legal signature and, as you know, her autograph is on a blank sheet of paper, which you have used to compose a fraudulent contract. This will be the first exhibit in her lawsuit against you, and I will see that the ethical standards committee of the bar association receives a copy of the contract, along with an autographed photograph.
“Thanks, Joan. Please get it out right away.”
“Will do.”
Stone hung up. “Lara, do you have an agent presently?”
“I did, but he retired a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t had time to look for a new one, and at the end of a series and before you get cast in something else is not the best time to look.”
They arrived at Peter’s house and were greeted by Peter, his wife, Ben, and Ben’s wife.
“Let me show you something,” Stone said, after they had sat down with a drink. He handed Baxter’s contract to Peter.
Peter scanned it. “This is awful,” he said. “I’m surprised any actor would sign such a thing.” He handed it to Ben.
“Lara didn’t sign it. She gave him her autograph—on a blank sheet of paper—and he hung the contract on it.”
“Terrible,” Ben agreed.
“I have a question for you both,” Stone said. “If you were an actress with an offer in hand for a film, who would you want as an agent?”
They looked at each other and, simultaneously, said, “Arlene Summers.”
“She’s a partner in a medium-sized agency called the Talent Stable.”
“I’d love to be with Arlene Summers,” Lara said.
“I’ll call her in the morning,” Peter said. “I think you two would get along.” He handed her the Baxter contract. “Show her this, and tell her how it came to be.”
“I’ll do that,” Lara said, tucking the contract into her handbag.
“I don’t see a lot of this sort of thing,” Ben said, “but I know it happens. Baxter is going to be looking for a payoff to let her out of this.”
