“I’m glad to help you,” he said.
“Be here tomorrow morning at nine. There’ll be a studio pass and a parking permit for you at the main gate.”
“I’ll see you then,” Teddy said, then rejoined the group. They were now watching the cowboy fire a Thompson submachine gun.
Their tour guide spoke up again. “Now we’ll go over to the studio commissary—that’s what our restaurant is called—for some refreshments,” he said, and everybody got back aboard the tram. They were driven to the commissary, and they filed into one end of the large room, where a table was set up with soft drinks and snacks. Teddy grabbed a Coke and a cookie and stepped away from the table to make room for the others. He cast an eye around the room, now half-empty after the lunch hour, and saw Peter Barrington and his friend sitting at a table talking.
There was a barrier between them, and Teddy walked to it. “Peter!” he called, and the young man turned and recognized him. He got up and came over.
“It’s Billy Burnett, isn’t it?”
“Barnett,” Teddy said, shaking hands.
“What brings you to Centurion?”
“I took the studio tour,” Teddy said, “and ended up with a job here.”
“Oh? Doing what?”
“Overhauling old rifles over at your armory. It’s just temporary—they’re shorthanded at the moment.”
Peter handed him one of his new cards. “When you catch up with the work, stop by and see me,” he said. “Call first, to be sure I’m there.”
The driver was calling his customers to reboard the tram, and Teddy turned to joined them. “Gotta go,” he said. “I’ll see you later.” He walked outside with the others and got aboard the tram. The woman he had been sitting next to had preceded him.
“I hear you got a job at the armory,” she said.
“I’m just going to help them out while they’re shorthanded,” Teddy replied. “I’m Billy Barnett.”
“I’m Margaret Talbot,” she said. “Call me Marge.”
The tram dropped them off at the parking lot. “Can I give you a lift?” Billy said.
“If you’re going anywhere near Santa Monica,” she replied. “I took a cab here.”
Billy put her into his rental car and aimed it toward Santa Monica. “You’re on my way,” he said. “That’s where I live.”
“I’ve only been in L.A. for a couple of weeks,” Marge said. “I’m an actress, and things were a little slow in New York, so I thought I’d try my luck out here.”
“Find anything so far?”
“I’ve had three auditions and one callback,” she said. “My agency in New York put me in touch with their L.A. office, so I didn’t have to worry about finding an agent.”
They drove on toward Santa Monica, chatting easily. Billy looked ahead down the street and saw a Porsche dealer. “Have you got time for a few minutes’ stop?” he asked. “I’m in the market for a car.”
“Sure, I’m not in a hurry.”
Teddy pulled into the dealership, and they walked past a line of sparkling new Porsches to the used-car lot. Something had caught his eye.
A salesman materialized next to them. “Can I show you something?” he asked.
“Let’s take a look at that old Speedster,” Teddy said, pointing at what was one of the first sports cars Porsche had made.
“Oh, she’s a beauty, isn’t she? She’s the 1958 D model. We picked her up at an auction—an estate was selling the car. The owner maintained it himself since new, and he knew what he was doing.”
Teddy got into the car, started it, and listened. He switched off the engine, walked around the car slowly, then popped the hood. The engine bay was clean and, in some places, polished. The haggling began.
The whole group, including the Tweeds, gathered for dinner on the terrace outside Stone’s house. It was a pleasant California evening, and everyone was relaxed and chatting, until Peter came to Stone.
“Guess who turned up at Centurion this afternoon.”
Stone stared at his son. “Billy Burnett?”
“Apparently I got his name wrong—it’s Barnett.”
“Tell me about this.”
“Ben and I had a late lunch at the studio commissary, and there was a tour group there, having Cokes and cookies. They’re there most days. Billy was among them. He called to me, and I went over and talked with him for a minute.”
“What did you talk about?” Stone asked.
“He told me he’d gotten a job at the studio armory. He described it as temporary.”
“Doing what?”
“Overhauling old rifles. I told him to call me when his work schedule allowed.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I figured you might like to get a look at him, to see if he’s this Teddy Fay guy.”
“You’re right, I would like to get a look at him.”
“If you’d like to see him sooner rather than later, I’ll take you to the armory.”
“I’ve seen it before,” Stone said, “on my first visit to the studio some years ago.”
“You travel with a gun, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Have something break, and we’ll take it to the armory to have it fixed.”
“Tomorrow?” Stone asked.
“I’m at the bungalow all day. Drop by, and I’ll take you to the armory, then we’ll have lunch.”
“You’re on,” Stone said.
• • •
Teddy drove up to Sunset in his new Speedster with Marge Talbot beside him. The top was down and rush hour was over on Sunset Boulevard, so Teddy drove all the way down to the Pacific Coast Highway and turned north. “Feel like some dinner?” he asked Marge. “I saw an ad for a Greek restaurant that sounded interesting.”
“Sure, I’d like that,” she said. “This is a delightful car.”
“I’ve always wanted one,” Teddy said, “but the time never seemed right until now.” He shifted up, and the little car flew along the highway, with the ocean yards to their left. Marge’s hair was wild in the wind, but she didn’t seem to mind.
Teddy drove into Malibu and turned right into the shopping area. He found the restaurant, and they dined outside on the porch. Teddy felt really comfortable with this woman. He answered her questions with the same answers he had given Charmaine. It made life simpler.
They finished dinner, and Teddy drove Marge home, only a few blocks from his new apartment.
“Where do you live?” Marge asked.
“Over that way a few blocks. Next time I’ll cook you some dinner.”
“That would be a refreshing change,” she said. “No man has ever cooked dinner for me before.”
He drove her home to half of an old California duplex, gave her a light kiss on the lips, and went home to his new penthouse.
• • •
The following morning, Teddy arrived at the studio armory at the stroke of nine, and Jim Garver was ready for him; he had cleared the workbench and lined all the Winchester 73s up on a rack beside it. There were four boxes of spare parts on the other end of the bench.
“This is all the parts we’ve got,” Jim said. “Let me know if you have to make any, and I’ll find you the right material. There’s an apron right over there, unless you’d like some coveralls.”
“I’m fine with the apron,” Teddy replied. “Why don’t I get to work?”
“Have at it, and call me if you need anything,” Jim said, then left him alone with the guns and tools.
• • •
It was nearly noon when Teddy heard someone at the door behind him.
“Billy?”
He turned to find Peter Barrington at the door, and his father, Stone, standing beside him. “Good morning, Peter,” he said. He wiped his hands clean, walked to the door, and shook hands.
“This is my father, Stone Barrington,” Peter said.
“How you doing?” Teddy asked, offering his best smile with his new dental veneers.
/> “Very well,” Stone replied, shaking hands. “I’ve got a little problem with my Colt Government .380, and Peter said I might get it looked at here.” He removed the small handgun from its holster, popped out the magazine, and locked the slide open, then handed it to Teddy, butt first.
“I’ll have a look,” Teddy said. “Have you ever handled a Winchester 73?”
“No, I haven’t,” Stone replied.
Teddy handed him the weapon he had just finished. “The rifle that won the West,” he said.
Stone hefted the rifle and sighted down the barrel. “Feels nice.”
“I think it’s my favorite rifle,” Teddy said. “They’ve got nearly a hundred of them—replicas, made in Italy, and they’re showing their age. They hired me to overhaul them, and when I’m done, they’ll get another fifty years out of them.” He stripped the little Colt. “I’ve always liked this gun, too—feels good in the hand, and a .380 is all you need, if you can hit what you aim at.” He stripped the weapon and did something to it, then returned it to Stone. “There you go—just a little adjustment.”
Stone returned the magazine to the pistol and holstered it. “Peter said you told him we knew each other from somewhere.”
“We met once, at Elaine’s—I don’t know, a dozen years ago. She introduced us. I didn’t remember it until I saw your name mentioned in a Vanity Fair piece.”
“Ah, yes, that. Where’d you learn your gunsmithing?”
“I used to belong to a Western shooting club, back home in New York State, and I took it up then.”
“Thanks very much for your help. Good to meet you, Teddy.”
“It’s Billy,” Teddy said. “Billy Barnett.” He smiled and turned back to the workbench.
• • •
Stone and Peter left the armory and got into Peter’s golf cart. “Well?” Peter asked.
Stone shook his head. “It’s a different man,” he said. “Younger, fitter, and Teddy wore a toupee, I think. This guy has a firmer jaw and his own hair. And he didn’t bat an eye when I called him Teddy.”
“You’re right, he didn’t,” Peter said, steering the cart toward the commissary.
• • •
They had just finished lunch when they saw Billy Barnett walk into the commissary with another man.
“That’s Jim Garver, who runs the armory,” Peter said.
“You know,” Stone said, “I’m both relieved that Billy is not Teddy and disappointed.”
“Why disappointed?”
“I don’t know,” Stone replied. “Maybe I’m just looking for some excitement.”
Pete Genaro was giving Yuri Majorov a personal tour of the new poker room at the casino.
“Very nice,” Majorov said, as if he couldn’t care less. “But what matters is the quality of the players.”
“Well, this week, we’ve got Memphis Slim coming in for a few days, and there’s Buck Thompson, from Montana. Next week it’s all Texans.”
“Any of them ever win any money?”
“We had a fellow in here a week or ten days ago who took sixty thousand from what I thought of as a hot group. Name of Billy Burnett.”
Majorov stopped walking. “Say that name again.”
“Billy Burnett.”
“From where?”
“L.A., he says, but he’s kind of a mystery man. I ran his identity, and he’s real, but his background is pretty skimpy. Looks like he’s spent his life flying under the radar.”
“I would like to meet this gentleman,” Majorov said, and his tone did not sound like a request.
“I tracked him down to a hotel in Los Angeles, Shutters, in Santa Monica, but then we lost him. I even sent one of our best VIP ladies down to see him, but then he just went poof.”
“I’d like you to find him,” Majorov said. “And I’d like to talk to this lady you mentioned. Right now.”
• • •
Charmaine tapped on Pete Genaro’s office door and stifled a yawn. Pete had woken her from a sound sleep.
“Come in.”
She opened the door and walked in. That Russian, Majorov, was sitting on the sofa, and the sight of him gave her the willies. She was afraid of the man; she didn’t know exactly why, but she was.
“Have a seat, Charmaine. You met Mr. Majorov, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she chirped, and took a chair, primly crossing her legs.
“Charmaine, have you heard from Billy Burnett again?”
“Not yet,” she said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if he called.”
“Call him,” Majorov said.
“I tried, but his phone had been disconnected. I think he uses throwaway cell phones.”
“Is there any other way you can contact him?” Majorov asked.
“No, sir; he checked out of Shutters, his hotel in Santa Monica. He flies his own airplane, so he could be anywhere.”
“His tail number is N123TF?”
“Yessir, that sounds right. Maybe you can trace him that way.”
“We’re working on that,” Majorov said. “That will be all, young lady, but if you hear from Mr. Burnett, I want to know about it immediately, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Thank you, Charmaine,” Genaro said.
Charmaine left Genaro’s office, walking fast. She turned into the nearest ladies’ room, stepped into a booth, and threw up into the toilet. She checked her makeup and hair in the mirror, then went back to the little room in the hotel where she rested between shifts. She took a deep breath, then called Billy.
“Hello?”
“It’s Charmaine.”
“Hi, there.”
“That man, Majorov. I … I …”
“Hey, take it easy,” Teddy said. “Take a few deep breaths and relax.”
She did as instructed. “Pete Genaro called me into his office, and Majorov was there. He started grilling me about you.”
“That’s all right. You couldn’t have told him anything that would hurt me.”
“What does he want with you, Billy?”
“I had a little run-in with some people who work for him. They tried to kill me, in fact.”
“And how did you handle that?”
“By staying alive,” he said. “That’s why I came to L.A., to get rid of them.”
“Majorov said they’re tracking your airplane.”
“Don’t worry, that won’t work.”
“Billy, I got the impression that Majorov is deadly serious about finding you, and they’re putting a lot of pressure on me to help.”
“Then do anything they ask you to do—just let me know about it.”
“At this number?”
“Got a pencil?”
“Yes.”
“Write down a new number.” He gave it to her. “Then wait a little while, and tell Genaro that you heard from me. Give him the number we’re talking on now. They may check your iPhone for recent calls from this number, so delete them all but this one. Find a Radio Shack and buy a throwaway cell phone, then call me at the new number from that phone, next time you want to talk.”
“All right.”
“I think we’d better cool it for a while, until the heat from Majorov is off.”
“I think so, too.”
“Call me whenever you like, but do it from the throwaway. I’d certainly like to know if you have any further contact with Majorov.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Just relax and live your life as usual.”
“I miss you,” she said.
“I miss you, too,” Teddy replied. “We’ll get together again, don’t worry. I’ll call you in a few days on the throwaway number.”
They both hung up, and Charmaine stretched out on the bed and tried to nap, but she couldn’t stop trembling.
Todd German arrived at Los Angeles International, rented a car, and, using the onboard GPS system, drove to Shutters and checked in. He hung up his clothes, then went online and fou
nd a Santa Monica funeral parlor advertising basic services and had a short conversation with them about services and rates. He told them he’d call back later in the day.
That done, he went down to the garage and drove to the West Los Angeles police station. He gave the name of the detective he had spoken to, and after a fifteen-minute wait, a skinny, sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties appeared.
“My name is Detective Sanders,” he said. “Please come with me.”
He was escorted to a small room containing only a table and four chairs. He was told to have a seat, and Sanders left. He came back ten minutes later with another man, short, dark, and muscular. Gym rat, Todd figured. The man’s name was Gonzales.
“Mr. German,” Sanders said, tossing a thin file folder on the table, “what is your connection to Igor Smolensky?”
“I believe we went over that on the phone,” Todd replied.
“Go over it again for me,” Gonzales said. “Please.”
“We both work for Amalgamated Enterprises, in Phoenix. Mr. Smolensky was my immediate superior.”
“What kind of company is that?”
“It’s an international conglomerate made up of about three dozen businesses in various countries.”
“Any of these businesses connected to any kind of criminal organization?”
Todd made a show of looking surprised. “Of course not. Neither Mr. Smolensky nor I would be employed there, if that were the case.”
“Reason we ask,” Sanders said, “is the circumstances of Mr. Smolensky’s death fit a pattern associated with criminality. He was lured from his room down into the garage. He left so quickly that he didn’t even bother to put his ID or money in his pockets. He was disarmed—he was found with a semiautomatic pistol—placed in the trunk of his car, and shot in the head with a small-caliber weapon. His death had all the hallmarks of a mob killing.”
“If that’s so, then there must have been a case of mistaken identity,” Todd said. “Igor was a straight arrow. He belonged to the Phoenix Kiwanis Club, for God’s sake.”
“How about you, Mr. German? Do you have any criminal associations?”
“Certainly not.”
“Now that Mr. Smolensky is dead, are you going to get his job?”
“I don’t know—it’s possible, I guess, or they could send someone in from the outside. I’ve been there less than a year.”
Doing Hard Time (Stone Barrington) Page 10
