by Stuart Woods
The front door was ajar, and Eagle called out to Susannah.
"Come in," she shouted from the kitchen, "and go into the living room. Ramon will get you a drink."
A houseman in a white jacket and black bow tie appeared and led them into a large living room off the central hallway. He took their drink orders and prepared them inside what appeared to be a large armoire, which was actually the entrance to a roomy bar.
A moment later, Susannah joined them. "Did you all meet?" she asked.
"We did," Eagle replied.
Ramon handed her a drink, and she joined them. "I'm glad you're in time for the sunset," she said, and they all turned toward the large windows to see a lurid sky with a sun sinking behind the Jemez mountains.
"Los Alamos is right up there," Susannah said, pointing. "Where the atom bomb was built."
"Which saved a lot of lives," Eagle said, "in addition to snuffing out a lot of others. Were you in World War II, Rick?" he asked the movie producer.
"I was," Barron replied. "I flew fighters off the carrier Saratoga, until I got a knee shot up over Guadalcanal. That got me sent home, so I wasn't one of the lives saved by the bomb."
Glenna spoke up. "I was actually able to see Rick aboard the Saratoga," she said, "the day before he was wounded."
"What on earth were you doing aboard an aircraft carrier in the middle of a shooting war?" Eagle asked.
"I came aboard with the Artie Shaw Orchestra," she said. "I was their singer on a USO tour."
"I was just a bit surprised to see her," Rick laughed.
They talked on until they were called to dinner.
AFTER DINNER SUSANNAH led them to a paneled library across the central hallway from the living room and served Eagle and Barron coffee and brandy, then she took Glenna on a tour of the house.
"I'm aware of your domestic difficulties," Barron said.
"Oh? Is word getting around?"
"Not really, but I have my sources. In the circumstances I might be able to suggest a solution."
"Do you have a lot of experience in resolving marital problems, Rick?"
"No, but I have a lot of other kinds of experience. Let me tell you a story: As a young man I was an officer in the Beverly Hills Police Department, and late one warm June evening in 1939, I was parked in a patrol car just off Sunset Boulevard when I heard something very loud and very fast approaching from the direction of the Sunset Strip. I looked up to see a Ford coupe on the other side of the boulevard run a stop sign and drive onto Sunset, directly into the path of a black Mercedes sports car doing, I don't know, sixty or seventy, I guess, and the sports car struck the Ford, spinning it around and pretty much totaling it. The Mercedes continued until it jumped the curb and came to rest in a hedge half a block away.
"I jumped out of the patrol car and checked the Ford: there was a very dead woman inside. Then I ran to the Mercedes and found that the driver, who had been thrown clear and landed in the hedge, looked very familiar. I suddenly realized he was the movie star Clete Barrow."
"I remember his films well," Eagle said. "He was killed in the war, wasn't he?"
"Yes, but that's another story. In those days, the Beverly Hills PD was very protective of movie people, and there were rules- unwritten-about how to do it. Barrow gave me the number of a man named Eddie Harris, who was a bigwig at Centurion Studios, and, after I'd put Barrow in the back of my patrol car and radioed in the report of the accident, and a sergeant had arrived, I called Harris and was told to bring Barrow to the studio.
"That I did, and Harris and a doctor were waiting in Barrow's bungalow dressing room. He was okay, and they took a sample of my blood to substitute for Barrow's, who was quite drunk, and so I helped my superiors and the studio cover up the whole business. That's just the way things were done in those days. The woman had been at fault, for running the stop sign, after all.
"Anyway, as a result of my performance that evening, Eddie Harris hired me as head of security for the studio. Part of my job- the biggest part-was protecting the actors and actresses under contract as well as the name of the studio. Glenna was an actress there, and that's how we met.
"Shortly after I came to work for Centurion, Eddie Harris gave me the name of someone who was willing to perform rather extreme services, when conditions became extreme and there was no other way. As it turned out, I had known the man for years. His name was Al Moran, and he ran a gun shop where all the cops bought their weapons."
"Did you ever employ Al's services?" Eagle asked.
"I did, but not his most extreme services; that came later and was not my doing. There was a gangster-a mafioso, you'd call him today-named Chick Stampano, who worked for Ben 'Bugsy' Siegel, and he loved going out with movie actresses. He also loved beating them up, and that made me very angry, especially when he became a threat to Glenna."
"What did you do about it?"
Barron took some money from his pocket and handed Eagle a hundred-dollar bill. "I wish to retain you to represent me as my attorney."
Eagle smiled. "All right," he said, putting the money in his pocket, "I'm your lawyer, and attorney-client confidentiality is in full effect."
"I confronted Stampano, more than once, and finally, I beat him up pretty good. He reacted by taking it out on Glenna. At that point, I was ready to call Al Moran and employ his most extreme services, but I didn't."
"What did you do?"
"Left no other alternative, I went over to Stampano's house with a gun, and when he came out the door with his own gun, I killed him."
"Wow," Eagle breathed.
"Then, by previous arrangement, I joined the navy. It was summer 1941, with Pearl Harbor still to come. Clete Barrow had been killed at Dunkirk the year before, and I was about to be a wanted man. After flight training-I was already a pilot-I served out my hitch in the Pacific, and came home and married Glenna. Eddie Harris and a couple of my friends on the police force had arranged for the Stampano killing to remain unsolved."
"That's quite a story," Eagle said.
"There's more," Barron replied. "On our wedding day, in 1947, we received an over-the-top floral arrangement from Bugsy Siegel, and Eddie Harris took that as a threat. Siegel was, apparently, still angry at me for killing one of his proteges. Eddie didn't tell me about this until years later, when he was dying, but what he did was call Al Moran. Al took a Browning automatic rifle over to Virginia Hill's house-she was Siegel's girlfriend-then he sat outside and fired a burst through a window at Bugsy Siegel."
"Are you kidding me, Rick?" Eagle asked. "I thought the Mafia killed Siegel after Virginia Hill stole a lot of money from the Flamingo casino."
"That's what the preponderance of opinion was at the time," Rick replied. "But Al Moran killed Siegel for Eddie Harris, who did it for Glenna and me."
"And who else knows this?"
"Certainly not Glenna, and you should never mention it to her or anybody else while either of us is alive. Eddie Harris is dead, so now only you and I know. And Al Moran, of course. He's still alive."
"And why are you telling me all this, Rick?"
"Because Al, although he's retired, has two sons, who still run his gun shop, and they are known by a select few people to perform the same services Al did."
Eagle didn't say anything.
"From what I've heard of your present circumstances, it may not be possible, in the end, to deal with your wife in the conventional manner, through the courts." He handed Eagle a card. "Should it come to that, call Al; his number is on the back of my card. Tell him I sent you."
The women were approaching from down the hall, chatting loudly.
Eagle took a sip of his drink and stood up for the entrance of the women. "I don't believe it will ever come to that," he said quietly, "but thank you, Rick, for your concern."
Eagle put the card into his pocket.
Forty-eight
ON THE FLIGHT TO SAN DIEGO, VlTTORIO WAS LEAFING through a copy of Vanity Fair, when he came across an article abou
t West Coast spas, which included a long description of La Reserve, in La Jolla. There was a good deal written about the spa's reputation for privacy and seclusion, and it occurred to him that he was not going to be able to just walk into the place and take a look around for Barbara.
He picked up the airphone at his seat and called La Reserve.
"Good afternoon, La Reserve," a British-accented woman's voice said.
Vittorio made an effort to sound charming. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'm on an airplane to San Diego right now, and I read the Vanity Fair piece that included your spa. It sounds just wonderful."
"I assure you it is, Mr…"
"Breckinridge, Victor Breckinridge," Vittorio replied. It was an alias he sometimes used when traveling, and he had documents and a credit cart to support it. "I wonder if you might have a room available tonight?"
"For how long, Mr. Breckinridge?"
"Let's say two nights, but if I can get my business done in an expeditious fashion, I might be able to extend my stay."
"Let's see, the only thing we have available right now is Willow Cottage, one of our smaller units. The rate is eight hundred dollars a night, not including meals or services, of course."
Vittorio gulped, but he was, after all, paying with Barbara's money. "That sounds perfect," he said.
"And what time may we expect you, Mr. Breckinridge?"
"I should think in the late afternoon."
"May I schedule a massage for your arrival? Say, six o'clock in your cottage?"
"Thank you, yes."
"We'll look forward to greeting you in the late afternoon," the woman said.
"Good-bye."
Vittorio called a rental car company and asked what luxury cars were available. He booked a Jaguar.
AFTER LANDING AND GETTING the Jaguar, Vittorio drove into La Jolla, a place he had never visited, and looked for an upscale men's shop. He could hardly walk into La Reserve dressed in his usual black outfit, looking as though he was about to scalp somebody. He found a Polo/Ralph Lauren shop and bought a lightweight jacket and some colorful polo shirts as well as a dress shirt and tie. He asked directions to La Reserve, then, dressed in his new clothes, he arrived there at half past five.
A bellman whisked his luggage away and directed him to the desk in the sitting room, where a handsome, middle-aged woman sat. "Good afternoon," he said, "I'm Victor Breckinridge. We spoke on the phone earlier today."
"Of course, Mr. Breckinridge. Please have a seat, and let's get you registered. My name is Mrs. Creighton."
"How do you do?"
Shortly a slender young man appeared at the desk and was introduced as Mr. Wilson. He conducted Vittorio to Willow Cottage, where his luggage awaited him. The cottage, although small, was lavishly decorated and very comfortable.
"And, Mr. Breckinridge, your masseuse, Birgit, will be with you shortly. You'll find a robe in your closet."
Vittorio gave the young man fifty dollars, then got undressed and waited for Birgit to appear. When she did, she was breathtaking: tall, blond and with a fetching Nordic accent. She immediately put him at his ease, and soon he was facedown on her folding table, being kneaded into total relaxation.
But it was when she turned him over on his back that her work rose to a new level, as did he. By the time she was done, it was eight o'clock, and Vittorio couldn't make a fist.
She helped him sit up, and he reached for his money, taking his time riffling through the bills. "Birgit, I used to know a woman who came here named Barbara Eagle. Do you know her?"
"Of course," Birgit said. "She's here now, but under the name of Barbara Woodfield. She gave strict instructions to Mrs. Creighton that she was no longer to be called Mrs. Eagle; something about a divorce, I think."
Vittorio peeled off a hundred and pressed it into her palm, holding her hand. "And which room is she in?"
"She's in Pine Cottage, I believe. Thank you so much, Mr. Breckinridge. Have you booked a dinner table for this evening?" Birgit asked. "Shall I do it for you?"
"Thank you, Birgit, yes. Will you ask for a table with some privacy but where I may see the other diners? I'd like to know who my fellow guests are, and I want to surprise Barbara, so please don't tell her I'm here."
"Ah, yes, there is a little terrace with a small table from where you can see everything." She called the desk and booked it. "Will there be anything else?" she asked.
"Perhaps tomorrow morning at nine o'clock?"
"Certainly, whatever you wish." She gave him a smile and left, her table under an arm.
Vittorio showered and dressed in his new clothes, then following a map on his desk, made his way through the gardens to the dining room, keeping an eagle eye out for Barbara. He was seated on the little terrace, and he moved his chair to give him a better view of the room. Soon the room was full, but still no Barbara. She had to be here somewhere.
EARLIER THAT AFTERNOON, Barbara appeared at the photography shop on Venice Beach and was immediately shown into Dan's office.
"Have a seat," he said. "All your papers are ready, except that I have to affix your photograph to each of the documents."
She handed him the two sheets of larger and smaller photos. "I'd like to watch," she said.
"Come into the back room," he replied. He went to a bookcase, pressed a button and the bookcase swung open, revealing what appeared to be a commercial art studio in an adjoining room. Dan closed the bookcase, motioned Barbara to a chair and went to work.
Barbara was impressed with how quickly he worked and yet how careful he was. As he finished each document he handed it to her for inspection, showing her where to sign, and when he was done with his work, he laminated those documents that required it and wiped them free of fingerprints. Then he motioned her to a computer.
"This is how you can take a look at your credit report from any computer," he said. As she took notes, he went to the website, entered her user name and password and displayed a long record of perfect credit, going back seven years. Her credit score was 801, very high. "There," Dan said, "now you're a new person, and no one knows but you."
And you, Danny, she thought. She had thought of killing him, but he was too valuable; she might need him again in the future. She paid him the remaining cash owed, returned to her chauffeured car and was driven back to La Jolla and La Reserve, where she ordered dinner sent to her room.
Then she went into her bathroom, switched on all the lights and gazed once more upon her newly altered countenance. The swelling was gone, and only a little redness remained, which was easily covered with makeup. She brushed her newly blond hair and went to answer her door, admitting the room service waiter.
Tomorrow she would be off again, and soon she would be a wealthy woman.
Forty-nine
VITTORIO LINGERED OVER HIS DINNER, EXPECTING BARBARA to stroll into the dining room at any moment, but she did not. After dessert and coffee, he got out the map of the spa and found Pine Cottage. It was at the other end of the resort from his cottage and closer to the sea. He thought it best to have a look at it.
He signed the check and left the dining room, then, following the map, strolled slowly through the gardens, approaching Pine Cottage by a circuitous route. He spotted the place finally, and there was a light in the living room window, but there were other guests about, so he did not approach. Instead, he walked back to his own Willow Cottage and let himself in.
He sat down in the easy chair in his bedroom and thought about his next move. Finally, he got up, went to his luggage and began to put together a little kit. From his briefcase he took a file folder and some blank paper, then he emptied the briefcase and put the folder and a roll of duct tape inside. Finally, he changed into his black clothing and slipped a knife in its scabbard onto his belt. He was taking no chances with this woman.
That done, he sat down in his chair and switched on the flat-screen TV in his living room and searched for a movie. He would have to wait for the resort to settle in for the night before he ma
de a move.
BARBARA FINISHED HER DINNER and pushed the room service cart out the front door for collection, then she ran a hot bath and settled into it, drowsily reviewing her plans. Finally, she stood up and dried herself slowly with a towel, admiring her image in the bathroom mirror. She was pleased with Dr. Strange's work on her face and with her blond hair, and she was more than satisfied with her body, of which she had taken such good care. No surgery necessary there.
She slipped into a robe and went into her bedroom, where she exchanged the robe for a short silk nightgown. She opened the safe in her dressing room and removed the box she had carried away from the pawnshop, then she went and sat on the edge of her bed and removed the top.
The little Colt gleamed darkly as she found the magazine release and popped it. She loaded the magazine from the bag of ammunition the gun dealer had given her. The pistol was heavier, loaded, but it felt good in her hand. She reached into the box for the silencer the man had made and figured out how to screw it into the barrel. The gun was heavier, still, but still very manageable. She loaded the spare magazine and set that and the pistol on her bedside table, then she collapsed the box and stuffed it into her wastebasket. She still had one round of ammunition, so she worked the action of the pistol, pumping a round into the barrel, then she popped the magazine again, loaded the final round, shoved it back into the pistol and put the safety on. Cocked and locked, that was called, she remembered.
She set the gun back on the night table and went to the dressing table, where she went through her nightly routine of skin cleansing and moisturizing. Finally, feeling sleepy, she switched off the lights and got into bed.
Dan had said she was a new woman, and that was how she felt. She could even prove it. She would establish an address in L.A., open a bank account and obtain a credit card, maybe open a few charge accounts along Rodeo Drive. Then, when she was ready, she would effect the changes that would make her new life.
She drifted off, thinking of that life and smiling to herself.
