The Prince of Beverly Hills (10 page)

Clete looked over and waved at Tracy. “Evening, Spence, Louise.” He turned back to Rick. “Yes, word does get around when a place is good, and almost everything on the menu is. I do recommend the chili, though.”

Rick ordered the chili and sipped his bourbon while he watched the room fill. The headwaiter had just assigned the last remaining table when Rick looked up and saw Chick Stampano at the door with a beautiful young woman.

“Who are you staring at?” Clete asked, looking over his shoulder. “Movie people don’t like to be stared at.”

“He’s not movie people,” Rick said, pretending to look somewhere else, but keeping an eye on Stampano.

“Oh, it’s your friend, the Eyetie gentleman, isn’t it?”

Stampano seemed to be arguing with Dave Chasen, who shrugged and waved an arm around the room, indicating the lack of available tables. Then Stampano’s eye fell on Rick, and he seemed to turn to marble, standing and staring.

Rick gave him a little salute, which seemed to annoy him even more. Not only could he not get a table, but Rick had one. Stampano grabbed the girl’s arm and hustled her out of the restaurant.

“What is it with you two?” Clete asked.

Rick told him about the conversation with Eddie Mannix and the people following him.

“I see,” Clete said. “Tell me, are you carrying that pistol you bought?”

“Yes,” Rick said.

“Oh, good. Then at least you’ll be able to shoot it out with Stampano when we leave. Try to aim away from me, will you?”

17

CLETE HAD THE WEEKEND OFF, and he invited Rick to play golf at the Bel-Air Country Club. No matter how much he had drunk the night before, Clete never seemed to be hungover, but Rick was.

They stood on the first tee. Clete teed up, took a couple of practice swings and faded the ball down the right side of the fairway.

“That’s about two-fifty, Mr. Barrow,” the Negro caddie said.

“Not bad,” Clete murmured to himself.

Rick teed up and hit a long draw.

“That’s a good two-eighty, Mr. Barron,” his caddie said, lording it over his co-worker.

“Shit, old boy,” Clete said, “where’d you learn to hit it like that?”

“I played for UCLA,” Rick replied, “and I had a good coach. You didn’t think I was going in the tank for a movie star, did you?”

“What’s your handicap?”

“Two,” Rick said. “How about you?”

“Six.”

“Five bucks a hole?”

“You’re on, laddie. I hope you’ve been practicing.”

“I haven’t, but I’m going to start. I’ve got to join a club.”

They walked briskly down the fairway toward their balls.

“Eddie Harris is a bigwig in this one,” Clete said. “I’ll second you, and we’ll scare up some supporters.”

“Thank you, Clete, I appreciate that. It’s a beautiful course.”

“And conveniently located. Golf courses always make me think of England—so green.”

“Do you miss England?”

“At times. I’m very worried about what’s going to happen to the old girl if they don’t start listening to Winston Churchill.”

“I don’t think Hitler really means to go to war,” Rick said. “He’s got the Rhineland back, he’s annexed Austria, and now he’s got Czechoslovakia. What more could he want?”

“The whole pie,” Clete said.

“What do you mean?”

“Europe, all of it, maybe a lot more than Europe. I think he’s thinking in global terms.”

“Come on, how many Germans are there? Fifty million? How are they going to take all of Europe, let alone the world?”

“We haven’t seen anything like Hitler since Napoleon,” Clete said, lining up his shot to the green. “And Hitler’s a lot meaner.” He swung and lofted the ball onto the green. It stopped four feet from the cup.

Rick walked farther down the fairway to his ball. He had only a sand wedge to the flag, and he put it a foot outside Clete’s ball.

“You said you held a commission?” Rick asked.

“I do.”

“What will you do if war breaks out in Europe?”

“Not much I can do, legally,” Clete replied, accepting his putter from the caddie. “I’ve got nearly four years to run on a seven-year contract.”

“You think Eddie would let you out of the contract if England goes to war?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think Sol ever would. And if I jump ship, I’ll never make another film, even in England, unless Sol allowed it. I’d have to eke out a living on the stage.”

Clete sank his putt, and so did Rick. They played on.

AT LUNCH ON THE TERRACE of the clubhouse, Clete continued. “I’m in a tough spot,” he said. “My family would expect me to fight, not to mention my regiment.”

“How much family do you have?”

“I have a father, a mother and a younger brother. Pater is a clergyman—an Anglican priest—and my brother is in the City.”

“The city?”

“The City of London—shorthand for the financial world, like Wall Street. He’s a partner in a merchant bank, and they expect great things of him. He invests most of my money.”

“That’s convenient. Now that I’m making good money, I’m going to have to start investing. Eddie has suggested real estate.”

“That’s what all the smart people seem to be doing,” Clete said. “It’s too much bother for me. I prefer stocks and bonds. I wouldn’t like being a landlord.”

“You know, until I started this job, I never had more than a month’s pay in the bank, and when I got broken down to patrolman, I didn’t expect to ever have more than a week’s salary saved. I thought I was going to have to go to work for my old man.”

“What does he do?”

“He has a flying service down at Clover Field, in Santa Monica.”

“What would you have done for him?”

“Fly charters, help run the place.”

“You fly?”

“Since I was twelve.”

“Funny, I was thinking of going up to Oregon with a couple of chums, do some trout fishing, when we wrap the film. How’d you like to fly us up there? You fish?”

“Never have, but it sounds like fun. Dad is leasing a Lockheed Vega that would be perfect for the trip. You charter it from him, and I’ll throw in the piloting for the loan of some gear.”

“Sounds perfect. Book it, will you?”

“Will do.”

“You’ll like fly-fishing. It’s a world of perfect peace and good eating. You’ll like my chums, too.”

“Sounds wonderful.” Rick looked up to see Eddie Harris, dressed in plus fours and kneesocks, making his way across the terrace toward them. “Look who’s here,” he said.

“He doesn’t look all that happy,” Clete remarked.

Eddie reached their table. “There you are,” he said. “Clete, your houseman told me where to find you.”

“What can I do for you, Eddie?” Clete asked.

“Not a thing. I’m looking for Rick.” He clapped a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “You come with me, pal. You and I have a date. I hope you finished your round.”

“Yes, thanks,” Rick said. “Do I have time to finish my lunch?”

“Nope,” Eddie said, starting back across the terrace.

“Sounds serious,” Clete said. “You’d better hurry.”

“Sorry about this, Clete.”

“Call me when you’re free. We’ll have dinner.”

“Sure.” Rick threw down his napkin and started after Eddie, wondering what the hell could be wrong.

18

EDDIE DROVE THE CONTINENTAL fast and without saying anything, so Rick didn’t, either. Eddie’s expression was, if not worried, then at least intent. He was ordinarily so relaxed and amiable that it began to worry Rick.

They drove down Stone Canyon to Sunset and turned east. It was a glorious California day, the perfect sort of weather to be driving through Beverly Hills in an open car, but in deference to Eddie’s mood, Rick tried not to appear to be enjoying it too much.

They finally stopped, to Rick’s complete surprise, in front of the Trocadero, which was probably the hottest nightclub on the Sunset Strip. Eddie left the car at the curb, and they went inside.

The place was dimly lit and smelled slightly of spilled alcohol and disinfectant and strongly of stale cigarette smoke. The chairs in the large main room were all stacked on the tables, and a man was using a noisy vacuum cleaner on the carpet.

“He said to wait here,” Eddie said, parking himself on a banquette in the bar.

Rick wanted to ask who but didn’t.

Ten or twelve minutes ticked by, then the front door opened and a tall, well-built man, also in golf clothes, came in.

“Eddie,” Eddie said.

“Eddie,” the man replied.

“Rick, this is Eddie Mannix.”

Rick stood up and shook his hand. “How do you do?”

“Pretty good. Are they keeping us waiting?”

“You guessed it,” Harris replied.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to be kept waiting by these fucks,” Mannix said, and turned toward the door.

A man in a double-breasted suit came through an inside door. “Okay,” he said, “you can come in.”

Mannix looked nearly disappointed, as if he would have preferred walking out on the meeting. He turned and led the way through the door and down a hallway to a set of double doors. Before he could open them, two men came out, looking annoyed, and brushed past them in the hallway.

Mannix pushed open a door and walked into the room, followed by Harris and Rick.

It was an office, large and well furnished. One man sat behind the desk, another in a leather armchair, and, across the room on a leather sofa sat Chick Stampano. The two Eddies shook hands with the man behind the desk and the one in the armchair. They all seemed well acquainted.

“Siddown, everybody,” said the man behind the desk. “How you doin’, Eddie, Eddie?” He laughed at his own joke.

The two Eddies murmured their well-being.

“Is this your studio cop?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Eddie Harris said. “Rick Barron, Jack Dragna.”

“I heard about you,” Dragna said to Rick.

“Same here,” Rick replied.

“So, what are we going to do about this?” Dragna asked the room at large.

Stampano’s glare was fixed on Rick. The man in the armchair, handsome in a linen suit, simply looked bored.

“That’s what we want to hear, Jack,” Mannix said. “What do you propose?”

“A thing like this shouldn’t be worth everybody’s time,” Dragna said. “What are we doing here?”

“You called the meeting,” Mannix said.

“So, what’s your beef, Eddie?” Dragna asked Mannix.

Mannix nodded in Stampano’s direction. “I don’t want your boy, here, beating up on Metro’s girls.”

Dragna turned and looked at Stampano. “Don’t fucking beat up on Metro’s girls no more.”

Stampano nodded almost imperceptively.

Dragna turned back to Mannix. “Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when it doesn’t happen,” Mannix said.

“It won’t happen, will it, Chick?” Dragna asked.

Stampano shook his head slightly.

“Now you, Eddie,” Dragna said, turning to Harris. “What do you want?”

“I want your boy to stop pulling knives on my people,” Harris said.

Dragna looked at Stampano. “Chick?”

“I never pulled a knife on nobody,” Stampano said, glaring at Rick.

Rick spoke for the first time. “Your boy is a liar,” he said to Dragna.

Harris made a tamping motion in Rick’s direction but didn’t say anything.

Stampano was on his feet. “Gimme five minutes alone with him, Jack,” he said.

“So you can pull another knife?” Rick asked.

Dragna slammed his palm down on the leather top of the desk. “Everybody shut the fuck up!” he bellowed, turning red.

Harris made the tamping motion again.

Dragna sat back in his chair and sighed. “Young guys,” he said, shaking his head. “We were all young once, right?” he asked Mannix and Harris.

“I’m still young,” Harris said, and everybody laughed a little, except Stampano.

“What we got here is two young stallions in a great big barn with a lot of fillies,” Dragna said. “It’s natural that they might bump heads a little. I want both of you to stop doing that, you hear me?”

Rick spoke up again. “I haven’t done anything, yet, except stop your boy from beating up a girl and take a knife from him.”

Harris rolled his eyes.

Mannix turned to Dragna. “Fix it, Jack. I’m late for golf.”

“Always happy to do you a favor, Mr. Mannix,” Dragna replied.

“This isn’t a favor,” Mannix said. “Let’s get that straight. It’s only what’s right.”

Dragna sighed again. “Chick,” he said slowly, “I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

Stampano was still staring at Rick.

“CHICK!” Dragna yelled.

“Awright, awright,” Stampano said, holding up his hands in surrender.

Dragna turned to Rick. “That good enough for you? You want his word?”

“I’d rather have your word,” Rick said.

Dragna looked at Rick as if he were undecided whether to shoot him or cut his throat.

Rick held his gaze.

“You got my word,” Dragna said finally.

“Thanks,” Rick replied.

“You hear that, Chick?” Dragna said. “They got my word.”

“Yes, Jack,” Stampano said, almost contritely.

“Okay, go play golf,” Dragna said to Mannix.

The two Eddies shook hands with Dragna, and the man in the armchair got up and opened the door for them. Both shook his hand as they left.

“Oh, Rick,” Harris said, “meet Ben Siegel.”

“How are you?” Rick asked, shaking his hand.

“Always good,” Siegel replied.

The three men found the front door and stepped out of the gloom of the nightclub into the bright California sun, blinking.

“Gentlemen,” Rick said, “I’m sorry you had to do that for me.”

“It wasn’t just for you,” Mannix said. He shook both their hands, then got into a car parked at the curb and drove away.

Eddie and Rick got into the Continental and headed back toward Bel-Air.

“I hate dealing with those people,” Eddie said.

“I’ll try and see that you don’t have to do it again on my account,” Rick replied.

“Rick, it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything that any other upright fellow wouldn’t do. This is just the cost of doing business in this town. I’m glad Mannix made it clear to Dragna that he wasn’t doing us any favors.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Rick said, “he was doing Stampano a favor. What the hell are they doing in an office at the Trocadero?”