The Prince of Beverly Hills (11 page)

“Jack Dragna and Ben Siegel own the place,” Eddie said.

“I thought Bill Wilkerson owned it.”

“He did, but Billy’s a big gambler, and a bad one. He got in hock to the boys, and . . .”

“I had no idea. He still owns Ciro’s?”

“As far as I know.”

“I’m staying out of the Trocadero.”

“Good idea.”

Rick laughed. “I can’t believe I just met Jack Dragna and Bugsy Siegel.”

“Don’t ever let Siegel hear you call him that.”

“Sorry, it’s Ben.”

“Good. He’s hard to stay away from. He’s everywhere, all the time, with a beautiful woman on his arm. He’s a charming guy, but I hear rumors of bad things. Dragna was running the LA mob until Siegel showed up and elbowed him aside. And Siegel never said a word during our meeting.”

THEY PULLED INTO THE PARKING lot of the Bel-Air Country Club.

“You belong to a golf club?” Eddie asked.

“No. When I played for UCLA, we used to practice here sometimes.”

“I’ll put you up for the club. Clete can second you, and we’ll find a few more guys to write letters.”

“Thank you, Eddie, I’d like that.”

They got out of the car.

“Something I wanted to ask you about,” Rick said.

“What?”

“After Clete’s movie wraps, he wants me to fly him and a couple of buddies up to Oregon to do some fly-fishing. Is that all right with you?”

“Sure, I guess so, but don’t fly if there’s bad weather. I don’t want to lose either of you.” With a wave, Eddie returned to the club.

Rick got into his car and drove home.

19

RICK WAS SLEEPING LATE ON Sunday morning when his phone rang. He groped for it, knocking some things off a side table. “Hello?” he croaked.

“Well, you sound wide awake,” a woman’s voice said.

Rick cleared his throat. “I’m getting there.”

“This is Suzanne Harris. I need another man for tennis this morning. Do you think you can stand upright and hold a racquet?”

“Sure.”

“There’ll be three couples, so we can trade off and not get too tired.”

“What time?”

“Ten. There’s lunch afterward.”

“See you then.”

“We play in whites.”

“I have some.”

“See you at ten.”

Rick hung up and picked up the alarm clock from the floor. Eight forty-five. He had time for breakfast and hangover recovery.

AT TEN SHARP, RICK, wearing his new whites, with a sweater draped over his shoulders and carrying his Dunlop Maxply racquet, walked past the pool to the tennis court, which he found empty. He found a basket of balls on a bench and began serving into the fence, to warm up.

At around ten-fifteen he heard female voices and looked back toward the house. Three women were walking down the hill from the house—Suzanne Harris; Adele Mannheim, Sol Weinman’s sister, whom he had met at dinner; and—he got a little weak in the knees—Greta Garbo.

Rick tried to breathe normally and not stare. He gave Suzanne and Adele pecks on their cheeks, then turned to shake Garbo’s hand, which was larger than he had expected. He managed to keep breathing and smile a little.

Right behind the women were Eddie Harris and George Cukor, the director. After the introductions were made, Suzanne broke them up into mixed pairs, and Rick and Adele Mannheim spent the first set on the bench. He was glad he hadn’t been paired with Garbo, because he didn’t think he could have spoken many words in her presence, but Adele was an amiable woman, and she looked better in her tennis skirt than he would have imagined.

“So, how’s it going for you at the studio?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the players.

Rick was happy to keep his eyes on the players, too, since he could watch Garbo move gracefully around the court. “It seems to be going well,” Rick replied. “I’m enjoying myself.”

“I hear good things from Sol,” she said, “which means Sol hears good things from Eddie. I’m glad he got that business with that gangster straightened out.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Oh, nobody thinks you were at fault, Rick,” she said. “From all I hear, you did exactly the right thing.”

“Well . . .”

She patted his hand. “You’ve taken a load off Eddie’s mind, too. Suzanne told me so.”

“I’ve hardly done anything yet.”

“You’ve kept Clete Barrow working, and that’s no mean feat.”

“All I’ve done is keep Clete company. He’s behaved like a gentleman every step of the way.”

“He doesn’t always, dear. Remember that. Once he gets a skinful, he’s a wild man.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rick said.

THEY CHANGED AROUND, AND Rick and Adele played a set against Eddie and Garbo, then another against Cukor and Suzanne, then they broke for lunch, which was served in the cabana next to the pool.

The servants had set up a little buffet, and there was champagne, which Rick avoided, since he didn’t know whether he was supposed to play again. He had just begun to relax in Garbo’s presence when a servant came down from the house and spoke quietly to Eddie. Eddie motioned with his head for Rick to follow, so he put down his half-eaten lunch and tailed Eddie into the main house.

“Trouble,” Eddie said as they went inside. “I didn’t want to take this call in the cabana.” He picked up a phone in the hall. “Yes?” He listened for a moment. “What is her current condition?” He listened again. “I don’t want her moved from the emergency room until her physician arrives. Dr. James Judson. Please see that that happens. Thank you.” He hung up and turned to Rick.

“One of our contract players is in the Cedars-Sinai emergency room, an apparent suicide attempt. I want you to change and get down there right away and hold the fort until Jim Judson arrives. You met him at Clete’s cottage that first night.”

“Right. I’m on my way.”

“Rick, a few things: Make sure that she’s not admitted and that Dr. Judson takes any record they’ve made when he leaves. And no member of the press gets to her, and the staff understands that they’re not to talk. This is a valuable girl with a real future, and she has to be protected.”

“I understand.”

“Her name is Glenna Gleason. Now get going. I’ll call Judson.”

RICK SPRINTED PAST THE pool toward his cottage, spent thirty seconds in a cold shower, threw on some clothes, grabbed some cash and jumped into his car. Ten minutes after the phone call, he was on his way, annoyed that his first and probably only opportunity to get to know Greta Garbo had vanished into this stupid girl’s problem. And he was still hungry.

20

AS HE PUSHED THROUGH the swinging doors of the Cedars emergency room, the scent of disinfectant brought on a wave of déjà vu. He had been in that moment at least a couple of dozen times as a cop.

Since it was Sunday, business was slow, and there were few people to be seen. The reception desk was manned by a single woman in a nurse’s uniform.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” the woman called as he breezed past her.

He ignored her and walked through the doors of the treatment area. A large man was lying on a bed, a slab of gauze on his bloody forehead.

The man lifted his head. “Are you the doctor?”

“No, he’ll be along in a moment,” Rick said. “Was a girl brought in here a few minutes ago?”

“Down there,” the man said, indicating the other end of the long room.

Rick walked toward a curtained-off area at the end of the room and looked behind the curtain. A woman lay in a bed, her hair wrapped in a white cloth, and another cloth over her eyes, apparently unconscious. A sheet was pulled up to her chin. Rick walked to the end of the bed and looked at the chart on a clipboard attached to the bedframe. No name was written at the top. He walked around the bed and found a silk dressing gown and a handbag lying on a steel chair. He found a wallet in the bag and a California driver’s license in the wallet, in the name of Louise Brecht, who lived at 8152 Sunset Boulevard.

“Shit,” he said aloud under his breath. Gleason must have already been admitted.

Rick heard the curtain being yanked back and looked up to find a young man in a white coat standing there. A stethoscope peeped from a pocket.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Rick produced a card. “I’m looking for Glenna Gleason,” he said. “An apparent suicide attempt.”

The young doctor pointed at the bed. “This is the only female patient in the emergency room.”

“Did you admit a Miss Gleason earlier?”

“This is the only woman brought in this morning,” he said. “The police were here but have already gone.”

“The Beverly Hills Police?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Do you recall the officer’s name?”

The doctor looked at the ceiling. “Let me see . . .”

“Uniformed officer or detective?”

“Uniformed. Terry, that was his name. Last name.”

Rick knew him. “Thank you. Is this woman an attempted suicide?”

“I don’t really see how”—he looked at Rick’s card again—“some studio’s security could be related to this woman.”

“If she’s the attempted suicide, I’m here to protect her,” Rick said.

“Well, I’m in the process of admitting her right now. She’s been sedated, and when she wakes up, I’ll ask her if she wants to see you. You can wait outside, but it could be several hours.”

“Doctor, please tell me if this woman is an attempted suicide.”

“That information is available only to her next of kin or her personal physician.”

“I am her personal physician,” a voice said, and both Rick and the doctor turned to see Dr. James Judson, dressed in casual clothes, standing behind them. “Dr. Judson,” he said to the young doctor, extending his hand. Without waiting for further conversation, he went to the bed and pulled back the sheet to reveal two bandaged wrists.

“Doctor, I was just admitting her,” the young man said.

“That won’t be necessary. She’s being moved to a private hospital right now. I have an ambulance waiting.” He picked up the chart from the end of the bed. “How long ago did you sedate her? It’s not marked here.”

“I haven’t completed the chart yet. I don’t even know her name.”

Rick had only been there for two minutes and he knew her name.

“That’s all right,” Judson said. “How long ago?”

“Perhaps forty minutes,” the doctor replied.

“Have her wounds been sutured?”

“I was about to do that when you arrived.”

Judson pulled back the curtain and waved at two men in white uniforms standing by a stretcher. “Over here,” he said.

The two men came and gently moved the girl to a stretcher on wheels.

“You know where,” Judson said. “I’ll be right behind you.” He turned to Rick. “You’re Barron? I remember you.”

Rick nodded. “I’ll follow you.”

Judson ripped the page from the chart and stuck it in his pocket.

“Just a minute,” the young doctor said, “that’s her only medical record. We need it for our files.”

“No, you don’t,” Judson said. “She hasn’t been here.” He handed the doctor his card. “Give this to your chief and have him call me if he has any questions.” He turned to Rick. “Pay her bill, then come along.” He handed him a card with the address of the Judson Clinic on it.

Rick nodded. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said, gathering up the girl’s dressing gown and handbag and walking back to the front desk. “A bill for the young lady,” he said to the nurse.

“She doesn’t have one yet. It will take a while to generate it.”

Rick put two fifties on the desk. “Don’t bother generating it,” he said. “She’s being moved.” He added another fifty to the pair. “And if anyone asks, she wasn’t here.”

The woman swept the money off the counter. “Sure thing,” she said, smiling.

Rick left the building and found his car, parked in a space reserved for doctors. A moment later he was gone, and so was any trace of Centurion’s young actress. He checked the address on Judson’s card and aimed the Ford in that direction.

21

RICK CAUGHT UP WITH THE ambulance just as it turned into the circular drive of a large Colonial-style house in the heart of Beverly Hills. There was no sign outside.

Rick had often driven past the address and had never known the house was a clinic. He parked behind the ambulance and watched as the two attendants removed the stretcher and wheeled it into the house. Dr. Judson awaited them in the lobby.

“Upstairs,” Judson said. The two men sighed simultaneously, then slowly and carefully humped the stretcher up the stairs. Judson turned back to Rick. “I don’t know what else you can do here,” he said.

“Just a moment,” Rick said. He opened the handbag again and rummaged through it: sixty-odd dollars in cash, a checkbook, showing a balance of more than three thousand dollars—more than he had in the bank—and the driver’s license. He didn’t have to memorize the address, he knew it. All he needed was the bungalow number. He handed the purse and the silk dressing gown to the doctor. “This is what she was wearing, and her handbag. Her driver’s license says she’s Louise Brecht, so I don’t even know if we’ve got the right girl.”

Judson pointed. “There’s a phone over there. Call Eddie.”

“What can I tell him about her condition?”

“She’s sedated and stable. I’ll get a plastic surgeon in to suture her wrists. Apart from that, we’ll just have to wait for her to come to, then I’ll have a psychiatrist see her.”

Rick nodded, went to the phone and called Eddie. He had to wait while he was called from the cabana to the phone.

“Rick? Do you have her?”

“I think so. Is her real name Louise Brecht?”

“Yes. The studio changed it to Glenna Gleason. How did you know her name?”

“She still has a driver’s license in her old name.” He gave Eddie Judson’s report.

“That’s fine. She’s in good hands.”

“I’m going to take a look at where she lives and see if I can find out why this happened.”

“Good idea. Call me in the morning and let me know what you’ve found out.”

“Will do.” Rick hung up, went to his car and headed for Sunset. 8152 was the Garden of Allah, and he knew it well. The silent star Alla Nazimova had owned a mansion at the corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights, on several acres, and she had turned the place into an apartment house and built a hotel and a dozen or so cottages on the property, going broke in the process. She now lived in a corner room of her old home.