The Prince of Beverly Hills (21 page)

“We’re going to follow the coast to the mouth of the Rogue River, then follow the river up to the camp,” Rick said. “Clete, will you recognize it from the air?”

“I will,” Gable said. “There’s a big red barn and a farmhouse, and the strip runs parallel to the river along the north bank. There’s a windsock near the barn.”

Rick looked to the northeast, to be sure there was no landing traffic, then eased the throttle forward and taxied onto the runway. He didn’t slow down, but shoved the throttle to the firewall, and the big single began its takeoff run. A moment later, he eased the yoke forward, and the tail came off the ground, then he rotated and the craft lifted into the air, climbing strongly.

As soon as they crossed the beach, Rick turned north and climbed to three thousand feet. The day was bright and clear, and the California coast was gorgeous. They flew northwest, past Oxnard and Santa Barbara, then more northerly past Morro Bay, Big Sur and Monterey. Rick noted that they had a nice tailwind, so they made good time, and it wasn’t going to be necessary to stop and refuel.

They flew past Half Moon Bay, then across the Golden Gate, admiring the new bridge. By noon, San Francisco was behind them.

Gable produced some thick ham sandwiches. “Ma made ’em for us,” he shouted. He gave everybody but Rick a beer, and gave him a Coca-Cola.

Another hour and a half brought them to Gold Beach, Oregon, near the mouth of the Rogue River. Rick found the local airfield and started down. “I’m going to refuel here for the flight back,” he shouted to the others. “We don’t know what the weather will be like for our return.”

He set the Vega down on the grass strip and taxied to what passed for the terminal. Half an hour later, they were refueled and climbing out of Gold Beach toward the river, shining in the afternoon sun.

Rick stayed about a thousand feet above the ground, keeping the river off his left wing. For as far as he could see, there was nothing but dense forest, broken only by the river and an occasional farmhouse. After half an hour, Gable tapped him on the shoulder. “It’s up ahead there. See the barn?”

Rick put the nose down slightly and retarded the throttle. “Got it.”

“The windsock is to the left of the barn,” Gable yelled. “Usually, you land to the west.”

Rick found the windsock. He flew past the barn for a mile, descending to five hundred feet, then turned back toward the runway. It was clearly visible, and a tractor parked near the strip with a big mower attached told him the grass had been cut. He flew past the barn and set the airplane down in a perfect three-pointer, then let the speed bleed off before taxiing back.

“Pull up right there,” Gable said, pointing to a spot beside the barn.

Rick taxied into position and shut down the engine. They were met by a tall fat man who was introduced as Jake, and a big Irish setter, introduced as Rocky.

They loaded everything into Jake’s pickup, and he handed the key to Gable. “Everything’s ready down at the cabin,” he said. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Three or four days,” Gable said. “We’ll see how it goes.” Gable got into the truck, and Clete got in beside him, while Rick and Niven got into the back with the luggage and groceries. They bounced along a dirt track along the river for a couple of miles to a big log cabin. Twenty minutes later, they were unloaded and had opened two bottles of whiskey, scotch for Clete and David, bourbon for Rick and Clark.

“Man,” Gable said, “I can’t tell you how good it feels to get out of the city and up here.” He fell into one of the big overstuffed chairs and put his feet up, taking a long pull from his drink. “Rick, tomorrow you’re going to see some of the world’s best fly-fishing.”

“Well,” Niven said, “it’s pretty, but it isn’t Scotland, and trout aren’t salmon.”

Gable grinned at him. “I can tell we’re going to have to shoot you before the weekend’s over.”

Everybody laughed and settled down to their drinking. Clete turned on a big Zenith radio next to the fireplace. “We’ll get the BBC on this thing,” he said, selecting the shortwave band. After a few minutes of static and whistling, the radio produced surprisingly good reception of the British station, from which a newscaster was speaking. “We take you now to the House of Commons, where the prime minister is about to speak.”

Moments later, the mournful voice of Neville Chamberlain came from the radio. He rambled on for a quarter of an hour, giving the House an account of his government’s negotiations with the Germans and outlining steps he had taken to prepare for the possibility of war. Finally he concluded:

“We have no quarrel with the German people, except that they allow themselves to be governed by a Nazi government. As long as that government exists and pursues the methods it has so persistently followed during the last two years, there will be no peace in Europe. We shall merely pass from one crisis to another, and see one country after another attacked by methods which have now become familiar to us in their sickening technique. We are resolved that these methods must come to an end. If out of the struggle we again reestablish in the world the rules of good faith and the renunciation of force, why, then even the sacrifices that will be entailed upon us will find their fullest justification.” He finished to a chorus of “Hear, hears.”

Clete snapped off the radio. “Well, it seems that even Chamberlain has finally faced facts.”

“We’ll be at war within a week,” Niven said.

“Ah, don’t worry about it, David,” Gable said. “You Limeys will kick Hitler’s ass back to the Rhine in no time.”

“I hope you’re right, Clark,” Clete said.

Later, Gable grilled some steaks, and they had a subdued dinner, washed down with quantities of whiskey. There were two bedrooms in the cabin: Clete and Niven took one, Rick and Gable the other. There were two single beds with lots of blankets, and Rick settled in. He was astonished to see Gable take out his teeth, brush them thoroughly in the sink, then put them in a glass of water beside his bed.

43

THE FOLLOWING MORNING at dawn, Rick was awakened by the smell of frying bacon. He splashed some water on his face, brushed his teeth and got dressed. He found Gable in the kitchen making pancakes.

“Morning, Rick.”

“Morning, Clark. Are Clete and David up yet?”

“Those crazy Limeys are having a dip in the river,” Gable said.

“Brrrrrr.”

“My sentiments exactly. I think it has something to do with their having to take cold baths in English boarding schools.”

Clete and Niven suddenly burst through the front door, naked, rubbing themselves with towels. “God, that was wonderful,” Clete said.

“Tip top,” Niven agreed.

“You’re both insane,” Gable said. “Get some clothes on. Breakfast is ready and I don’t want to look at your dicks while I’m eating.”

The two vanished and came back dressed. Rick had set the table, and they sat down to a huge breakfast. When they were finished, they washed the dishes, then got their gear and set out along a footpath, heading east along the river. After half a mile or so, Gable stopped.

“Rick, you stay here with me, and I’ll give you some pointers. Clete, David, go another quarter of a mile, and you’ll find a spot nearly as good as ours.”

For the rest of the day, Rick was given an intense course of instruction in fly-fishing by Gable, who was clearly a master of the sport.

They returned to the cabin in the late afternoon, laden with enough fat trout for dinner and beyond. They cleaned the fish in the river, then Clete set about making dinner, while the others entertained themselves with music on the radio and generous quantities of whiskey.

After dinner, Clete attempted to get the BBC again and failed. “Well, anyway,” he said, “it’s the middle of the night over there. Maybe we can get something in the morning.”

IN THE MORNING, Rick cooked ham and eggs while the two Englishmen threw themselves in the river again. When they were dressed, Clete tuned in the BBC as they sat down to breakfast. Chamberlain was in the middle of speaking in the Commons.

“. . . We were in consultation all day yesterday with the French government, and we felt that the intensified action which the Germans were taking against Poland allowed no delay in making our own position clear. Accordingly, we decided to send our Ambassador in Berlin instructions, which he was to hand at nine o’clock this morning to the German Foreign Secretary, and which read as follows: ‘Sir; in the communication which I had the honour to make to you on the first September, I informed you, on the instructions of His Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, that unless the German government were prepared to give His Majesty’s Government in the United Kingdom satisfactory assurances that the German government had suspended all aggressive action against Polish territory, His Majesty’s Government would, without hesitation, fulfill their obligation to Poland. Although this communication was made more than twenty-four hours ago, no reply has been received, but German attacks upon Poland have been continued and intensified. I have accordingly the honour to inform you that, unless not later than eleven A.M., British Summer Time, today, third September, satisfactory assurances to the above effect have been given by the German government and have reached His Majesty’s Government in London, a state of war will exist between the two countries as from that hour.’ That was the final note. No such undertaking was received by the time stipulated, and, consequently, this country is at war with Germany.”

He went on for another minute, but Rick stopped listening and simply watched the faces of Clete and Niven. Both looked stricken.

“That’s it,” Clete said, when Chamberlain had finished. “We’re in it.”

“I feel for you and your country, pal,” Gable said, “but thank God we’re not in it.”

“Not yet,” Niven said.

“Roosevelt will do everything he can to keep us out of it,” Rick said.

“Yes,” Clete said, “and it won’t be enough.”

“I’m afraid you might be right,” Gable said. “If things go badly for England, Roosevelt will try to get us into it.” He turned to Rick. “And you know what that means.”

For the first time, Rick gave thought to the idea that he, personally, might have to go to war. “I guess I’ll have to go,” he said. “How about you, Clark?”

“Not me. I’m past draft age, and Ma and I are trying like hell to get pregnant. The combination of those two things will keep me out, I guess. If I were younger and single, I’d go, though. I wouldn’t like it much, but I’d go. I talked to Jimmy Stewart last week, and he’s been taking flying lessons for a long time, to get a leg up.”

“You won’t have to take flying lessons, Rick,” Clete said. “The army’s going to want you.”

“I guess you’re right,” Rick said.

They continued eating breakfast in silence, then Clete put his fork down. “I’ve got to get back to LA,” he said. “I’ve got things to do.”

“So have I,” Niven said.

Gable spoke up. “Well, why don’t we wrap it up here and go home. Weather okay to fly, Rick?”

“Looks like it.”

It took them an hour to get packed and load the pickup. They drove back to Jake’s farmhouse, paid him and gave him the rest of the trout and groceries, then loaded the airplane.

RICK DID HIS PREFLIGHT, then loaded everybody up and got the engine started. They were off by ten o’clock, and the winds were cooperative again, so they set down in Santa Monica shortly before two P.M.

As Rick taxied back to his father’s hangar, he saw something that nearly stopped his heart: a corner of the hangar had burned, and temporary timbers had been set in place to support it.

He got the airplane shut down, then ran into the hangar. Jack Barron was sitting at his desk, and he looked up, surprised to see Rick. “I thought you’d be another couple of days,” he said.

“What happened?” Rick asked, pointing to the burned corner of the hangar.

“Looks like somebody splashed some gasoline on it and set it alight,” Jack said. “Middle of the night, after you left. The night watchman across the field saw the blaze and called the fire department.”

“Where were my studio cops?”

“I sent ’em home,” Jack said.

“Jesus, Dad.”

“Now, don’t blame them. It was my decision, though not the best one I ever made. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got insurance, and I’ve got a builder coming to take a look at the damage today.”

“Were any of the airplanes damaged?”

“No, we were lucky.”

Rick called the studio and ordered three men out immediately. “In case they come back to finish the job,” he said to his father.

Rick went back and helped unload the airplane. When they were done, he said his goodbyes to Gable and Niven, then turned to Clete. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Clete replied, sounding evasive.

“You can tell me, Clete. I won’t rat you out to Eddie Harris.”

“I’m going to go home and see if I can get a phone call or two through to England. Then I’ll decide.”

“Wait until my men get here, and one will follow you home.”

“Nobody’s going to bother me,” Clete said. “They think we’re still away.”

“All right, but I’ll have a man at your house inside an hour.”

“If you feel you have to,” Clete said. He shook Rick’s hand and held on to it for a moment. “Thanks for flying us up to Oregon,” he said. “I think Niven and I will remember the trip for a long time.”

“So will I,” Rick replied, and he meant it.

44

RICK WENT BACK TO HIS OFFICE and found Jenny reading a movie magazine. “Why do you read that stuff?” he asked. “Don’t you get enough of the real thing around here?”

“Nope,” she said. “And I wouldn’t be reading it if I had anything to do around here. By the way, Hedda Hopper is calling you ‘the Prince of Beverly Hills.’ ”

“What?”

“No kidding. She says she sees you in all the best places with Clete Barrow, and that you’re a prince in shining armor for protecting the studio’s actresses from wolves.”

“Where the hell did she get that?”

“Who knows? I expect she has lots of sources. She says you dress like a prince, too.”