The Prince of Beverly Hills (23 page)

“Okay.”

“Now, how about the girl?”

“Glenna.”

“She’s got three more weeks’ work on the musical.”

“When do we start shooting?”

“Two weeks, and we can’t wait. We’re shooting in sequence.”

“The girl only has one scene in the early part of the film. Maybe we could borrow her for a day from the musical.”

“Possibly. Give me some more names for the girl, too.”

The box on Eddie’s desk buzzed. “Yes?”

“I called RKO, and they didn’t want to give us a print of
Dynamo
or even tell us the actor’s name, so I found a print we can borrow at a theater in Santa Monica, and I’ve sent a messenger out there for it. I haven’t been able to find out anything about the actor, but we can get his name from the titles, and then I’ll track him down.”

“Good. Put it up in my screening room the minute it gets here, and call whatshisname, the director of the musical, and tell him I want Glenna Gleason for a day, two weeks from Monday, so he should shoot around her.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eddie turned back to Rick. “So, who else for the guy?”

“Alan Ladd.”

“Not bad, though he’s pretty smooth. I see how you’re thinking, but he just started shooting a picture at Paramount.”

“John Garfield.”

“Not available, either. He’s in the middle of a film at Warners’. But he would be damn good casting.”

The box squawked again. “Mr. Harris, the others are here for your production meeting.”

“Send ’em in,” Eddie said, and four people walked into the office and were waved to the conference table. Eddie introduced Rick to the director, set designer, costume designer and production manager. “Rick is going to sit in on this production all the way through,” he said, and no one objected or even seemed surprised.

Eddie and Rick took seats at the table. “All right,” Eddie said, looking at the set designer, “what are we going to need? Let’s start saving money right now.”

“We’ve got just about everything we need in storage,” the man said. “It’s nothing unusual—offices, a hotel room, a bar. I can make it all look fresh. There is a country club scene, though. We might have to do it on location.”

Rick had a thought. “The colonial officers’ club set is still on stage two, isn’t it?”

“Good idea!” the man said. “I can dress it with more modern things and move some windows. It’ll work fine.”

Eddie gave Rick an approving glance. “Costumes?”

“Pretty much off the wardrobe department’s rack,” the designer said. “I’ll need to do a couple of dresses for the girl, though.”

They worked on through the morning, and Rick began to see how a film was put together.

THEY WERE ABOUT TO BREAK for lunch when Eddie’s secretary came into the room. “The print of
Dynamo
is ready in your screening room,” she said.

“Great,” Eddie replied, standing up. “Get the commissary to send over some sandwiches, and we’ll eat while we’re watching it.”

“What’s
Dynamo
?” the director asked.

“Something from RKO with an actor Rick likes for the lead.”

“What actor?”

“Barry something or something Barry.”

Everybody moved into the screening room next door, and the film began to roll.

“Lawrence Barry,” Eddie and Rick said simultaneously, as the name came up in the credits.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie said, “the guy must get called Larry Barry.” Everybody laughed.

They settled in to watch. They were half an hour into it when the sandwiches arrived. Eddie picked up a phone attached to his chair. “Stop for a minute.” The film stopped and the lights came up. “Everybody grab a sandwich, and we’ll resume.”

“I’ve heard about this picture,” the director said.

“We got the print from a theater in Santa Monica,” Eddie said. “RKO didn’t want us to see it.” He picked up a phone. “The actor’s name is Lawrence Barry. Find out who his agent is, and get them both in here this afternoon.” He turned to the director. “What do you think of Barry?”

“I like him. I’ve heard a little about him from New York. He did something on the stage last year. I wasn’t aware that anybody had signed him.”

“Maybe nobody has,” Eddie said. “Maybe
Dynamo
is a one-shot deal for Barry, and that’s why RKO is being uncooperative.” He got a sandwich and sat down next to Rick. “I like the guy,” he said quietly. “He and Glenna will look great together, too.”

“I thought so,” Rick said. Actually, it hadn’t occurred to him until Eddie mentioned it, but he was willing to take credit for the idea. “By the way, Clete has asked me to live in his house while he’s gone.”

“So you’re moving out of my place?”

“I guess so. I’m sure you can find somebody else. If Suzanne wants a man in the place for protection, I know a cop who might be good for you.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tom Terry. He’s one of the Beverly Hills officers who helped me with the Stampano thing.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

“Or I could offer it to Glenna.”

“Well, ah, Glenna is moving into Clete’s place with me.”

Eddie laughed. “You don’t waste much time, do you?”

“I, ah . . .”

“She’ll be safer with you than alone, and I guess that’s good for the studio.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Rick said. He was relieved, too.

47

RICK SAT IN EDDIE’S OFFICE and watched Lawrence Barry. He was dressed in a decent suit and tie, and Rick was impressed with his calm demeanor.

“So,” Eddie said, “what do your friends call you? Larry?”

Barry smiled a little. “My middle name is McArthur. I’ve always been called Mac.”

“Good. Did you have a chance to look at the script?”

“Yes, I did, but not thoroughly.”

“What did you think of it?”

“I think it could be a good film.”

“You think you could handle the lead?”

His agent came to life. “He certainly could. He’s had a lot of stage experience.”

“Shut up, Jerry,” Eddie said. “I’m talking to your client.”

“I certainly could,” Barry replied. “I’ve had a lot of stage experience.”

Rick liked that, the guy standing up for his agent, and not afraid to be a smart-ass with Eddie Harris.

“Which won’t do you a hell of a lot of good in the movies.”

“Sure it will,” Barry replied. “You saw
Dynamo
. Whatever I brought to that I learned on the stage.”

“How do you know I saw
Dynamo
? It hasn’t even been released yet.”

“Because I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t seen it.”

It occurred to Rick that Barry was very much like the character in their script. “I think you read the script pretty thoroughly, Mac,” Rick said, “because you’re doing a very good job of playing the character right now.”

Eddie looked at Rick, then back at Barry, then he burst out laughing. “I’ve been had,” he said. “I thought this was an interview, but you’re doing an audition.”

“It seemed like a good idea,” Barry said, smiling.

“All right, you get the part.” Eddie turned to the agent. “Standard seven-year contract, five hundred a week.”

Barry spoke up. “I got more than that in
Dynamo
.”

“Yeah, for four weeks’ work. This is seven years, and you get paid every week, with raises as you get better.”

“I’m already very good,” Barry said.

The agent spoke up. “Mac isn’t really interested in the usual long-term contract. He’s already turned that down at RKO.”

“Then he isn’t interested in working?”

“I said the
usual
long-term contract. We’ll want script approval and time off for him to do theater in New York, plus salary increases on each film.”

“What kind of salary increases?”

“He’ll do your first picture for a thousand a week. After that, he gets a five-hundred-dollar raise for each picture.”

“Okay, here’s my final offer,” Eddie said. “He does two pictures a year for Centurion, and he can turn down one script a year. I’ll give him three months a year off, so he can dabble with the stage, if he wants to—the dates to be negotiated. I’ll pay him a grand a week for the first picture and two-fifty more for each picture after that, but I’ll only pay him for the weeks he works. The term of the contract is seven years.”

“What about fringe benefits?”

“He’ll get star treatment when he shows me he’s got what it takes to be a star, and the minute he shows me he can’t become a star, then I’ll fire him. He starts two weeks from Monday.”

Barry spoke up. “I want two weeks’ rehearsal with the cast and director on each picture, and I want to be paid for rehearsals.”

“I’ll guarantee you a week’s rehearsal, and I’ll give you two weeks when I can, but you’ll get half-salary for rehearsing.”

Barry looked at his agent but said nothing.

“I think we can proceed on that basis,” the agent said. “You want to send me a contract?”

“You’ll have it before the close of business tomorrow,” Eddie said. “One thing, your leading lady won’t be available for rehearsals on this one; she’s making a musical. You won’t meet her until the first day of shooting.”

“Who is she?” Barry asked.

“Her name is Glenna Gleason. She’s new, and she’s going to be very big. You’ll like her.”

“I don’t know,” Barry said.

His agent spoke up. “You’re going to have to trust Mr. Harris on this one, Mac.”

Barry thought about it, then nodded.

Eddie stood up and offered his hand. “Good to have you aboard, Mac. Come to this office Monday morning, and we’ll get you squared away with a dressing room.”

“A bungalow would be nice,” the agent said.

“Don’t push your luck, Jerry. I told you he’ll get star treatment when he’s a star.”

The meeting broke up, and Eddie motioned for Rick to stay. “What you just saw was a good negotiation,” he said. “The agent is good. He prepared his client well, though I don’t think he told him to audition. The agent knew what he could get for the kid, and he didn’t try for more. A negotiation works best when everybody has an idea of what’s possible. You get into trouble when you get an agent or an actor who wants more than the situation warrants, or when you get a Joan Crawford—an actress who thinks she’s a goddess and wants to be paid for thinking it.”

“I enjoyed watching,” Rick said. “I think I learned a few things from it.”

“I liked it that you picked up that the kid was playing the part. That went right past me, and you caught it.”

“It was a smart thing for the guy to do.”

“If we can keep that kid sober and out of jail, and if he works hard and doesn’t let his ego get the best of him, he’ll become a real star. I think he has what it takes.”

AT THE END OF THE DAY, Rick drove by the transportation department and borrowed a truck and a driver from Hiram, then he went first to Glenna’s bungalow for her things, then to Eddie’s guest house for his own stuff. By dinnertime, the two of them had moved into Clete Barrow’s house.

THEY SAT ON THE TERRACE by the pool, Glenna with her martini and Rick with his bourbon, while Manuel and Maria prepared dinner.

“Eddie asked me to give you some news,” Rick said.

“What news?”

“You’ve got a new film to start as soon as you’ve finished the musical.”

“What is it?”

“The script is in the bedroom. You can read it later. It’s called
Caper
, and it’s very good.”

“What’s my part?”

“The lead.”

She squeezed his hand. “Oh, Rick, that’s wonderful.”

“You’ll be co-starring with a young actor from New York named Lawrence Barry; his friends call him Mac. Eddie signed him today, and he thinks he’ll be a big star. He also thinks that the two of you will look very good together on screen.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Eddie asked me to sit in on the production from start to finish. I think he believes I can be a producer.”

“Wonderful! Is there a part in it for Barbara?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Everything is going so beautifully now, after that business with . . .”

“Don’t worry about that anymore,” Rick said. “He’s out of the picture now.”

She sighed. “I’m afraid there’s a pattern in my life: Just when everything is going well, I seem to find a way to mess it up.”

“We’ll work on keeping everything going well,” Rick said.

48

GLENNA TOOK HER DAY OFF from the musical and worked on the first day of the shooting of
Caper.
She and Lawrence Barry seemed to hit it off and completed two scenes.

Rick returned to his office to find a thick envelope plastered with Canadian stamps waiting for him. Clete must have written from Montreal, he thought, but when he opened it he got a surprise.

LONDON, SEPTEMBER 12, 1939
My Dear Rick,
Hello from London. This has all happened very quickly. After my flight from Los Angeles to Montreal, stopping in Detroit, I was about to head for the port to look for a ship, but I never got off the airfield. I struck up a conversation with an RCAF pilot, who told me he was ferrying a bomber to the south of England, and he offered me a ride.
We took off the following morning and landed in Reykjavík, in Iceland, and stayed the night. Next morning we flew to Glasgow, refueled, then went on to Bekin Hill airport, in Kent. I got a train up to London, checked into the Reform Club and phoned my regiment. I was told not to turn up for another three days, so I’ve had a nice stay here, seeing a couple of friends and some theater.
Things seem very odd here. There are sandbags piled up around doorways and signs saying “Air Raid Shelter” being put up at the entrances to underground stations, but nothing is happening. No bombs falling, no paratroopers landing, nothing at all. The great difference from life before the war is the blackout, which is stringently observed. No streetlamps or electric signs, and every window is either dark or curtained over. Cars must have their headlamps mostly masked, and turned off altogether when the sirens go off.
You drive down a darkened street in a taxi, find a street number using a torch (flashlight, to you), and a curtain is pulled back and you step into a brightly lit restaurant or nightclub, full of jolly people. Later, you walk outside into the darkness again. There’s an air raid warden at nearly every street corner, enforcing the blackout and herding people into the tubes when there’s a raid warning.
The newspapers have published plans for backyard bomb shelters that you can build yourself, and I’m told people are actually building them. People are planting vegetable gardens, in anticipation of rationing, and Hyde Park is being divided into allotments, where people can grow their own food.
Conscription is in full force, and young chaps are lining up to sign up with the RAF. Everyone, it seems, wants to fly a Hurricane or a Spitfire. They’re calling this the “Phony War,” because nothing is happening yet. I’ve used my time here to be measured for some additional kit, and the two uniforms that Centurion Wardrobe ran up for me have come in very useful.
The best news I’ve had since I returned is that Chamberlain has offered Churchill the post of First Lord of the Admiralty, something like your Secretary of the Navy, which is a very powerful position, given our reliance on the Royal Navy. It’s the next best thing to being Prime Minister. My own opinion is that Chamberlain won’t last long, and that the Conservative Party will turn to Churchill to lead the country.
On the appointed day, I entrained for Southampton, then took a ferry to Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, off the south coast, where my regiment is undergoing commando training. We’ve taken over the Royal Yacht Squadron, England’s most prestigious yacht club, which occupies a castle built by Henry VIII to ward off the French, who never turned up. The Castle, as the building is called, is a stone pile with a dozen or so bedrooms, one of which I’ve grabbed, though it’s a single room and I have to share it with another officer. We bathe in the club’s locker room, dine in its dining room (quite elegantly) and read in its library.
Our training, at this stage, is heavily slanted toward physical conditioning, and I confess, I’m having a hard time keeping up after my dissolute existence in your West Coast Babylon. We’re doing weapons training, too, of course, and there’s talk that we’ll be sent to France before too long.
I’ve already been promoted from lieutenant to captain, such is our need for officers, and been given command of a company, comprising about a hundred and twenty men. They’re a good lot, with some veterans of the last war, and a lot of raw recruits, who are undergoing what amounts to basic training. My acting skills have been useful in playing the forceful and crotchety CO, but eventually they’ll find me out, I’m sure, but at the moment they don’t know that I’m a teddy bear inside.
Some other news: I discovered that while my RCAF bomber was between Iceland and Scotland, my uncle, my father’s elder brother, died of a heart attack. Since his son and heir had been killed in the first war, my father, who went into the Church, like many second sons, has now succeeded to the dukedom. Oh, God, I never told you, did I? My uncle was Duke of Kensington. What does this mean? Well, I’m afraid I’ve succeeded to my father’s title, Marquess of Chelsea, and shall ever be known as such on this side of the water.
I haven’t told my colleagues in the Royal Marines yet. I want them to get used to Captain Barrow, so that they’ll continue calling me that when word gets around.
The whole thing will mean little to me as long as there’s a war on, but when Pater shuffles off this mortal coil, if I don’t precede him, then I’ll be a fucking duke. Can you believe it? The good news is that there’s a fine house in London (in Kensington, of course) and a great pile in Sussex, where one can ride to the hounds, if one is so inclined. My parents are in the process of packing up the Manse in Wiltshire that they’ve occupied for the past ten years, and moving up in the world, while I’ve got my face in the mud of a Wight field on a daily basis.
Good
news:
There’s a Canadian journalist with us who’s getting a flying boat to Montreal tomorrow morning (they take off in the Solent, which is the body of water that separates the Isle of Wight from mainland England) and he’s going to mail this letter for me, so it will reach you a lot sooner than it would otherwise.
My mailing address, for the moment, is simply, The Castle, Cowes, IOW, England, if you’d care to write and tell me about the glamorous Hollywood life that has, no doubt, continued in my absence. Send it via air mail.
I hope you’re in the house by now and enjoying it. Why don’t you ask the lovely Glenna to share it with you? I’ll wager she would accept such an invitation.
I’ll get a missive off when I can, though I can’t promise such accelerated delivery as this one will no doubt have. I’m not missing the high life, but, of course, I miss you.
With warm regards,
Clete