The Prince of Beverly Hills (8 page)

“Thank you, Eddie, but I don’t really think this is going to be necessary.”

“I hope it isn’t, but there may come a time when this is the only way to resolve the situation. I just want to be sure that it’s resolved in your favor.”

A waitress put two minute steaks and two beers on the table and left.

“Eat my steak, too,” Eddie said, rising. “I gotta run.” He turned and left the commissary.

Rick began to eat his steak, then he glanced at the phone number on the napkin and stopped. He reached in his pocket and found the receipt for the gun he had bought that morning. The phone number on the receipt was the same as that on the napkin.

“You learn something new every day,” he said aloud to himself.

12

RICK LEFT THE COMMISSARY and drove over to the studio motor pool. He found Hiram Jones at a desk in a little glassed-in office in the garage.

“Hey there, Rick,” Hiram said. “How’s that little Ford treating you?”

“She’s a sweet thing, Hiram. I’ve never owned anything like her.”

“Good. We did a lot of work on that baby. You’re lucky to have her.”

“I know it.”

“What can we do you for?”

“Clete Barrow needs something to drive while you’re working on his car.”

“Yeah, that’s going to take a while. We’re having to get some parts from Germany. Why doesn’t he just buy a car?”

“Hell, I don’t know, but I’ve got to see that he turns up for work every day until his picture is finished, and I don’t want to turn into his chauffeur.”

“I don’t know what I can give him that would be as exciting as that Benz of his.”

“Exciting isn’t what I’m looking for, believe me. Something sedate will do; just wheels.”

“I got a nice Packard that isn’t being used right now.”

“Great. Can you leave it over at his cottage?”

“You sure this is okay with Eddie Harris?”

“I’ll take the responsibility.” He wasn’t going to start pestering Harris with the small stuff.

“Okay, I’ll send it over there.”

“Thanks, Hiram.”

“That Ford needs anything, you bring it to me. Don’t take it to no grease monkey.”

“I’ll do that.” Rick drove over to soundstage two, where Clete was at work on his Khyber Pass horse opera. The red light over the door wasn’t on, and he went inside. The set was of an Indian Army officers’ club, and it was gorgeous, with every detail taken care of. He worked his way around the floor and found Clete sitting in a canvas chair with his name on it, reading a script.

Clete looked up. “Hello, old chap. What’s up?”

“I got you something to drive from the motor pool. It’s a Packard, and it’ll be parked outside your cottage when you get back.”

“Getting tired of driving me, eh?” Clete laughed. “Can’t say that I blame you. How about some steaks at my place tonight? I could ring up Marla and Carla.”

“Sounds good.”

“Seven o’clock?”

“Good.”

“Will you pick up the girls?”

“All right.”

“See you then.”

Rick drove back to his office. Jenny didn’t have any messages for him, so he sat at his desk and thought about killing Chick Stampano.

Rick had shot and wounded one man in the line of duty, when he’d happened on a liquor store robbery on the way home from work. He hadn’t enjoyed it, and he didn’t particularly want to repeat the experience, but he was damned if he was going to let Stampano or any of his hood friends kill him.

He closed his office door, took out the little .45 and looked it over again. It was a thing of beauty. He opened a box of Al’s hot hollowpoints and loaded three magazines, then he stuck two of them into the mag pouches of his shoulder rig and slapped the other into the gun. He worked the slide, chambering a round, then he removed the magazine and loaded a replacement. Now he had seven in the gun and twelve more rounds in the magazine pouches. That ought to be enough, he thought.

He flipped up the safety, shoved the gun into its shoulder holster and practiced popping the thumb break and drawing the weapon. It wasn’t a very quick draw, and he spent a few minutes working on it until he had it down smooth, if not fast. It was clear that he was going to have to anticipate trouble, if he was going to get the gun clear quickly enough to do some good. He put his coat back on and opened his office door.

“Jenny, who supplies the weapons for the studio?”

“There’s an armory,” she said, “but I’ve never been there.” She opened her studio directory and looked it up, then got out a map of the property. “It’s way over here,” she said, pointing to the back lot.

“Can I borrow your map?”

“Sure, keep it. I’ve got another. You have any work for me to do?”

“Not yet. I’ll see what I can scare up. I’m going over to the armory, if you need to reach me.” He got into his car and, following the map, drove to the back lot, where he found the armory in a long, low building. He went inside and found a man working on a dismantled rifle at a workbench.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

Rick handed him a card. “I’m new here.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Barron,” the man said. “I’ve heard about you. I’m Mike Schwartz.” He offered his hand.

Rick shook it. “I want to do some shooting,” he said. “Where would I best do that?”

“Right through that door,” Schwartz said. “We’ve got a fifty-yard range. You want something to shoot?”

“I brought my own,” Rick said, “but I could use a couple of boxes of .45 hardball.”

“Sure thing.” Schwartz went to a large steel cabinet and unlocked it, revealing boxes of ammo. He took out four boxes and handed them to Rick, along with a set of rubber earplugs. “Live it up,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Rick went into the range and found a young man firing a Winchester ’73. He put in the earplugs, unloaded his magazines and reloaded with the hardball ammo. The targets were on a pulley system and he moved one in to about twenty-five feet, figuring that was as far as he was likely to have to shoot. He fired a magazine into the target, then pulled it in for inspection. His group covered a good twelve-inch spread. He was going to have to improve on that.

He spent the rest of the afternoon improving, until he was down to a four-inch group. It wasn’t great, but he reckoned he could put seven rounds into a man’s chest, if he had to.

13

RICK LEFT HIS OFFICE at six o’clock and departed the studio through the main gate. Immediately, he thought he had made a mistake. A black sedan containing two men in suits and hats pulled away from the curb across the street and fell in behind him.

Rick tried to keep track of the big car in the mirror without turning his head, so they wouldn’t know he was on to them. When he sped up, the black car sped up; when he slowed, it slowed. He was approaching a traffic signal, and when it turned red, he plowed through the intersection, narrowly missing a large truck. He checked the mirror and saw the car blocked by crossing traffic, and he took an immediate left, then another, and finally turned back toward his original route. He stopped at a corner, got out of the Ford and looked down the street. The light changed, and he saw the black car drive through the intersection.

He got back into the Ford and made the next left, putting him back on his route, then he stopped the car and waited five minutes by his watch. The men in the black car would be looking for him in the side streets, so he continued on his way home, checking the mirror often for signs of the black car. He did not want Stampano’s people to know where he lived.

He made his way to Bel-Air without the attentions of the two men, went home, changed and then drove up Sunset, toward Doheny and the girls’ apartment house. He collected Marla and Carla without incident and drove up into the hills toward Clete’s place.

“Why are you looking in the mirror all the time?” Marla, who was sitting in the front seat, asked.

“I like to know who’s behind me,” Rick said. “Do you two girls live together?”

“We do everything together,” Marla said.

“Are you related?” he asked.

“We’re twins,” Marla replied.

“You don’t look all that much alike.” Marla was a blonde, Carla a redhead.

“We’re fraternal twins, not identical,” Marla said.

“Oh.” Rick turned into Clete’s drive and got the girls out of the car and into the house.

Clete greeted them, martini pitcher in hand. “Just in time,” he said, stirring furiously. He began pouring the drinks, then looked at Rick. “I know; you’re going to want bourbon, aren’t you?”

“If you’ve got it,” Rick said. “I never acquired the taste for martinis.”

Clete handed the girls their drinks, then rummaged in a cabinet until he came up with an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “This do?”

“That will do just fine.” Clete handed him the bottle, and he poured his own drink.

“Happy days,” Clete said, raising his glass.

He led them out onto the terrace, and they took seats. Marla and Clete were being especially affectionate, having broken the ice on the previous occasion.

Carla sat down next to Rick on a sofa and turned to him. “Are you queer?” she asked pleasantly.

“What?”

“I mean, it’s all right if you are. I have nothing against pansies; half the men at the studio are pansies.”

“I’m not queer,” Rick said.

“Then what was the problem last night?”

In fact, he wasn’t sure what the problem had been last night. God knew, the girl was lovely, and he wasn’t in the habit of avoiding sexual opportunity. “I just broke up with somebody,” he said. And that might even have something to do with it, he thought. He missed Kathleen, but she was out of his reach now, probably in a convent somewhere.

“Oh,” she cooed, putting her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, I know how tough that can be. Did you end it, or did she?”

“Her family ended it,” Rick said.

“They objected to you? Why? You seem like such a nice boy, handsome and everything, and you certainly have a good job.”

“They objected to anybody who wasn’t Catholic. And I was a policeman at the time, and I don’t think they looked at that as much of a career.”

“Oh. Well, there’s no accounting for human nature, is there?”

“I guess not.”

“Aren’t you attracted to me at all?”

“You’re very beautiful.”

“But you’re not attracted.”

“Didn’t we talk about this last night?”

“I didn’t get a satisfactory answer.”

Rick hooked a finger under her chin and kissed her.

“Mmmm,” she said. “That’s better. What’s next?”

He reached out a finger and scratched at a nipple through her dress.

“That tickles,” she said, drawing back.

“Let’s finish our drinks, Carla, then maybe have another, then some dinner, then . . . who knows?”

Manuel came out of the house with a sack of charcoal and began building a fire in the brick barbecue near the pool. A woman followed him with a tray of large steaks. Inside the house, a phone rang, and Manuel went to answer it. He came back a moment later.

“Mr. Barron, there’s a telephone call for you.”

Rick was taken aback. “Who is it?”

“He didn’t give a name, sir.”

Clete looked at him. “Did you give anyone my number?”

“I don’t have your number,” Rick replied. He got up and went into the house with some trepidation and picked up the phone. “Hello?” He fully expected Stampano to be on the other end.

“Rick Barron?”

“Yes?”

“This is Eddie Mannix.”

Rick managed to say, “How do you do, Mr. Mannix?”

“I do very goddamned well, thanks. You know who I am?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe Eddie Harris mentioned that I appreciate what you did for our girl?”

“Yes, he did. You’re very welcome.”

“Then why did you try to shake my boys?”

“Your boys?”

“Who did you think was following you from the studio?”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry, I thought it might be . . .”

“Somebody else?”

“Somebody else.”

“They were there to protect you, not hurt you.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Mr. Mannix, but—”

“My friends call me Eddie.”

“Thank you, Eddie, but—”

“I’m not going to have somebody sticking a shiv into a friend of mine.”

“I appreciate your concern—and your help.”

“So don’t try and shake my boys again.”

“How am I going to tell your boys from Stampano’s boys?”

“They’ll be the ones who ain’t shooting at you.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“You didn’t shake them; you just thought you did.”

“Well, I have to tell you, they did a very fine job of not letting me know they were there.”

“They wouldn’t be working for me, otherwise.”

“I guess not. How did you get this number?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve got everybody’s number.”

“Oh.”

“I hear you’re packing these days.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Don’t shoot my boys,” Mannix said, “and don’t try to lose them again.”

“I won’t.”

“This will blow over in a few days, and we can get back to normal, and we can get back to shooting Lara from both sides.”

“I hope so.”

“Count on it. Ben Siegel runs the mob out here, and I’m going to talk to him about this, but he’s out of town. When he gets back, I’ll straighten this out.”

“Thank you, Eddie,” Rick said, but Mannix had already hung up.

Rick walked back out onto the terrace, where he was greeted by the aroma of seared meat.

“Who was on the phone?” Clete asked.

“I’ll tell you later.” Rick picked up his drink and snuggled up to Carla. He felt a lot more relaxed now.

14

RICK WOKE SLOWLY, at first disoriented, then he realized there was a lump in bed beside him—a lump with red hair. He was about to reach for her when the door opened and somebody pulled the cord on the venetian blinds, flooding the room with sunlight.

“Come on, old chap,” Clete said. “I’ve got an eight o’clock call today, and it’s seven-twenty. You’re supposed to be the one getting me to work on time, not the other way around. Manuel has made some coffee.”