The Prince of Beverly Hills (17 page)

“Last time I talked to you, you were interested in one of Jack’s minions, Chick Stampano.”

“I’m still interested. How about you?”

“More than ever,” Rick said.

“Why?”

“He’s causing serious problems for the studios.”

“That’s gotta mean women. I heard about the thing with the girl over at Metro.”

“It’s that sort of thing, but it’s multiplying and spreading. Have you got anything on this guy?”

“Nothing I could nail him for. I mean, he’s got a no-show job at Siegel’s and Dragna’s wholesale liquor business, but that’s not a crime.”

“Is he important to you as a means of getting at Jack or Ben Siegel?”

“He could know a lot. I hear he’s got a connection to somebody big in New York who’s watching over him. He got sent out here because he was doing the same stuff there that he’s doing here. He’s got a weakness for women, and he likes them bruised.”

“Aye, there’s the rub.”

“Don’t start talking like Long John Silver. I’ll think you’ve gone queer on me.”

“Fuck you, it’s Shakespeare. I think.”

Ben laughed. “So what do you want to do about Chickey baby?”

Rick shrugged. “I tend to think it would be a public service if somebody found him a cell at Quentin.”

“Who could argue with that?” Ben took a slug of his scotch. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know, maybe he could somehow become attached to some unsolved case that’s still open?”

“Or we could just wait awhile and he’ll kill some girl.”

“I think he’s already tried,” Rick said.

Ben looked interested. “Anybody I know?”

“A contract player.”

“Details?”

“I think he shot her up with morphine, then slashed her wrists for her. She’d have bled to death on her bathroom floor if her roommate hadn’t called it in.”

“You keep saying, ‘I think.’ ”

“If I could prove it, I wouldn’t be offering you a bonus for doing your job.”

“How much of a bonus?”

“A grand, plus expenses.”

“My price for railroading innocent goombahs is five grand.”

“Two and a half, Ben. Don’t push it.”

“You got any ideas on how to accomplish this?”

“Well, if I were doing it myself, I’d round up four or five of the LAPD’s biggest and best, give ’em a hundred apiece to beat the guy to within an inch of his life, then charge him with aggravated assault on a police officer. That ought to get him a dime upstate, don’t you think?”

Ben shook his head. “Nah, Jack Dragna’s got enough of our upper ranks on his payroll to get that tossed.”

“I was hoping you might come up with something more subtle, something that would stick—something so disgusting that even the LAPD and the DA’s office couldn’t look the other way.”

“What, plant a Boy Scout in his bedroom?”

“More like a troop of Boy Scouts, all oiled up and ready.”

“Something that would humiliate him before his peers?”

“Something so bad that Siegel and Dragna couldn’t kick back. He’s been talked to once about this, and I talked to Ben Siegel a second time this afternoon.”

“So, something bad happens to Chickey, they look at you.”

“Probably, unless you’re ingenious enough to do this so well that they’ll never suspect me.”

“Ingenuity comes high.”

“All right, three grand, and when you have a plan, talk to me about it and I’ll give you a down payment and expense money.”

“Let me sleep on it,” the cop said.

“Something else, Ben: You know anything about the deaths of John Kean and his wife? He had my job before I did.”

Ben shrugged. “Sure, I heard about it. I know the sergeant who ran the investigation.”

“What was his off-the-record opinion? Could it have been a double murder?”

Ben shook his head. “From what I heard, it was a straight older-man, younger-wife murder/suicide. This guy reckoned Mrs. Kean was doing the horizontal jitterbug with some young stud; Kean confronted her, she spat it in his face, and he reacted badly. When he realized what he’d done, he put a bullet in his own head rather than face the consequences.”

“That’s an old story.”

“It is.”

“Did he have any ideas on who the young stud was?” Rick had an idea.

“He didn’t turn up anybody.”

“I think it was Stampano,” Rick said.

“You got Stampano on the brain,” Ben replied. “You got anything to back that up?”

“Not that I’m ready to talk about.”

They both became aware that the whole of Jimmy’s had suddenly gone silent. They looked toward the door, where Clete Barrow was standing, resplendent in a double-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons, vanilla ice cream–colored trousers and brown and white wingtips.

“Jesus, a movie star,” Ben said. “Whatshisface.”

“He’s with me,” Rick said. “Beat it.”

Ben tossed off the remainder of his scotch. “You’re amazing, boy. I’ll get back to you.”

“Bye-bye.” Rick waved to get Clete’s attention, and the actor made his way to the booth.

“I haven’t made an entrance like that since my last time treading the boards in the West End,” he said.

34

THE DRINKS WERE SET ON the table. Clete seemed deep in thought, which was unlike him.

“Something on your mind?” Rick asked.

Clete lifted his head, took a swig of his drink and looked at Rick. “You haven’t heard the news, have you?”

“What news?”

“I heard it on the car radio, on the way over. The Germans and the Russians have signed a non-aggression treaty.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Rick said. “Hitler hates the Communists, and they hate him, especially after the German bombings in the Spanish Civil War.”

“It makes all the sense in the world, from their point of view,” Clete said. “To Stalin, it means that he’s got Hitler off his back, at least long enough for him to build up his forces. To Hitler, it means that he’s free to do whatever he wants in Europe without Soviet interference—that England and France can’t count on the Soviet Union in the event of war with Germany.”

There was a roar of laughter from the bar.

“Listen to them,” Clete said, nodding at the group. “They don’t know what’s happening to them, do they?”

“Neither do I,” Rick said. “What’s happening to them?”

“We’re all going to be at war soon,” Clete said. “Half the men under thirty in this room are going to die in it.”

Rick took a gulp of his drink. “That’s sort of a pessimistic point of view, isn’t it?” He was, after all, under thirty.

“Nobody in this country seems even to remember the last war. England lost a million men—the cream of a generation.”

“This country is not going to war,” Rick said. “Even Roosevelt says that.”

“Well, my country is, and soon. I don’t see how it can be stopped, not with Chamberlain giving Hitler whatever he wants. God, if only Churchill were in charge.”

Rick was at a loss. “Do you think England can win a war against Germany?”

“I think we can. We’ve got only ten divisions, but the French have ninety. Together, that makes us equal to the Germans’ hundred divisions. They’re way ahead in aircraft and artillery and training, though. Have you read Churchill’s speeches?”

“No.”

“I get the
Times
by post. Churchill’s been warning the government for years to increase aircraft production, but they’ve ignored him, for the most part.” Clete waved at the bartender for another drink. “The Russians have a huge army, but now they’re out of play.”

“What’s going to happen next?”

“I’m going to get roaring drunk, that’s what’s going to happen next.”

Rick sighed. “Well, one of us better stay sober.” He handed Clete a menu. “I recommend the meat loaf,” he said.

Clete looked astonished. “What the fuck is meat loaf?”

RICK DUMPED THE UNCONSCIOUS movie star on his bed, pulled off his shoes and got his jacket off. He threw a blanket over him, walked back into Clete’s living room and called Eddie Harris.

“Hello?” Eddie didn’t sound sleepy.

“It’s Rick. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nah, I’m reading a script.”

“What time is Clete due on the set tomorrow?”

“Why, is he drunk?”

“Drunker than I’ve ever seen him; unconscious drunk.”

“The German-Soviet thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Clete takes the European news too seriously. This has been going on for a year or more.”

“He may have a point. He’s very convincing on the subject.”

“I’ll juggle some scenes and buy him until noon.”

“That would be a big help.”

“If you can’t wake him by ten, call Judson and get him over there. He can give him something to keep him on his feet.”

“Right. Oh, I had a chat with my detective friend at the LAPD this evening.”

“About our Guinea friend?”

“Yeah.”

“He have any suggestions?”

“He’s thinking about it. This is going to cost you four or five grand before it’s done.”

“I’ll spring for that,” Eddie said. “It’s cheaper than hiring Al.”

“Safer, too. The idea is to hang something on him, get him sent upstate.”

“I like that idea.”

“When is Clete’s film going to wrap?”

“Next week, if you can keep him working.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Rick said.

“You sound tired, yourself. Get some sleep.”

“Okay, I’ll bunk in here tonight, and I’ll call Judson in the morning if I can’t get Clete moving.”

“Take it easy.” Eddie hung up.

Rick headed for the guest room.

RICK WOKE A LITTLE BEFORE EIGHT. He showered and got dressed, then looked in on Clete. To his astonishment, the actor was dressed, showered and shaved. To his further astonishment, Clete was dressed in a British military uniform, looking at himself in a mirror.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rick asked.

“Just wanted to see if it still fits. It does.” Clete tossed his cap on the bed and started unbuttoning his tunic. “I think I’ll get wardrobe to run me up a couple more,” he said.

“You’re not due in until noon,” Rick said, wanting to change the subject. “You want some breakfast?”

“If you’re having some.”

Rick went into the kitchen and found the Filipino houseman, Manuel, who went to work on the food.

THEY BREAKFASTED ON THE TERRACE.

“Aren’t you hungover?” Rick asked.

“Not really,” Clete replied.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Did you get the schedule pushed back?”

“Yes, until noon. I called Eddie last night.”

“There was no need, but it’s nice to have a morning off.” He looked out over the city. “It’s so beautiful here. I won’t see many more mornings like this.”

“There is an unlimited supply of mornings like this,” Rick said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“A month,” Clete said.

“What?”

“I give it a month, six weeks at most. We’ll be at war by then.”

“Come on, Clete, there’s a lot that can be done in a month. I’m sure the diplomats are working on this full-time.”

“We wrap the film next week. We’re still on for that fishing trip, aren’t we?”

“Sure we are. I’ve got the Lockheed booked. What’s the nearest airport to the camp?”

“No airport. There’s a pasture along the river; you can set down there. I can show you on a Sinclair road map.”

“I hope we have good weather.”

“It’s going to be wonderful,” Clete said. “I can feel it.”

“I’ll get the charts and a road map and have a look. We’re going to need someplace to refuel for the trip back.”

“You do that, chappie. I want this trip to go well. I want to remember it.” Clete took a notebook from his pocket and began making a list. He tore off the page and handed it to Rick. “Here’s a list of gear you’re going to need for the trip,” he said. “I don’t have enough to loan you these things, but don’t buy any actual fishing equipment. I have plenty of that, and anything I’m short of, the other two fellows will have.”

“Where do I get all this?” Rick asked, looking at the list.

“Abercrombie & Fitch,” Clete replied. “They have a branch on Wilshire.”

“I’ll be ready,” Rick said.

“By the way, Artie Shaw and his band are opening at Ciro’s tonight. Want to go?”

“Sure, I love Shaw’s stuff.”

Then Clete seemed to withdraw into himself.

35

RICK WENT BACK TO HIS own house to change. Clete would get himself to work, and he had little to do in his office, so he went down to Abercrombie & Fitch and spent nearly two hundred dollars on waders and clothing and a duffel to put it all in.

Rick was beginning to see a conflict ahead for himself. Clete still had another four years on his contract with Centurion, but he knew that if England went to war, Clete would bolt for home. He wasn’t sure if Eddie Harris knew, or if he should tell him. His loyalty was supposed to be to his employer, but he and Clete had become good friends, and he didn’t know what to do.

On the way back to the studio, he stopped for a fill-up at a Sinclair station and picked up their road maps for California and Oregon, then he drove out to Clover Field to see his father.

“Morning,” the old man said as Rick walked into the hangar. “You still going to use the Lockheed next week?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. You got the current chart for Oregon?”

“In the office. You know where.”

Rick went into the office and dug out the charts. He found the Rogue River in Oregon, but he didn’t yet know where on the river he’d be landing. There was an airport at Grants Pass, though, and another at the mouth of the Rogue River, where he could refuel. It all looked straightforward.

He went back into the hangar. “Got what I needed,” he said.

“Good.”

“You heard anything more from those Italian gentlemen?”

“Not a peep. Haven’t seen any strangers around, either. Been pretty quiet.”

“That’s good news. Well, I’d better get back to work.”

“What kind of work they got you doing these days?”

“No two days are the same,” he replied. He didn’t want to tell his father how he was occupying his time. “See you later.”

“Bye.”

THAT EVENING, RICK AND CLETE arrived at Ciro’s in their dinner jackets to a wave of popping flashbulbs outside. There was a line of people making their way slowly into the nightclub. Photographers were yelling at Clete to look this way and that, and Clete obliged, laying on the smiles and charm. He was good at it, too, Rick thought.