Swimming to Catalina (7 page)

“Only last night? He called me about you yesterday afternoon; that was before you even met him?”

“That’s right.”

“Jesus, what are you doing in Hollywood, having dinner with movie stars and fixers?”

“Fixers?”

“Don’t you even know who David Sturmack is?”

“I know he has a lot of influence in the movie business; that’s about it. Who else is he?”

“Stone, if it doesn’t happen on the Upper East Side between Forty-second and Eighty-sixth Street, you don’t have a clue, do you?”

“Am I
supposed
to know who Sturmack is?”

“Well, maybe not. Only a handful of people really know, and I happen to be one of them.”

“Why is he so little known for such a powerful fellow?”

“Because he wants it that way. Things usually get to be the way Sturmack wants them.”

“Oh.”

“You bet your ass. That was some conversation I had with him yesterday; he called me right out of the blue. I’m glad I was in.”

“Bill, you were telling me who Sturmack is.”

“He’s the prince of fucking darkness, that’s who he is.”

“You copped that line from a movie.”

“That doesn’t make it any less true,” Eggers said defensively.

“I guess not; now explain yourself.”

“It started like this: Sturmack’s old man, whose name was Morris, or Moe, was Meyer Lansky’s right-hand man for thirty years.”

“No kidding?”

“Absolutely no fucking kidding. Word is, he sent son David to law school both to make him respectable and to make him useful.”

“And he was useful?”

“You better believe he was. His specialty was the mob connection to the unions; he was very tight with Hoffa and Tony Scotto and a dozen other big-time labor guys. In the late fifties he went west and became a conduit between the Hollywood unions and the mob. He was always very discreet; he didn’t even practice law out there, so nobody could go running to the bar association if they didn’t like his methods. Over the years, he’s sunk more and more out of sight until he’s practically invisible, but at the same time he’s gotten a better and better grip on the town.”

“How do you know all this, Bill?”

“I know everything about everybody; didn’t you know that?”

“Come on, tell me how you know.”

“I once had a client who was in business with him, who murmured a word about him from time to time. He enjoyed telling stories about the old days. The guy died earlier this year, but apparently he had mentioned me to Sturmack. That’s how he knew who to call about you. Now I’ve got a question for you.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“How the hell did you impress Sturmack so much in so short a time? I mean, I know you a lot better than he does, and
I’m
not all that impressed.”

“Thanks. The whole thing is a mystery to me. The only person Sturmack and I have in common is Vance Calder, and Calder and I have never had any dealings.”

“Maybe not, but Calder probably heard a lot about you on the pillow.”

“He did say that Arrington had told him a lot about me, but still…”

“Well, I think you ought to grab the opportunity, pal, and we’ll back you up over here, but the name of Woodman and Weld is never going to appear on any piece of paper that goes from here to you to Sturmack. Do we understand each other?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t taken him on yet. He seems like the kind of guy who might tend to monopolize my time; right now I have a lot of independence, but if I find myself working full time for him, then I’m no longer self-employed.”

“I get your drift, and you’re smart to think that way.”

“Something else that bothers me: he says he does some, not a lot, of business in New York—some real estate, a couple of restaurants—but he also says his present lawyers billed over a million a year from him. That doesn’t quite add up, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t; if he’s spending a million a year on lawyers, he’s either doing a
lot
of business in the city, or he’s in a lot of trouble here. I’d raise the question, if I were you.”

“I will. He also says that I’ll have investment opportunities in my dealings with him.”

“I’d be real careful about that, boy; you’re liable to end up in front of a grand jury or a congressional committee. Whatever the investment is, make
sure
it’s squeaky clean.”

“Well, I don’t know yet if I’m even going to take him on. What kind of name is Sturmack, anyway?”

“He’s a Swedish Jew, if you can believe that.”

“I guess there are Jews everywhere. Why not Swedish?”

“Why not indeed. The way I hear it, Sturmack’s grandfather was a big wholesale fish dealer in Stockholm, and his son, Moe, got into big trouble, maybe even killed somebody, and had to flee the country. He ended up in New York, and through some family connection met Meyer Lansky; it was apparently love at first sight.”

“By the way, there was another guy at dinner who struck me as a little odd, name of Onofrio Ippolito. That ring any bells?”

“He’s a banker, that’s all I know; straight arrow, I’m told.”

“Funny, he looked more like a mob guy.”

“Stone, you were a cop too long. Not everybody with an Italian name is mobbed up.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Now tell me, what are you doing in L.A.?”

“Oh, I’m doing a part in a movie.”

“You’re
what?
”

“I had a screen test yesterday, and I passed. I’m apparently the town’s hottest new discovery.”

“Okay, you’re obviously not going to tell me what’s going on, so I’ll go now.”

“I kid you not, Bill,” Stone said, but Eggers had already hung up.

Stone had a shower and ordered some breakfast, and when the waiter arrived, Stone noticed a fat envelope on the living room coffee table. He opened it and found a script. Well, he had some work to do, he thought.

He went over his lines for the next hour, then the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Bobby Routon; I’m doing the costumes for
Out of Court.
”

“Right; how are you?”

“Harried. Listen, the wardrobe department at Centurion isn’t up to dressing this lawyer you’re playing—not on short notice, anyway, so we’ve got to get you some duds.”

“Okay.”

“Whose suits and shirts do you normally wear?”

“Ralph Lauren’s suits, Purple Label, when I can afford them, and Turnbull and Asser shirts.”

“Yeah, they’ve got the shirts at Neiman’s. What about size?”

“I’m a perfect 42 long in a suit; they only have to fix the trouser bottoms.”

“What size shirt?”

“16. The T and A sleeve lengths are all the same.”

“Shoe size?”

“10 D.”

“Got it. I’ll have some stuff for a fitting when you get to the studio at eleven. You’re furnishing your own underwear, and remember, you might get hit by a streetcar, so don’t embarrass your mother.”

Stone laughed. “See you at eleven.” He hung up. “Jesus,” he said aloud, “I guess I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

Chapter 10

S
tone arrived at Centurion Studios, and this time the guard at the gate had his name. He was given a parking pass marked
VIP
and directed to Stage Twelve. Following his route of the day before, he found his way to the huge building and slipped the Mercedes convertible into a VIP-reserved spot. A young man in his early twenties was standing at the stage door.

“Stone Barrington?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Tim Corbin, assistant production manager; I’ll get you oriented, then I’ll take you to wardrobe and makeup. Follow me.” He led the way around a corner into a street between soundstages, dug a key out of his pocket, and unlocked a medium-sized recreational vehicle. “This is number twenty-one; it’s yours for the duration.”

Stone followed Corbin inside. There was a living room, a bedroom, a kitchenette, a toilet, and a small
room with a desk, a phone, and a fax machine. The refrigerator was stocked with mineral water, juices, and fruit. “Very nice,” he said.

“It’s a cut above what a featured player usually gets,” Corbin said. “You been sleeping with the director?”

“He’s not my type.”

“This is where you’ll hang out when they’re not using you. Unless you’re told different, you’re expected to be on the lot from eight
A.M.
until six
P.M.,
and if you haven’t been told to be on the set, this is where they’ll always look for you. You’ve got a phone line and a fax machine with its own line. By the way, the keys are in the ignition, but don’t ever ever crank it up and move it; that’s a Teamster’s job, and we don’t want to annoy the Teamsters, do we?”

“Certainly not.”

“You’re going to find that a lot of stuff on the set gets done by union guys, so don’t ever move any furniture, or even a prop, unless it’s called for in a scene, okay?”

“Okay.”

“When in doubt, ask me.”

“Okay, Tim.”

“Now let’s get you to wardrobe.” He led Stone to a golf cart and drove quickly to another building.

Bobby Routon greeted him, sticking out a hand. He was short, plump, and gay. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “I think we got you togged out.” He grabbed a suit off a rack, and Stone slipped into the trousers and coat. “You were right, a perfect forty-two long.” He pinned up the trousers, and Stone tried on three more suits while a woman hemmed the trousers of the first. “All actors should be so easy to fit,” Routon said. “Okay,
get into suit number one, and I’ll find you a tie.” He handed Stone a lovely ivory-colored Sea Island cotton shirt. “You’ve got a dozen of these, in case you sweat or spill something. For Christ’s sake, don’t eat lunch in any of the suits; if you spill catsup on it, we don’t have a backup, and it could cost an hour’s shooting while it’s cleaned, and an hour’s shooting is more bucks than either of us can imagine.”

“I’ll be neat, I promise.”

“A dream actor,” Routon sighed. Stone got into a shirt and Routon got a tie around his neck. “Let me tie it, I can do it better than you; it’s my job to make you look good.”

Stone checked himself in a mirror while Routon folded and stuck a silk pocket square into his breast pocket.

“Shoes,” Routon said, holding up a pair of Italian-looking captoes. He helped Stone into them and tied the laces. “Comfy?”

“Comfy,” Stone said, walking around.

“You’re ready to be famous,” Routon said. “All the suits will be put in your dressing room, and you’ll be told which one to wear on which day of the trial you’re shooting, but I think you’ll be in this suit all day. When you have as much as half an hour to yourself, go to your RV and take the suit off; a wardrobe lady will press it. Get used to being seen in your underwear by strange women.” He waved goodbye.

“That was easy,” Stone said as he and Corbin left.

“Bobby’s the best in the business,” Corbin said. “Now makeup.” He drove a couple of buildings down.

Inside, Stone was greeted by a pretty young woman in jeans who relieved him of his jacket and sat him down in a barbers chair. “I’m Sally Dunn,” she said, “and I’m
going to make you even more beautiful.”

“What, exactly, are you going to do to me?”

“Not much,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt collar and lining it with tissues. “Your problem is you’re the world’s whitest white man.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Can’t tell you how long it’s been since I saw a real blond, male or female. You have fairly blond skin, too, although I see you’ve picked up a little sun since you’ve been in town. You’re going to have a lot of light dumped on you on the set, and without makeup, you’d look like a corpse, especially next to Vance, who’s so tan he doesn’t need makeup. My job is to make you look like a living person under those lights.” She tilted his head back onto the headrest and went to work.

When she had finished Stone opened his eyes and looked into the mirror. “I’m orange,” he said.

“You won’t be under light. I’ll be on the set to touch you up between takes. Try not to get too hot and start sweating; it just makes everything hotter. I’ll have a fan for you. At the end of the day, you can come back here for cleanup, or there’s cold cream in your trailer. Use that before you shower.”

Corbin drove Stone back to Stage Twelve, and escorted him inside.

It was as cavernous as the first stage Stone had visited, but instead of the farmhouse, there was a warren of sets—offices, a conference room, a jury room, a bedroom, and, finally, a courtroom.

There was a lot of action in the courtroom—technicians of every sort swarmed over the set, adjusting lights and props. Gradually, actors arrived, dressed as lawyers, cops, jurors, and spectators, then Mario Ciano made his appearance.

“Good morning, Stone,” he said. “We’re going to shoot Scene 14A, where you question your first witness, the junkie.”

“Right,” Stone said, finding the right page.

“We’re not going strictly in chronological order; I don’t want you to have to shoot your opening statement to the jury first time out of the stall. We’ll get you warmed up with a rehearsal, then your little scene, then we’ll shoot Vance’s cross-examination, then we’ll get reaction shots from both of you. You’ll have to be on the set most of the day, because you can be seen in backgrounds.”

Stone was introduced to the actor playing his second chair, then rehearsals began. Stone learned to stop on a mark and ignore the camera, then they began shooting. It was more difficult than he had imagined it would be, but he got it done.

He had a sandwich in his RV dressing room at lunch; his suit was pressed, and Sally Dunn came and redid his makeup. “I hear it’s going well,” she said.

After lunch, Vance Calder did his scenes, then Stone sat and did reaction shots while Vance read his lines off-camera, then Stone read while Vance reacted. By the end of the day they had finished five pages of script, about five minutes on film, which Stone was told was a good day. When shooting was done, he removed his own makeup, showered, and surrendered his new suit to wardrobe, which would press and, if necessary, clean it overnight. By the time he arrived back at the Bel-Air, he was exhausted.