The Prince of Beverly Hills (2 page)

A sergeant got out of a car and walked over. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

“I took the passenger who was still alive to a doctor,” Rick said.

“Is he all right?”

“He seems fine.”

“Was he drunk?”

“I observed nothing that would make me think so.” He took a glass tube from his pocket and handed it to the sergeant. “I witnessed the doctor take a blood sample,” he said, but he didn’t say whose. “I’d like you to take custody of it.”

“All right,” the sergeant said. “You said you took him to a doctor. Not a hospital?”

“He didn’t seem badly injured, and he insisted on seeing his own doctor.”

“Was this guy somebody . . . I ought to know about?”

“He was Clete Barrow. A Mr. Eddie Harris at Centurion Studios said he would speak to the captain.”

The sergeant nodded. “I’ll tell the captain about this. You stay away from him. Write an accident report and have it on my desk before you go off duty.”

“Right,” Rick said. “Can I go back to the station and do it now? Tomorrow’s my day off.”

“Go ahead. And I don’t want you talking to the press, you understand? If they track you down, refer them to the captain.”

Rick nodded. The sergeant walked away, and Rick looked over at the remains of the Ford coupe. Two firemen had done their work, and now the ambulance men were loading the mangled remains of the woman onto a stretcher. He felt for the woman, but she shouldn’t have run that stop sign. His conscience, such as it was, was clear.

2

RICK WAS WAKENED BY THE ringing telephone at nine A.M. He let it ring three times, then picked it up. “Barron,” he groaned.

“I saw your report,” the captain’s voice said. “Is that the way it happened?”

“That’s the way I saw it, Captain.”

“It better be correct in all respects.”

Rick didn’t reply to that.

“Where is the Mercedes?”

“I don’t know. It was gone when I got back to the scene. A Mr. Eddie Harris said he’d call you.”

The captain hung up without another word.

“Miserable son of a bitch,” Rick said aloud. He reached for his cigarettes before he remembered he had quit smoking some weeks before. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching. He’d had only three or four hours of sleep—he’d have had more, if the captain hadn’t called—but he felt pretty well. At twenty-nine, he could stand the strain. He showered, then fixed himself some breakfast. He retrieved the LA
Times
from outside his door and scanned it as he ate. There it was, on page four:

PIANIST KILLED IN SUNSET BLVD ACCIDENT

Somebody got it in the paper at the last minute, he figured. That way, there was no time for anybody at the paper to investigate before they went to press.

Lillian Talbot, a professional musician, was killed in a traffic accident on Sunset Boulevard early this morning. Police say Miss Talbot, who was on her way home from a party at which she had played the piano, ran a stop sign at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Camden Drive and drove into the path of an oncoming car, the resulting crash killing her instantly. The other driver was examined by a doctor and pronounced unhurt. The Beverly Hills Police Department released a statement that said, in part, “The accident was witnessed by one of our officers on patrol, and a thorough investigation indicates that Miss Talbot was at fault. A test of the other driver’s blood found no trace of alcohol, and no charges will be brought against him.

Well, that wrapped it up neatly, Rick thought. He washed the dishes and put them away. Rick was neat by nature, and, as a result, the little apartment in West Hollywood seemed a better place than it really was. He got dressed, and in changing the contents of his pockets from the uniform to his civilian clothes, he came across Eddie Harris’s card. “Edward R. Harris, Executive Vice President,” it read. Rick picked up the phone and called the number, which turned out to be a direct line.

“Mr. Harris’s office,” a woman’s voice said.

“My name is Rick Barron. Mr. Harris asked me to call him this morning.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Barron,” she replied. “Mr. Harris would like it if you could come to see him at four o’clock this afternoon. Would that be convenient?”

“Yes, it would.”

“There’ll be a pass for you at the main gate. Come to the administration building. The guard will direct you.”

“I’ll be there at four.” Rick hung up. A future for him at Centurion? It was nice to know there might be a future for him
somewhere
.

RICK DRESSED IN HIS BEST SUIT, drove his Chevrolet coupe down to the Beverly Hills Hotel and went to the barbershop. He had a shave, a haircut and a manicure and, feeling fresher, had a club sandwich in the garden of the Polo Lounge. He couldn’t really afford all this anymore, in his reduced circumstances, but he felt like keeping up appearances. Word had already gotten around about his being busted, and he wanted to be seen doing the usual things. He didn’t want people feeling sorry for him. He spoke to a few people he knew, left a generous tip and went back to his car. He didn’t have anything to do until four, so he drove out to Santa Monica, to Clover Field, and parked at the tin hangar that was Barron Flying Service. He looked into the office and found only the bookkeeper.

“He’s in the hangar,” she said, barely looking up from her ledgers.

Rick strolled into the hangar to find his father changing the oil in the smaller of his two airplanes. He was dressed in his suit trousers, a white shirt and a tie. Rick grabbed two sets of coveralls from a shelf, got into one and handed the other to his father. “Put these on, Dad. You’ll ruin your clothes.”

“You sound just like your mother,” Jack Barron said, struggling into the coveralls. “What brings you out here?”

Rick walked around the airplane and peered at the other side of the engine. “It’s my day off. I thought I’d see how you’re doing.” He picked up a wrench and tightened a fuel line fitting, then began looking for other anomalies.

“I’m doing fine,” Jack said. “You want to fly a party down to San Diego for me this afternoon?”

“Sorry, Dad, I’ve got an appointment at Centurion Studios at four.”

“They making you a movie star?”

“I don’t think that’s what they’ve got in mind,” Rick said, laughing, “but a guy named Eddie Harris seems to have something in mind.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Jack said. “I could use some business from those people, if you get a chance to mention it.”

“I’ll do that at the first opportunity.”

Rick noticed an airplane he hadn’t seen before—a Lockheed Vega—parked in a corner of the hangar. “Who belongs to the bush plane?” he asked.

“New customer. I’m leasing it from him.”

The two men worked on quietly for a while.

“I heard you’re back in uniform,” Jack said.

“Afraid so,” Rick replied.

“Heard it was something to do with a girl.”

“It was.”

“Figures.”

“You want to hear about it?”

“Only if you want to tell it.”

“I was seeing this girl, and she turned out to be Captain O’Connell’s niece.”

“Wouldn’t think that would upset anybody all that much, unless you got her in trouble.”

Rick blushed, in spite of himself. “Well, yeah.”

“She still in trouble?”

“Don’t worry, you’re not going to be a grandfather.”

“Not ever?”

“Never say never.”

“Well, I guess you can handle it. You always land on your feet, you do.”

“I try.”

“You ever want to fly for me, come into the business, it’s here.”

“Thanks, Dad, I appreciate that.”

“So how long’s it going to take for you to get the gold badge back?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I want it back.” That was a lie.

“What do you want? I’ve always wondered.”

“Me, too,” Rick replied.

The two men continued working on the airplane.

3

THE GUARD AT THE CENTURION main gate wrote down Rick’s name and issued him a visitor’s pass, then gave him directions to the administration building. Rick put the pass on the dashboard of his ’32 Chevy coupe and drove onto the studio lot. The night before had been his first visit to a movie studio, and he was interested to see it in daylight. He drove down a street that looked like New York, with neat brownstones lined up, curtains in their windows. When he turned a corner, he saw that they were only facades, propped up by scaffolding.

He found the administration building and parked in a visitor’s spot. There was an array of expensive cars in the lot—sedans, convertibles and roadsters—with people’s names lettered in gilt on little signs. In Eddie Harris’s spot was parked a black Lincoln Continental convertible, very new. Rick entered the building and came to a desk where a uniformed studio guard took his name and directed him to an elevator to the third floor.

A receptionist greeted him and asked him to take a seat. The waiting room was lushly furnished, with movie posters on the walls and an array of trade publications arranged on a coffee table. He had been seated for only a moment when a handsome woman in her forties appeared.

“Mr. Barron? I’m Celia Warren, Mr. Harris’s assistant. Would you come with me, please?”

Rick followed her through another, smaller reception room, where two secretaries worked at desks, and into a large, sunny office furnished in dark mahogany furniture and paneling, with a conference table at one end and a group of sofas at the other. Eddie Harris was seated at his desk, his feet up, talking on the telephone. He waved Rick to a chair, and the assistant left them. A moment later, Harris hung up the phone.

“How you doing?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Get any sleep last night?”

“Nearly enough.”

Harris laughed, something he seemed to do easily. “What do you know about Centurion Studios?” he asked.

“You’re the new kid on the block, and you’re growing fast,” Rick replied. “That’s about it.” He read
Variety
once in a while.

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Harris said. “Sol Weinman and I were at MGM, until a couple of years ago. Sol had his own unit, and I was his production manager. When Irving Thalberg died, Sol didn’t want to work directly for Louis B. Mayer, so he rounded up some investors, including me, and with some of their money and a lot of his wife’s, he bought this property, which had been a poverty-row studio with a lot of real estate. He got it at Depression prices. It originally had two soundstages. We’ve built another two, and there are two more under construction. We’re already making two pictures a month, and by this time next year we expect to be making one a week. We’re hot, and the whole town knows it. Being new, we’ve had to borrow a lot of stars for productions, which puts our costs up, but we’re building a stable, and since we stole Clete Barrow from Metro, it’s getting easier. What Clark Gable is to Metro, Clete Barrow is to us.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Rick said.

“It is. Now, enough about us, let’s talk about you.” Harris opened a manila file folder on his desk and consulted the contents. “You know what I found out about you that really surprised me?”

Uh-oh, Rick thought.

“You and I were born sixteen miles apart.”

Rick relaxed. “Where were you born?”

“In Greenville, Georgia, right near Delano, where you were born.”

“Well, we left there when I was a kid and came out here, so, apart from a couple of visits to my grandparents there, my only claim to Delano is my birth certificate. What happened to your Southern accent?”

“It comes back when I’ve had a couple of bourbons. You know who else is from Greenville?”

“Nope.”

“Y. Frank Freeman, who’s head of production over at Paramount. Frank and I grew up together, came out here together, but we were too close to work together, if you know what I mean.”

“I can see how that could be tough in business,” Rick said. He had no idea what he was talking about.

“How did you come to be born in Georgia?” Harris asked.

“My old man is from Minnesota, but he was a barnstorming pilot in the old days, and he met my mother when he blew through Meriwether County. It was a whirlwind courtship, and I’m the result. My mother and I stayed on for a while in Delano while he barnstormed and saved his money, then he joined the Lafayette Escadrille during the first war and flew over there for two years. When he came back, he moved us out here. He was planning a solo flight across the Atlantic, but his friend Lindbergh beat him to it.”

“Your folks still alive?”

“My mother died when I was ten. Dad has an FBO over at Clover Field in Santa Monica.”

“What’s an FBO?”

“Fixed Base Operation, as opposed to barnstorming. He has two airplanes—a Beech Staggerwing and a Lockheed Electra—for air taxi work, and he gives flying lessons and maintains a few airplanes for private owners.”

“What’s the FBO called?”

“Barron Flying Service.”

Harris made a note of it. “Maybe I can throw some business his way.”

“He’d like that, and you’d like him.”

“You fly, too, it says here.” Harris consulted his folder again.

“Yeah, I’ve got a commercial license and a few thousand hours.”

“Why did you become a cop? Didn’t you have any interest in the family business?”

“Not really. I enjoy flying for recreation and as a means of travel, but if you’re doing it for a living, you’re just a glorified taxi driver, and on somebody else’s schedule. I intended to become a lawyer, but after UCLA and a year of law school I found it pretty dry stuff. Torts were not for me. The practical application of the law on the street seemed a lot more interesting.”

“You were with the LAPD first?”

“Yes, for three years. I’ve been with the Beverly Hills Department for five. I switched to get a detective’s badge quicker.”

“You ever expect to get it back?”

Rick shrugged. “Not while Larry O’Connell can still draw a breath.”

“I talked with him about you,” Harris said.

“Then you must have a low opinion of me.”

“Nah. I can read between the lines. He couldn’t find anything bad to say about you as a cop. I talked to a few other people, too—cops, headwaiters, bartenders. You and I have the same barber.”