The Prince of Beverly Hills (9 page)

Rick grabbed a quick shower, and Carla joined him.

“You were just swell last night,” she said. “I’m sorry I thought you were a pansy.” She kissed him and took him in her hand. “My mistake.”

“Listen, I hope you won’t think I’m a pansy if I tell you I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got to get Clete to work.”

“What are you, his chauffeur? He’s got a car.”

Rick grinned. “You’ve got a point,” he said, yielding to her idea.

WHEN THEY CAME OUT of the bedroom, Clete was pacing the floor.

“I’ve got to get going,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“So get going,” Rick replied. “You’ve got the Packard.”

“Christ, I forgot. Will you see the girls home?”

“Sure.”

Clete ran down the stairs, and Rick had some breakfast with the girls. He wasn’t due in early. After he’d dropped them off, he went back to his place for some clothes and was surprised to see the big black car a couple of cars back on Sunset. Mannix was taking care of him. He shaved and changed, then stopped. If this was the kind of life he was leading, he’d better take some clothes to the office. He packed a bag and threw it in the car.

Rick was still new enough at this that he greatly enjoyed the guard’s salute at the Centurion main gate. He returned the salute and drove to his office. To his surprise and discomfort, Eddie Harris was sitting on his leather couch, waiting for him. Rick snuck a look at his watch: eight forty-five. “Good morning, Eddie,” he said.

“Congratulations. That’s two days in a row you’ve gotten Clete to work on time. You’ve saved us at least twenty-five grand.”

“Clete has been the soul of cooperation.” Rick sat down at his desk. “It’s strange how he can handle the booze when he wants to. We had dinner with some girls last night, and he had a couple of martinis and some wine, but he never got drunk.”

“There are drunks and drunks,” Eddie said. “I’ve known all kinds.”

“Is this a social call, Eddie, or is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m going to have to fly somewhere next week,” Eddie said. “I want to meet your old man.”

“Right now?”

“Why not?”

“Come on, I’ll drive you.”

“Nah, I’ll drive you.”

Rick followed Eddie out of his office, stopping to whisper to Jenny, “Call my old man at Barron Flying Service at Clover Field and tell him I’m bringing him a customer and to put on some clean clothes and get the grease from under his fingernails.”

She nodded, and Rick followed Eddie into a Lincoln Continental convertible, top down.

“It’s beautiful,” Rick said.

“It’s the 1940 model—delivered this morning. That’s half of why we’re going to Santa Monica; I want to drive it.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“How’s the Ford working out?”

“It’s a beauty. I love it.”

“I took it off the books. It’s yours now. Hiram will send over the pink slip.”

“Eddie, that’s extraordinarily kind of you.”

“I like it when people meet my expectations,” he said. “And you’re doing just fine.”

“To tell you the truth, once I get Clete to work, I’m having a little trouble filling my time. Anything you want done?”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

They drove out the main gate and headed for Santa Monica. Rick tossed his straw hat in the backseat and enjoyed the sun on his face and the wind in his hair.

“Ah, California, huh?” Eddie laughed.

“You bet. I don’t know why anybody lives anywhere else.”

“The way the state is filling up with Easterners, pretty soon nobody will live anywhere else. Want some advice? Invest in real estate. If you see something you want and you think it’s too expensive, buy it anyway.”

“That’s good advice. I’ll save my money so I can do that.”

“Borrow, if you have to,” Eddie said. “Money’s cheap—one of the few advantages of the Depression. I can send you to the right people.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. You know, a week ago, after some years of doing pretty well, I was back at the bottom in my job, and I had hardly any prospects. I was thinking about quitting the force and going in with my dad. Then, all of a sudden, I meet you, and my life goes off on a completely new tangent.”

“You deserved a break,” Eddie said, “and I’m happy to have had something to do with it. By the way, I talked to Eddie Mannix last night, and he tells me he’s having somebody keep an eye on you.”

“I’ve put myself in his hands,” Rick replied. “He says he’s going to straighten things out with Ben Siegel.”

“That’s a good move,” Eddie said. “He knows those people better than I do. I try to steer clear of them.”

“Good idea,” Rick said. “They may be colorful, but dealing with them is dangerous. I saw enough of their handiwork on the force to want to stay away from them. Not everybody did; I knew some cops who took their money, who were in their pocket. They’d do them a few favors, take a few bucks and suddenly they found themselves covering up a murder.”

“It’s a dirty town,” Eddie said, “and it’s not our job to clean it up.” They drove on toward Santa Monica in silence.

When they were nearly to the airport, Eddie spoke up. “I see Mannix is keeping his word,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror.

Rick looked back. “I don’t see them.”

“Gray Chevy,” Eddie said. “They’ve been behind us almost since we left the studio.”

“Earlier this morning, it was something big and black,” he said.

“You think . . . ?”

“I don’t know, but it can’t hurt to lose them. I don’t want them following me to my dad’s place.”

Eddie took a sudden hard left and gunned it.

15

IT TOOK EDDIE TEN MINUTES to lose the gray Chevy and another five to be sure. “You think we’re okay?” he asked.

“I think so,” Rick replied. “Let’s get back on course.”

Ten minutes later, they pulled up at the hangar that housed Barron Flying Service. Rick led Eddie inside, and they found Jack Barron at his desk, in a suit, looking at papers. His dad had gotten the message.

“Morning, Dad,” Rick said. “I want you to meet Eddie Harris, who runs things at Centurion. Eddie, this is Jack Barron.”

“How are you, Jack?” Eddie said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Harris.”

“Please, call me Eddie.”

“Thank you.”

“Rick has told me about your flying service, and I wanted to see what you’ve got in the way of airplanes.”

“Let me show you my Lockheed Electra, then,” Jack said.

“You two go ahead,” Rick said. “I want to use the john.” He walked back through the offices and to the back door of the hangar. He stopped, yanked the .45 from the shoulder holster. Then, holding the small gun concealed in his hand, he stepped outside and had a look around. There was a small parking area behind the hangar, and Rick walked through it, checking every car. Every one was empty, and there was no gray Chevrolet.

He circumnavigated the hangar, looking for cars that might have driven onto the field. A Beech Staggerwing took off and turned north, and Rick watched it for a moment, admiring the beautiful airplane. It was one he fantasized about owning. Maybe he would make his dad an offer for his, when he got a little ahead. He continued his walk around the hangar, then went back inside through the back door. He put the gun on safety, holstered it, used the john, then went back to join his dad and Eddie, who were deep in conversation.

“Your dad tells me you’re his number one pilot,” Eddie said.

“A father’s pride; take it with a grain of salt,” Rick replied. “He’s got half a dozen good guys on his list.”

“I don’t employ a full-time pilot,” Jack said. “It makes more sense to hire them by the hour. I’m not running an airline, after all.”

“I see your point,” Eddie said. “Jack, I’ve bought a house down in Palm Springs, and I expect to spend a lot of weekends there, but it’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive. How long would it take you to fly my wife and me and maybe some friends down there in the Electra?”

“Half an hour, forty-five minutes each way, depending on the winds.”

“How much?”

Jack scratched his head and named a price.

“Sounds good. How about this weekend?”

“When do you want to take off, and when do you want to come back?”

“Outbound, Friday at three; coming home, pick us up in Palm Springs at four on Sunday.”

“You’ve got yourself a charter. Every weekend, if you like.”

“Let’s see how Suzanne likes the ride, then we’ll talk.”

“That’s fine with me.”

Eddie turned to Rick. “We’d better get back to work,” he said. He shook Jack’s hand, and they walked back to the car.

“You disappeared for a few minutes,” Eddie said. “Looking for the gray Chevy?”

“Just being careful,” Rick replied.

They got into the Continental and started back.

“Rick, our executives do a fair amount of flying, so much so that we’ve been thinking about buying an airplane. I’ve heard good things about the Electra.”

“So did Amelia Earhart. The Electra is a good airplane, but it might be a little cramped for the studio’s purposes. I’m inclined to think you’d be happier with the Douglas DC-3. It’s bigger, just as fast and a damned fine machine. It would get you to New York a lot faster than the train.”

“How would you like to operate an aviation department for us at the studio, in addition to your security duties?”

“I’m not sure that would be a good use of your money, Eddie,” Rick replied. “It might make more sense for my dad to do that for you. He could hangar the airplane, hire another mechanic to see to its maintenance and find you a regular pilot.”

“Suppose we expanded to two or three airplanes—eventually, I mean.”

“Dad could handle it for you, and one of these days he’s going to retire; he’s sixty now. Maybe you could buy him out in a few years and then own the hangar and his equipment. You might defray some of your costs by flying charters.”

“That’s good thinking,” Eddie said. “I’ll talk to Sol about it.”

They drove back to Centurion, and as they were turning through the front gate, Rick saw the big black car and Mannix’s two men sitting outside. They had missed his leaving, since they hadn’t expected him to leave in Eddie’s Continental. But whoever had been in the gray Chevrolet had not missed him.

16

RICK SPENT THE AFTERNOON reading
Gone with the Wind
in his office. He had somehow not gotten around to it when the book had been published three years before, but it was being filmed at Metro, and he wanted to read it before seeing the movie. He felt guilty about reading at his desk, but his job was turning out to be a little like police work—long periods of boredom, punctuated by occasional more exciting moments.

Later, he drove over to Clete’s cottage and waited for him to come back from the set. He turned up in the same beautiful uniform, with its red tunic, that Rick had seen him in before, but this time it was dirty and torn, and Clete sported a four-inch gash in his forehead. Rick was alarmed, until he realized it was makeup. He had a Coke and waited for Clete to shower.

“Well, old sport, what say we go over to Dave Chasen’s place for some chili?”

Rick had passed Chasen’s Southern Pit in West Hollywood, but had never been in. “Sure, why not?”

“Been there?”

“Nope.”

They got into Rick’s car. “Dave is an old vaudevillian,” Clete said, “and he makes a mean bowl of chili.”

THEY WALKED IN WITHOUT a reservation, and as usual Clete got the welcome treatment from the owner and the best available table. They were about to sit down when a handsome, well-dressed woman in a large hat approached Clete.

“Hedda!” he roared, kissing her hand. “How are you, my darling?”

“I’m very well, Clete, and I hear that
Khyber Uprising
is on schedule—or have you managed to slow it down, as usual?”

Clete laughed as if this were very funny. “You know me, darling, always right on time. Have you met Centurion’s new chief of security? This is Richard Barron.”

“How do you do, Mr. Barron?” she said.

“I’m very well, Miss Hopper,” Rick replied. “And please, call me Rick.”

“Of course, my dear. And has the studio assigned you to see that our Clete shows up on time and sober?”

“Miss Hopper, I don’t think anyone in the world could make Clete be either on time or sober, unless he really wanted to. He seems to be enjoying himself on this picture.”

“I don’t know your name,” Hopper said. “Where were you before? Metro? RKO?”

“I was with the Beverly Hills Police Department,” Rick said.

“I suppose Eddie brought you in to replace that John Kean fellow, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I never liked him, and I never understood that murder-suicide business. What really happened?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea. That business was handled by the Los Angeles department, and they didn’t confide in me.”

“I’d like very much to have that story, when it’s solved,” she said. “Will you promise to bring it to me first? I’d be very upset if I read about it in Louella’s column.” There was an edge to her voice.

“I’ll certainly be happy to bring you anything I learn,” Rick said. Hopper had started her column in the Los Angeles
Times
earlier that year, but she had already earned a reputation as a bitch, and Rick didn’t want to get on her bad side.

“Do that, and I’ll put in a good word with Eddie Harris for you,” she said.

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Must run, darling,” she said, kissing Clete on both cheeks and shaking Rick’s hand. “I’ve all of Hollywood to cover.”

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” Clete said, waving her off. He sat down. “Whew,” he said, “it’s hard work being nice to these columnists. You say something innocuous, and it turns up in the papers the next day as entirely another thing.”

“I hear she’s a bitch,” Rick said.

“And proud of it,” Clete replied. “She revels in her bitchery. Louella has, at least, an air of sweetness about her, but of course, I wouldn’t trust either of them as far as I could throw them.”

A waiter brought them a drink and menus, and Rick looked around. Jack Benny and his wife were across the room, in a booth next to Spencer Tracy and a woman Rick assumed to be his wife. “This place must be catching on,” he said, nodding toward the two stars.