Beverly Hills Dead

by Stuart Woods

Sid signed the note, opened a new account, deposited the loan proceeds and left the bank in a white-hot rage.

  25

  Sid drove up to his house, hoping to speak to Alice, but there was no one there but the embarrassed maid, who said that Alice had gone to New York and she didn’t know when she’d be back. Sid left and drove over to Wilshire Boulevard to Hyman Greenbaum’s office building and went upstairs.

  “Good morning, Mr. Brooks,” the receptionist said. “Is Mr. Greenbaum expecting you?”

  “No,” Sid said, “but it’s important that I see him right now.”

  She made the call. “Please go right in, Mr. Brooks.”

  Hy was on his feet to greet him as he walked into the big corner office. “Sid, I’m glad you’re back,” he said, shaking his client’s hand warmly.

  “Thanks, Hy, but I’m not sure I’m glad.”

  “Yeah. I know things went badly in Washington. I always thought you fellows had bad legal advice.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Sid said, handing him the letter from Alice’s lawyers.

  “Yeah,” Sid said, reading the letter, “these guys are a top firm, but they only occasionally handle divorce; Alice must have a connection there.”

  “That’s not all,” Sid said. “I went to my bank this morning to cash a hundred-dollar check, and it bounced.”

  Hy’s eyebrows went up. “Uh-oh.”

  “I had deposited your check from Centurion, and I had at least another twenty thousand in that account. I haven’t even paid the taxes on the Centurion money.”

  “She cleaned you out?”

  “Yes, she certainly did.”

  “Joint account?”

  “All our accounts are joint.”

  “That means she probably cleaned out the brokerage account, too.”

  “Probably. I’m afraid to call them.”

  “I’m sorry, Sid.”

  “You warned me she might leave, and I ignored it. Is this legal, Hy?”

  “I’m not a lawyer, but I don’t think she can do all that. Trouble is, you’ll have to go to court to get anything back.”

  “I’m going to need a lawyer, a specialist.”

  “Just a minute,” Hy said. “Let me make a call.” He dialed a number. “David? Hyman Greenbaum.” He explained the situation briefly, then listened. “Good. I’ll send him to you now. All right, half an hour.” He hung up. “Sid, I’m going to send you to a young lawyer I know who will know how to help you.”

  “Young? Does he specialize in divorce?”

  “He’s young, but he’s very smart, and he has all kinds of connections. He’s not a divorce lawyer per se. He’s more of a generalist, but when you meet him, I think you’ll feel comfortable. Believe me, if he can’t handle it, he’ll know exactly who can.”

  “All right, Hy. I’ll go see him. Where is he?”

  “He’s on the second floor of this building, and don’t be put off by his offices.”

  “All right. Next thing is, I’ve got to make some money.”

  “I understand,” Hy said, “but we’re in a new kind of ball game, Sid. Nothing like this has ever happened before, and we’re going to have to feel our way.”

  “Do we have the rights to the novel yet?”

  Hy opened a drawer. “I’ve got the contract right here. Sign it, and we’ll have the rights; they’ve already executed.”

  Sid signed the agreement. “Oh, God, I’ve got to give them five thousand dollars. I borrowed a thousand from the bank, but I’ve already spent, maybe, three hundred.”

  “Don’t worry about it; I’ll cut a check and send it with the executed contract by messenger. You can reimburse the agency when you get some things worked out.”

  “Thank you, Hy. I appreciate that. Did you get a chance to read the treatment of the novel?”

  “I did, and I love it. Whoever reads it is going to love it, but we’ve got to face reality here, Sid.”

  “Tell me the reality.”

  “If we put your name on this, nobody’s even going to read it, let alone buy it.”

  “How about Centurion? I think Rick Barron would buy it.”

  “It’ll be Eddie Harris’s decision, and he’s a party, however unwilling, to the statement the studio heads issued in New York a couple of days ago. Let’s use a pseudonym. I’ll tell him I’ve signed a new writer.”

  “They would want a meeting to discuss the script.”

  “I’ll say the writer lives in New York. No, not New York; Maine—Portland, Maine. Nobody is going to travel up there to talk with a writer. We’ll do conferences by phone.”

  “So I have to give up my name?”

  “This is temporary, Sid. I don’t know how temporary, but it’ll blow over eventually, believe me.”

  “Can you get my price for the treatment, Hy?”

  “I don’t think you should count on that; after all, we’re talking about a new writer, not an established one, like you. I’ll have the treatment retyped, so it won’t look like your usual submission.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hy stood up. “I’ll be in touch in a few days, Sid. Do you have a phone in the new place?”

  “I forgot. I have to call the phone company. There’s a phone there; it’s just not hooked up to the exchange.”

  “Call me with the number when you have one. Now go see David Sturmack.”

  David Sturmack was tall and slender, with thick, dark hair and a prominent nose. He appeared to be in his early thirties. His office was a mess: the furniture was battered, and there were a lot of unfiled documents. He greeted Sid warmly. “Just kick that stuff off the sofa and have a seat,” he said. “You want some coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  He pointed to a coffeemaker in the corner. “You pour while I read that letter from your wife’s lawyers.” He held out his hand.

  Sid gave him the letter and poured the coffee.

  “Black for me,” Sturmack said.

  Sid poured another cup and handed it to him.

  “This is shitty,” Sturmack said, holding up the letter. “And she cleaned out your bank and brokerage accounts, too?”

  “Probably.”

  “How much?”

  “Over a hundred and fifty thousand in the bank account—I had deposited a big check, hadn’t even paid the taxes yet—and, maybe a quarter of a million in the brokerage account.”

  “You did well during the war, then.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Too old for the draft?”

  “Yes. Where were you?”

  “France and Germany. I commanded an airborne regiment.”

  “You made colonel?”

  “Yes, at the very end; they wanted me to stay in.”

  Sid was impressed.

  “I’m twenty-nine,” Sturmack said, reading his mind. “Have you had any contact with your wife, other than this letter?”

  “No. I went by the house straight from the airport to get my car, but the house was dark. I went there again an hour ago, and the maid said she had gone to New York and she didn’t know when she’d be back.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sturmack walked behind his desk, picked up the phone and, checking the letterhead for the number, dialed. “Pick up and listen,” he said to Sid, pointing to the phone on the coffee table.

  Sid picked up the instrument.

  “Higgins and Reed,” an operator said.

  “Thomas Reed. David Sturmack calling.”

  “Mr. Reed’s office. Can you hold, Mr. Sturmack?”

  “For a brief time.”

  “David? Tom Reed. How are you?”

  “I’m depressed, Tom. It always depresses me when I have to take an ethics complaint to the bar association, especially when it’s a lawyer I like and admire. I thought better of you, Tom.”

  “Whoa, David. What are we talking about, here?”

  “I’m representing Sidney Brooks, that’s what we’re talking about, and I’ve never seen a more outrageous list of actions
against a client with no legal basis whatever.”

  “Now, David…”

  “She orders him out of his home, then leaves for New York? She expects him to move out, even when she’s not living there?”

  “David, I’m sure we can…”

  “And she confiscates his funds and investments with no notice, funds on which taxes have not yet been paid.”

  “Listen to me, David…”

  “No, Tom, you listen to me. I’m going to file the ethics complaint even before I go to a judge for an order to restore the funds, which you know I’ll get. Did you think you would be negotiating from a position of strength by doing this?”

  “David, what do you want?”

  “My client moves back into his home today; if Mrs. Barron wishes to visit L.A. she can stay at a hotel paid for with marital funds. She restores seventy-five percent of the funds taken from the bank account and all of the funds taken from the brokerage account, and we both stipulate that no investment transactions be made without mutual consent. Before close of business today.”

  “I think I can do that.”

  Sid held up a key and pointed to it. “She changed the locks,” he mouthed.

  “And I want keys to the house delivered to my office before lunch, and I eat early.”

  “All right, all right.”

  “When all that has been accomplished we can convene a settlement conference. Call me back and confirm.” Sturmack hung up. “I think that’ll do for now,” he said to Sid.

  “I certainly think so,” Sid said, stunned. “All that from the threat of an ethics complaint?”

  “Oh, there was a subtext to that conversation,” Sturmack said. “Clients of mine are involved in something very big with clients of his; he didn’t want to make me angry. When the keys come, I’ll send them over to the house with my secretary. She’ll put them under the doormat, so you should be able to move in by, say, three o’clock? Give me the address.”

  Sid wrote down the address.

  “Phone number?”

  “She changed it; I don’t know what it is.”

  “I’ve got a friend who can deal with that. You’ll have your old number back by suppertime.”

  “David, I can’t thank you enough. We haven’t discussed your fee.”

  “Nothing, so far; it was just a phone call. I’ll bill you for my time while we negotiate the settlement; I won’t need a retainer. I doubt if the divorce will come to more than two, three grand; she can pay Higgins and Reed herself.”

  Sid left David Sturmack’s office with the feeling that, for the first time in a couple of weeks, his head was above water.

  26

  The days in Wyoming were growing shorter, and there was frost on the ground in the mornings now; they had to wait for the temperature to rise before filming, so that the actors’ breath could not be seen. Rick accelerated the shooting schedule, and they wrapped the final exterior scene four days early.

  That night there was what Rick thought of as a professional amateur show in the dining hall, where the cast of the picture provided the entertainment. The highlight of the evening was the finale, when the two costars, in hobo costumes, performed “Burlington Bertie from Bow,” accompanied by three other actors on piano, bass and guitar. They brought the house down and had to do another chorus as an encore. Rick began thinking about putting them into a musical.

  It was nearly midnight when Rick and Glenna returned to the ranch house, where there was a note to Rick from Eddie Harris to call him at home, no matter how late.

  “Yes?” Eddie’s voice said.

  “Hi, it’s Rick. You’re back from Washington and New York?”

  “Got home not much more than an hour ago. Have you heard the news?”

  “I haven’t heard any news for at least a week.”

  “The meeting with the other studio heads was appalling,” Eddie said. “They’ve instituted what amounts to a blacklist, though they avoided using that word. Sam Goldwyn, Harry Cohn, Dore Schary and I fought it, but we lost. There was a public announcement this afternoon saying that no studio would employ anyone who is or was a party member or refused to answer that question before Congress. They’re starting with the ‘Hollywood Ten’—that’s the ten guys who testified as unfriendly witnesses—and Sid Brooks is one of them.”

  Rick was flabbergasted. “You mean we can’t hire Sid again?”

  “We’ve got to talk about that when you get back. When will you wrap up there?”

  “We wrapped this afternoon; I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Call me from the airport, and we’ll decide whether to meet at the office or at home. This is going to be a mess, Rick.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but there it is.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Rick hung up, called the pilot and told him he wanted to take off at eight A.M., then he told the other passengers as they returned from the party. Leo Goldman, Vance Calder and Susie Stafford would be joining him and his family.

  Rick went upstairs. “I just talked to Leo.” He told Glenna the substance of the conversation.

  “I don’t understand. Is it just these ten who are being made scapegoats?”

  “I think it’s going to go a lot farther than that,” Rick said.

  “Good God.”

  “Let’s don’t get too worried about this yet; I’m meeting with Eddie as soon as we get home tomorrow to talk about how this is going to affect Centurion.”

  They landed at Clover Field at midafternoon. Rick called Eddie, then Glenna dropped him at Centurion on her way home.

  Eddie was waiting for him when he got to his office. “Come on,” he said, leading the way. “The newsreel department has put together some footage for you, so you can catch up on what’s been happening in your absence.”

  They sat down, and the film clips rolled: testimony by Jack Warner, Adolphe Menjou and Robert Taylor, among the friendly witnesses, then John Howard Lawson, Ring Lardner Jr. and others. Sid Brooks’s testimony was the shortest. Finally, they saw film of Eric Johnston of the Motion Picture Producers’ Association, reading the joint statement of the studio heads at the Waldorf.

  They went back to Eddie’s office, and he poured Rick a drink.

  “That was awful,” Rick said. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “I’m not sure how this is going to unfold on a day-to-day basis,” Eddie said, “but something has happened that will give you an idea of the sort of problems we’re going to encounter.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This morning I got a call from our distributors, asking for a meeting.”

  “What did they want?”

  “They had good news, at least for us.”

  “Go on.”

  “Alan James’s picture, Dark Promise, was scheduled to open at the Radio City Music Hall at Christmas, but after the hearings, and given the circumstances of his death, it’s been cancelled. It’s a pity, because the word around town is that Alan is a sure thing for an Oscar nomination and the favorite to win.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “The upside of this is they asked to see what footage we had of Bitter Creek, and I showed them your rough cut.”

  “But, Eddie, it’s not…”

  “I know, I know, but it’s fairly complete, and they certainly saw how beautiful it’s going to be and how good the performances are.”

  “And?”

  “And they want to substitute it for Dark Promise at the Music Hall, for Christmas.”

  “Jesus, Eddie. That’s not much more than a couple of months away, and we haven’t even shot the interiors.”

  “I went through the script, and if you work through the weekend, you can have them in the can in ten days.”

  “And it’s still got to be scored.”

  “We’ll get the composer started tomorrow. It’s amazing how well the rough cut works with no music; if we keep it spare, we can do i
t. It’ll be right down to the wire, but it’s the Music Hall for God’s sake. It’ll be wonderful for the careers of Vance and Susie, wonderful for the director and wonderful for the studio.”

  “I don’t question that; I just hope we can do it.”

  “This is thrilling news, Rick. Don’t let the cancellation of Alan’s picture bother you; we had nothing to do with that. We were presented with a fait accompli.”

  “You’re right, I guess; I should be thrilled.”

  “There’s something else, though.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah, it’s like that. They want Sid Brooks’s credit taken off the screen.”

  “What are you talking about, Eddie? We can’t do that to Sid.”

  “We’re not doing it to him, Rick. Other people are.”

  “I won’t do it. Tell him they take the film with the credits intact, or they can’t have it. We’ll open next year, the way we planned.”

  “I’ve already shaken hands on the deal, Rick; I can’t go back on my word.”

  “What about our word to Sid? He has a contract that specifies a single-card credit; he could sue us. I would, if I were in his place.”

  “I think I have a solution to that problem.”

  “What solution?”

  “Get Sid in here and tell him what’s happened; get him to agree to have his credit dropped. We’ll insert a pseudonym.”

  “And why would he agree to do that? It’s the best thing he’s ever written; he’s sure to get nominated.”

  “Even if he does, he’ll never get the Oscar, not the way things are now. He’ll see how great this will be for Vance and Susie and you; he won’t want to stand in the way of that.”

  “I don’t want to do that, Eddie. I can’t do that to Sid.”

  “Rick, even if we open it next year, we can’t have Sid’s credit on the screen.”

  “Why not? I thought you disagreed with the studio heads on the blacklist.”

  “I did, and I do, and I’ll do whatever I can to subvert it, but other forces are at work here.”

  “What forces?”

  “The American Legion, for one, and other organizations are being formed as we speak. They’re going to picket the theaters where any film is shown that has Communist actors, writers or directors and that stars any of the Hollywood Ten. We’ve got more money tied up in this picture than anything we’ve ever made, and we can’t just flush it down the toilet.”