The Prince of Beverly Hills

by Stuart Woods

  “The movie business attracts kids from all over the country—all over the world, even. They arrive here with nothing more than ambition and talent, and sometimes not even talent. If they find work, then they’re making more money than they would as secretaries and gas-pump jockeys, and sometimes it goes to their heads. They get into trouble, and it can reflect badly on the studio, unless these situations are handled. Often, we can do more to straighten out difficulties than the police can, and we can do it a lot more quietly and with less harm to everybody concerned.”

  “I understand,” Rick said.

  Harris was now driving through the main street of an Old West town. “We’re on the back lot now. We’ve got several hundred acres with various sets and open ground where we shoot war movies and Westerns and other outdoor situations.” He made a turn, and they drove into a street of neat houses, shaded by large trees. “Here’s our American small town,” Harris said.

  “This is all amazing,” Rick replied, looking around. “A lot of it looks familiar from movies I’ve seen.”

  “You go to the movies much?”

  “A couple of times a week, I guess. I enjoy them.”

  “That’s good. Back to business: Rick, you know when you called me last night? I don’t want to get calls like that. I want you to get them. I want you to be my new director of security at the studio. What would you think about that?”

  Rick took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. “That sounds very appealing.”

  “The movie business is very big, and it’s getting bigger, and Centurion is getting bigger, faster than almost anybody else. There are going to be a lot of opportunities here over the next few years. There might come a time when you’d want to do something else with us. I like to promote my own people, when I can. You do a good job for me, and I’ll be appreciative. I want you to remember that.”

  “I certainly will.”

  Harris had headed back toward the administration building now. “Here’s my offer,” he said. “Three hundred a week to start. When you’re worth it, you’ll get more. There are the usual perks—a pension plan, et cetera. You’ll have an office, but you’ll spend a lot of time out of it. I warn you, this is a twenty-four-hour-a-day job.”

  “I’m accustomed to that,” Rick said.

  Harris turned a corner and pulled into a large building that Rick had thought was a soundstage. It was filled with all sorts of vehicles—sedans, convertibles, police cars, ambulances, wagons and buggies, even stage-coaches. “This is our motor pool,” Harris said.

  “That’s my car,” Rick said, pointing at a Chevrolet.

  “It is.” Harris waved a man over. “Hey, Hiram, how you doing?” he asked.

  “Pretty good, Eddie. This the guy?”

  “Rick, this is Hiram Jones. He runs the transportation department.”

  Rick shook the man’s hand.

  “What do you reckon his car is worth?” Harris asked the man.

  “I’ll give him three hundred for it.”

  “Sell the man your car, Rick. We’ll find you something else to drive.”

  “Done,” Rick said, grateful to be rid of his old crate.

  Harris climbed out of the cart. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Hiram.”

  Jones led them down a row of parked cars, and Harris stopped in front of a cream-colored 1938 Ford convertible. “This looks like you, Rick,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “I’ll defer to your judgment,” Rick said, smiling.

  “Put it in the admin parking lot, Hiram,” Harris said. “Come on, Rick, let’s get back. It’s getting late.”

  Rick looked farther back into the building and saw Clete Barrow’s Mercedes. It looked a total wreck to him. “What are you going to do with that?” he asked Hiram Jones.

  “Repair it,” Jones replied. “It’s impossible to replace.”

  They got back into the cart and drove back to the administration building.

  “One thing I didn’t ask you,” Harris said.

  “What’s that?”

  “How do you feel about Jews?”

  “Just fine. I have no problem with anybody.”

  “Good, because Jews invented this business, and most of the people who run it are Jewish. They’re great people, and I don’t like it when people call them yids or tell kike jokes.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ve got some poker buddies; we’re all gentiles. We call ourselves the ‘goy scouts.’ ”

  Rick laughed.

  “You’ll have to play poker with us sometime.”

  “Thanks,” Rick said, “but I don’t play poker with people who are richer or smarter than I am.”

  Harris grinned. “I think you’re going to work out just fine.” He led Rick through a door at one end of the administration building, past the reception desk and through a glass door marked “Studio Police.” Harris went to an open office door. “Cal,” he said, “come out here. I want you to meet your new boss.”

  Cal Herman, in uniform, came toward Rick with his hand out. “You must be Rick Barron,” he said. “Glad to have you aboard.”

  “Thanks, Cal,” Rick replied, surprised that Herman was expecting him.

  “Come on, I’ll show you your office,” Harris said.

  “See you later, Cal.”

  “Sure thing, Rick. I’m available when you want to talk.”

  Harris led Rick out of the police office and across the reception room to another door. A sign painter was lettering “Director of Security” in gilt, and below it, “R. Barron.” Harris opened the door and a secretary stood up at her desk. “Rick, this is Jenny Baker. She’ll be your secretary, if that turns out to be all right with both of you.”

  “Hello, Jenny,” Rick said, shaking the girl’s hand.

  “How do you do, Mr. Barron?”

  “Rick, please.” She looked like the Central Casting all-American girl, he thought.

  Harris led him into the adjoining office. It was a quarter the size of Harris’s, but still spacious, with a handsome desk, a leather sofa and chairs, a bathroom with a shower to one side and Centurion movie posters on the walls. There was a safe in one corner. “Will this do?” Harris asked.

  “It certainly will,” Rick replied. “This is all a little overwhelming.”

  Harris went to the desk and picked up a stack of cards from a silver tray. “Put these in your pocket,” he said.

  Rick looked at the cards. “Richard Barron, Director of Security, Centurion Studios.” Below that were two phone numbers, one office and one home. “Very nice,” Rick said, “but this isn’t my home number.”

  “We’ll talk about that tonight,” Harris said. “I want you to come to dinner at my house.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Rick said.

  Harris handed him a card with the address and phone number. “Seven o’clock, black tie.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t own a tux, and it’s a little late to rent one,” Rick said.

  “Go back to wardrobe and ask for Marge. She’s waiting to fix you up.” Harris steered Rick back to the reception area, where Celia Warren, Harris’s assistant, was waiting for them. “Celia, Rick is joining us as of this moment.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” she said. “Here’s a check for your car, Rick.” She handed him an envelope.

  “I hope you’ve no problem with leaving the police department immediately,” Harris said.

  “None whatsoever,” Rick replied, and he meant it. He walked out to the parking lot and saw the cream-colored convertible parked in a spot, which was reserved by a neatly lettered sign with his name on it. Harris had been very confident that he would accept the job.

  He drove over to the wardrobe department. Marge was a motherly woman in her fifties, and she had a handsome tuxedo waiting for him.

  “We made this for Clete Barrow,” she said, “and you’re about his size. Try it on.”

  It fit as if it had been made for him. She found him a pleated shirt, a black tie
, shoes and some cuff links and studs, too. “You’ll look very elegant,” Marge said as she showed him out.

  ON THE WAY HOME, with his studio tuxedo on the backseat of the convertible, Rick stopped at the Beverly Hills City Hall, went into the police department squad room, borrowed a typewriter and wrote out his resignation. He took it to his captain’s office, knocked once and opened the door without being invited in.

  “What do you want?” O’Connell said, glaring at him.

  “To resign, Captain,” Rick replied, handing him the letter and placing his badge and Smith & Wesson revolver on the desk. “Effective immediately.”

  O’Connell nearly smiled. “And good fucking riddance,” he said.

  Rick closed the door behind him, walked out of the building and to his new car, seeming to float. As he tucked a copy of his resignation letter into his inside pocket, he felt the envelope that Harris had handed him earlier. He opened it, looked inside and quickly counted. Apparently, Clete Barrow made five thousand bucks a week. “My God, what a day!” he said aloud.

  5

  CLAD IN BORROWED ELEGANCE—a finely tailored mohair tuxedo, silk shirt and waistcoat and gleaming alligator shoes—Rick arrived at the Bel-Air address of Eddie and Suzanne Harris at ten minutes past the hour. He hoped he was only fashionably late.

  His car was parked by an attendant, and he was greeted at the door by an English butler who was dressed as well as he. Rick had been in houses as impressive as this Greek Revival mansion, with its marble entryway and sweeping staircase, but usually when the owner had either been robbed or was lying facedown, bleeding into the Aubusson carpet. He tried to adopt the mind-set of a guest, instead of an official intruder.

  The butler showed him into the living room, where the Harrises and another couple were standing before a cheerful fire.

  “Ah, Rick,” Harris said, coming toward him, a martini glass in his hand, “good to see you.” He drew Rick toward the fire. “You met Suzanne earlier, of course.”

  “I’m so happy you could come, Rick,” she said, offering her hand.

  “So am I,” Rick replied.

  “Rick,” Harris said, “I’d like you to meet our boss—or God, as we sometimes call him. This is Sol Weinman and his wife, Rebecca.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Weinman, Mrs. Weinman,” Rick said, shaking hands with both.

  “I’ve heard much about you from Eddie,” Weinman said. He was short and plump, with a fringe of white hair circling a hairless dome. “He’s needed someone like you for some time now, and I’m glad you’re coming aboard. You must drop by my office for a chat soon.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Weinman, I’d like that,” Rick replied.

  “And you must call me Sol. Everybody at Centurion is on a first-name basis. We don’t stand on ceremony like Metro and some others I could mention.”

  “Thank you, Sol.”

  A waiter appeared at Rick’s elbow with a tray of martinis, and he took one. As he did, two other couples were being shown in, and Rick found himself being introduced to Sam Goldwyn and William Wyler and their wives. The party was completed when Clark Gable and Carole Lombard arrived, accompanied by an attractive older woman, who turned out to be Sol Weinman’s sister, Adele Mannheim. He was in illustrious company, and he was finding it easy to get used to the idea.

  After another half hour of chat, they were called to dinner, twelve around a table of glistening china, silver and crystal. Rick sent a silent prayer of thanks to his mother, who, when he was a boy, had drilled him in his table manners and which fork to use. He was seated between Carole Lombard and Adele Mannheim, and as dazzled as he was by Lombard, he was smart enough to pay a lot of attention to Mrs. Mannheim, since he had clearly been invited as her dinner partner.

  “I was widowed earlier this year,” she confided, “and the Harrises have made a point of inviting me over regularly.” She leaned over and whispered, “I must say, I’m having more fun than when my husband was alive; he didn’t like going out.”

  Rick listened closely to her every word and tried to charm without flattering too much. When she excused herself for a moment, he turned to Lombard, and was disappointed to find her engrossed in conversation with Wyler, who sat on her other side.

  When dinner was concluded, the ladies went somewhere with Suzanne Harris, while the men remained at the table over coffee, port and cigars. Rick declined a cigar; he despised them.

  “Sam,” Sol Weinman said to Goldwyn, “what do you think about this television thing? Do we have anything to worry about?”

  “I don’t think so,” Goldwyn replied, in accented English. “A fuzzy little picture of baseball games and puppet shows is not going to take anybody away from a big screen in Technicolor, and you can say I didn’t say so.”

  “Clark,” Wyler said, “would you act on television?”

  “In what?” Gable replied. “A baseball game or a puppet show? And you can say I didn’t say so.”

  Goldwyn wrinkled his brow. “That didn’t sound right, Clark.”

  Everybody laughed except Goldwyn, who seemed surprised to find himself funny.

  Rick took it all in, speaking only when he was spoken to, which wasn’t often.

  They eventually joined the ladies in the library for coffee, and as ten o’clock chimed on a large clock in a corner, people began to leave. In five minutes, they were all gone. Harris had indicated that Rick should stay. They said good night to Suzanne, and she left them.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Harris said, taking Rick’s arm. They left the rear of the house through French doors and followed a path around a high hedge until they came to a large swimming pool, lit from underneath. A cabana was at one end, and another building across the pool. “That’s one of the guest houses,” Harris said. He led the way around the pool and down another path, and shortly they came to a cottage, ablaze with light. “This used to be the gardener’s cottage before we bought the place, when the grounds were twice as large. Suzanne has done it up as another guest house, but we don’t really need it.” Harris opened the front door with a key and they walked through the cottage. There was a living room with a dining table at one end, a kitchen, a bedroom and a small room that had been done up as a study, with a desk and bookcases. “You like?” Harris asked.

  “It’s beautiful,” Rick said.

  “How would you like to live here?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I travel to New York on business now and then, and Suzanne wants somebody on the place besides the servants, who live in an apartment over the garage, and she likes the idea of an ex-cop being here. There’s a little garage out back, and another drive that goes directly to the street. You can come and go as you please, and we promise you privacy. I’ll charge you, say, a hundred a month? You’ll pay the utilities and the phone, of course.”

  Rick turned to him. “Is this place the home number on my new business card?”

  “I thought you’d like it,” Harris said, grinning.

  “Like you say, Eddie, you’re a good judge of character.”

  Harris handed him the keys. “And don’t even think of fooling around with my wife. She’s got a gun in her bedside drawer, and she’s a hell of a shot.”

  Rick laughed, but he took it seriously.

  “Come on, I’ll walk you back to the house. You can move in tomorrow.”

  They strolled back up the path, arm in arm. “Let me tell you a couple of things about this business,” Harris said. “It’s a candy store, where women are concerned, and nobody expects you to be a priest, but try and be discreet. Sol doesn’t approve of his people getting blow jobs in their offices, and he’d like to think that every starlet who gets a walk-on part didn’t get it on the casting couch with one of his executives, and you’re one of his executives now.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Rick said.

  “By the way, you were smart to talk a lot to Adele tonight. She has Sol’s ear, and he respects her opinion about just about everything.”
r />   “That was easy. She’s a charming woman.”

  “I want you to take tomorrow to get moved in, and I want you to buy some clothes with some of that money I gave you. You’ll need to dress better than you did when you were a cop. If you didn’t, Sol would notice.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do that, and thank you again for the money. You’re very generous, Eddie, and I appreciate it.”

  “You earned it. The day after tomorrow you take on your first assignment from me.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Clete Barrow. He’s got another three weeks on this picture, and last night scared the hell out of me. I want you to become his friend, which is easy; he’s a nice guy. You don’t have to keep him sober, which is impossible, but I want him in one piece and at work on time every day. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “I don’t mean to turn you into a babysitter, but this is probably the most important picture we’ve made so far, and we have hopes for a few Academy Awards. A lot depends on Clete, and that means a lot depends on you.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Say, the tux looks great on you! Keep it. I’ll square it with wardrobe.”

  “Thanks again,” Rick said as they reached the front of the house. His car was waiting. “And thank Suzanne again for such a wonderful evening.”

  “Don’t worry, there’ll be more. Now she’ll have a bachelor on the premises, an odd man for dinner parties.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Rick said. He drove away into the cool California night, the top down, inhaling the fragrant Beverly Hills air. He had a new job, a new home, a new car and five grand in his pocket. Tomorrow, he’d have a new wardrobe. Life was looking good.

  Then he began to think about Clete Barrow. How the hell was he going to handle that problem?

  6

  RICK TOOK MOST OF THE following morning to clean out his furnished apartment, amazed at how much junk he had collected in the two years he had lived there. He threw away everything he would not need in his new life, and when he was done, there were only a few items of sports clothing, some files, a few personal effects and his new evening clothes. He left a large pile of cardboard boxes filled with his old things for trash pickup. Everything he took with him fitted into the convertible. He wrote the landlady a generous check and left it in her mailbox with a note.