by Stuart Woods
“Of course,” Rick said. “What else would the studio have that they’d want?”
“Glamour? The chance to rub shoulders with movie stars?”
“Siegel is already rubbing shoulders with movie stars. He and George Raft were childhood buddies, and Raft has introduced him to everybody he knows. I can’t see them investing money for that.”
“What else have we got?” Eddie asked.
Rick thought about that. “Real estate,” he said finally.
Eddie shook his head. “Nah, we’re in the low-rent district. If we didn’t own the back lot, it would just be scrubland.”
“Eddie, do you remember your advice to me to invest in real estate?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s going up.”
“Then that’s why the mob wants it. They want in for the long haul, and when you think about it, the movie studios own land all out of proportion to most businesses. We’re talking about hundreds of acres, not a few lots.”
“We’ve got over six hundred acres,” Eddie said, “but still . . .”
“Look at this town,” Rick said. “Where was it ten years ago? Twenty?”
“God knows it’s growing fast.”
“And we’ve been in a depression for years, so land values are artificially low right now. Perfect time to buy in, if you have a lot of cash sitting around—the fruits of criminal enterprise. Who knows what your six hundred acres will be worth in another five or ten?”
Eddie nodded. “You make a lot of sense. I’ve been shortsighted.” He stood up. “Well, we’re going to keep them out. I’m not taking a dime from them, and when I talk to Sol about this, he’ll feel the same way. I’m going to talk to Eddie Mannix, too. We’ll get the word around town; we’ll freeze them out.”
“What do you want me to do if Siegel comes back to me?”
“Act like you’re softening up a little. See if you can find out what he wants.”
“Okay. I’ll have a word with my dad, too; warn him not to take any business from these people.”
“Oh, by the way, I looked into buying a DC-3. There’s one available down in San Diego, at Montgomery Field. Will you go down there and take a look at it?”
“Sure, and I’ll take Dad, too. He can go through the logbooks and do compression checks on the engines. There’s a lot you need to find out about an airplane before you buy it.”
“I’d appreciate that, Rick, and thanks for talking to me about Siegel.”
“Sure thing.”
“Where’s Clete?”
“Waiting for me at his bungalow. I’d better get over there.”
“Good job getting him here this morning. I was afraid something like this might happen.”
“Oh, by the way, I had a talk with Martha Werner.”
“Did you come up with a name?”
“She did: Barbara Kane.” Rick spelled it for him. “It’s her mother’s maiden name.”
“Great. I’ll get her in here in the morning and make her an offer.”
“Good night, then.” Rick left Eddie’s office and headed over to Clete Barrow’s bungalow.
The actor was sitting on the front porch in his wheelchair, waiting, like a good boy.
As they drove away, Rick regretted that he hadn’t told Eddie about the gun, the photograph and the money in his safe. He kept meaning to tell him, and he kept forgetting. He kept forgetting to look into that, too.
27
RICK ROTATED THE YOKE, and the Lockheed Vega lifted off runway 21 at Clover Field. His father was supposed to be checking him out in the airplane, but Jack Barron said nothing, just kept an eye on the instruments.
Rick made a climbing right turn and leveled off at three thousand feet, heading south. He could cross Los Angeles Municipal Airport at this altitude without interfering with its traffic, and that took only a couple of minutes, since the newer airport was just next to Clover Field. It had been a bean and barley field until eleven years before, when it had been built in time for the 1928 National Air Races.
Rick stayed at three thousand. “Nice airplane,” he said.
Jack still said nothing.
“Anything wrong, Dad?”
“Nope,” Jack replied.
“Tell me, have you heard anything from somebody named Siegel?”
“Bugsy Siegel?”
“You know who that is?”
“I read the papers.”
“He came to see me yesterday, and I thought he might have come to see you.”
“He didn’t, but another fellow did.”
“Did you get a name?”
“No, but he said he worked for Jack Dragna.”
“Anything come of it?”
“Nah. I told him I had all the business I could handle.”
“Good move. How’d he take it?”
“He just stared at me for a long time, so I stared right back.”
“Good. If you hear anything more from him, will you let me know?”
“Why?”
“I just need to know.”
“Why?”
“Those people are trying to worm their way into the studio, and it’s not working.”
“You afraid they’ll get rough?”
“No, but I still don’t want them around.”
“I’ve still got my Colt side arm from the war; got a shotgun, too.”
“Try not to shoot anybody.”
“I’ll try, but I won’t make any promises. Pissed me off, that fellow did. I don’t want anything to do with Jack Dragna and his boys.”
“Good.”
The rest of the short flight passed in silence. Rick ran through the checklists a couple of times, to get it all straight in his head, then he set down at Montgomery Field in San Diego.
THE DC-3 TURNED OUT to be very nice. While Jack ran his compression checks, Rick climbed aboard. The company that owned the airplane had put in a comfortable interior, with a sofa you could stretch out on and some comfortable chairs. You could seat eight—ten in a pinch, if you put down the folding seats, and there was a toilet in the rear.
The radios were the latest, and the pilots’ seats were covered in sheepskin, which made for comfort on long flights. There were oxygen masks throughout the airplane, so hopping over weather wouldn’t be too much of a problem. He went back outside, put on some coveralls and began to help his father.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d get involved with gangsters, working at a movie studio,” Jack said.
“Neither would I,” Rick replied, handing him a wrench.
“You sure you’re in the right business?”
“Dad, it’s a dream job. I’m my own boss a lot of the time, and there’s room to rise in the organization, once I get a grip on the business.”
“I read in Hedda Hopper that you’re a nursemaid to Clete Barrow.”
“You read Hedda Hopper?” Rick asked, astonished.
“I like her better than that other one,” he said. “She’s bitchier.”
Rick hadn’t seen the item. “What did she have to say?”
“Oh, just that the two of you were dining at the Brown Derby or someplace.”
“Dave Chasen’s.”
“Yeah, I guess. And that you had to keep him on the wagon.”
“She said that, in so many words?”
“Not exactly, but she implied it.”
“Well, she’s right. Clete is finishing up a big picture that’s important to the studio, and they don’t want him falling off the wagon.”
“I guess it means money to them.”
“It means a lot of money to them.”
“You enjoying the work?”
“It’s not so bad, because I like Clete Barrow. We’re getting to be friends.”
“You’re not a drunk, are you?”
“No, Dad, I’m not. I don’t even try to keep up with Clete.”
“Good. Liquor will get the best of you, if you’re not careful. God knows, I like a sno
rt now and then, but you don’t want to let it get ahold of you.”
“You’re right about that.”
Jack returned his tools to the toolbox. “Looks like this is a pretty good airplane,” he said. “Let’s take a look at the logbooks.”
He went through the engine and airframe logbooks carefully, noting each entry. “She’s well maintained,” he said, “and she’s only got a little over four hundred hours on her.”
“What’s she worth?”
“Oh, I’d be in way over my head there. I’ll make some calls and get you a figure.” He closed the logbooks. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, Rick was landing at Clover Field.
“You comfortable with the airplane?” Jack asked.
“Real comfortable. Any advice?”
“Nope. You did it like I taught you. You’re a good pilot, boy. I don’t have to worry about you.”
“When Clete finishes his picture, I’ll fly him up to Oregon on that fishing trip.”
“I never knew you to fish.”
“I thought I’d try it out.”
“Can’t hurt to have a hobby,” Jack said. “Mine’s airplanes.”
Rick laughed with his father. He put the airplane to bed and got out of his coveralls. “I’d better get back to work,” he said.
“You do that. I’ll keep my Colt handy.”
“Call me if you have any problem at all,” Rick said.
“If it’s anything I can’t handle,” Jack replied.
28
RICK GOT CLETE TO THE SET the following morning on time and still in the wheelchair. Clete was complaining, saying he could walk perfectly well, but after another examination and rebandaging by Dr. Judson, he agreed to use the wheelchair except when commanded to rise by his director.
Rick went back to his office and read a magazine for a while, then Jenny buzzed him.
“Eddie Harris wants you to come over to his office right now,” she said.
Rick went quickly to the fourth floor and presented himself to Eddie’s secretary. Barbara Kane, née Martha Werner, was sitting in the waiting room, and they spoke to each other as he passed through.
Eddie looked up from his desk as Rick entered. “Come in and sit down,” he said.
Rick took a chair.
“Miss Kane and Centurion Studios have reached an agreement,” he said. “I’m waiting for her new agent to arrive now, so that we can sign the contract that’s being typed up.”
Rick noted that the negotiations had, apparently, taken place in the absence of an agent. “Good,” he said.
“There’s something that has to be accomplished before we sign her, though, and now is as good a time as any.”
“How can I help?”
“Miss Kane has to have an abortion.”
The word made Rick’s stomach feel funny. He’d gone through this with Kathleen, Captain O’Connell’s niece, only recently, and he hadn’t liked the experience. “I see,” he said.
Eddie tore a page off a notepad and pushed it across the desk. “This is the name of a doctor who has been recommended.”
“Not Dr. Judson?” The good doctor seemed to do everything else for the studio.
“No, Jim Judson doesn’t do this sort of work.”
Rick picked up the piece of paper. “Dr. Paul Smith,” he said aloud, reading from the paper. “In Pasadena.”
“I’m told he’s a competent man,” Eddie said. “It’s going to cost two hundred dollars. Draw that from the cashier and take Miss Kane out there.”
“When?”
“Right now. The doctor is expecting you.”
Rick gulped. He’d hoped to have time to find a way around this. “Is she ready for this?”
“This is at her request. I think it’s better for everybody if we get this taken care of as soon as possible.”
“I see.”
“I know this is distasteful, Rick, but sometimes business is distasteful. I want you to know that I didn’t ask her to do this, that she disclosed it to me and told me this is what she wants. She is under no duress.”
Except for the impending contract, Rick thought. “I’ll drive her out there now,” he said.
“Good. Let me know how it goes.”
Rick stood up. “What if there are complications?”
“The man is a doctor; he’ll know what to do. If she needs a hospital, call Jim Judson. He doesn’t mind getting involved after the fact.”
“All right.” Rick put the paper in his pocket and left the office. Barbara Kane stood up when she saw him, a question on her face.
Rick nodded. “Come with me,” he said.
He stopped at the cashier’s window and drew two hundred dollars, then took her out to the parking lot and put her in his car.
“Can we have the top down?” she asked cheerfully.
“Sure.” He put the top down and started the car. “Ready?”
“Sure.”
He drove out of the studio and headed toward Pasadena.
Barbara laid her head against the seat back and angled her face to catch the sun. “Don’t you just love the weather out here?” she asked. “I mean, we have some nice weather in Wisconsin in the summer, but it’s nice all year round out here.”
“Yes, it is,” Rick replied. She seemed awfully calm about this. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m fine. I mean, I’m pregnant, not sick.”
Rick couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just drove, while the girl dozed in her seat.
THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE WAS A bungalow in a middle-class area of Pasadena, and there was no shingle outside. The address was correct, though.
Barbara opened the car door. “You don’t need to come in,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Look, I’ve been through this before; nothing to it.”
“All right, I’ll wait here,” Rick said, trying not to sound grateful. “Just shout, if you need me.” He gave her the two hundred dollars.
“I shouldn’t be more than half an hour,” she said. “Forty-five minutes, tops, but I may be a little groggy when I come back.”
Rick nodded.
She walked up the steps of the house and rang the bell. Someone—Rick couldn’t see who—let her in.
Rick sat and waited, missing smoking again. He was unaccustomed to killing time without smoking a cigarette. He had nothing to read, nothing to do, and the time went slowly. He put his head back on the seat, tipped his head forward and tried to doze.
HE WAS AWAKENED BY THE sound of a screen door slamming. He sat up and looked toward the house. Barbara Kane was standing on the front porch, looking unsteady on her feet.
Rick got out of the car and ran up the steps to help her. As he did, he saw a trickle of blood run down her legs and into her shoes. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You’re bleeding.”
“The doctor said it’s to be expected,” she said, holding up a paper bag. “He gave me some gauze.”
He helped her down the steps and into the car, and she stuffed a wad of gauze up her skirt.
“Just take me home,” she said. “I want to sleep.”
Rick got the car started and headed back to Los Angeles. He was on Sunset, nearly to the Garden of Allah, when Barbara suddenly bent forward and made a terrible noise. Her face was very white.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She didn’t seem able to form words. She clutched her belly and kept up the noises.
Rick made a U-turn, nearly causing an accident, and shifted down to accelerate. It took only ten minutes to get to Judson’s place.
“You stay here,” he said. “I’ll get some help.” He rang the doorbell, and a woman came to the door. “I’m from Centurion Studios,” he said. “Tell Dr. Judson I need him and a stretcher down here right now.”
He went back to the car to check on Barbara. She was doubled over in the front seat, moaning.
Judson came out the front door in hi
s shirtsleeves, followed by two men with a stretcher. “What is it?” he asked.
“She’s had an abortion,” Rick said, “and apparently something went wrong.”
Judson and the two men got her on the stretcher and into the house.
“I’ll call you when I know something,” Judson said, then closed the door.
Rick went back to his car. There was a pool of blood on the front seat. He drove back to the studio and left the car at the motor pool to be cleaned up, then he went back to his office and called Eddie Harris.
“Everything go okay?” Eddie asked.
“No,” Rick replied. “She was bleeding when she came out, and we were nearly back to her place when she had some bad pain. I took her to Judson’s.”
“You did the right thing,” Eddie said. “I’ll call and see how she’s doing. Don’t blame yourself, Rick.”
“I don’t,” Rick replied, but he wasn’t so sure.
29
THE NEXT DAY, RICK drove into Beverly Hills to the Judson Clinic and presented himself at the reception desk. He had a suspicion, and he wanted it confirmed or denied. After a short wait, Dr. Judson appeared.
“Good morning, Rick,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“How are our two girls doing?” Rick asked.
“I’m afraid Miss Kane had a perforated uterus—the result of an abortion that was little more than butchery. I moved her to Cedars yesterday, and she had an emergency hysterectomy.”
The thought made Rick angry. A young girl who would now never have children. “Is she all right?”
“She’s being treated with sulfa drugs. She’s stable and resting comfortably,” Judson replied. “It will be at least a couple of weeks, and perhaps as long as a month, before she’ll be able to work.”
“I’ll let Eddie know.”
“Our Miss Gleason recovered quickly from her wounds. Turned out she’d been drugged with morphine.”
“Orally?”
“No, there was a needle mark, but she has no memory of receiving the injection.”
“Where is she now? Can I see her?”
“She’s seeing the psychiatrist right now; she sees him every day. He says we can probably release her tomorrow. I’d rather you didn’t see her until then.”