The Prince of Beverly Hills

by Stuart Woods

“It’s Rick. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Nah, I’m reading a script.”

  “What time is Clete due on the set tomorrow?”

  “Why, is he drunk?”

  “Drunker than I’ve ever seen him; unconscious drunk.”

  “The German-Soviet thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Clete takes the European news too seriously. This has been going on for a year or more.”

  “He may have a point. He’s very convincing on the subject.”

  “I’ll juggle some scenes and buy him until noon.”

  “That would be a big help.”

  “If you can’t wake him by ten, call Judson and get him over there. He can give him something to keep him on his feet.”

  “Right. Oh, I had a chat with my detective friend at the LAPD this evening.”

  “About our Guinea friend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He have any suggestions?”

  “He’s thinking about it. This is going to cost you four or five grand before it’s done.”

  “I’ll spring for that,” Eddie said. “It’s cheaper than hiring Al.”

  “Safer, too. The idea is to hang something on him, get him sent upstate.”

  “I like that idea.”

  “When is Clete’s film going to wrap?”

  “Next week, if you can keep him working.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Rick said.

  “You sound tired, yourself. Get some sleep.”

  “Okay, I’ll bunk in here tonight, and I’ll call Judson in the morning if I can’t get Clete moving.”

  “Take it easy.” Eddie hung up.

  Rick headed for the guest room.

  RICK WOKE A LITTLE BEFORE EIGHT. He showered and got dressed, then looked in on Clete. To his astonishment, the actor was dressed, showered and shaved. To his further astonishment, Clete was dressed in a British military uniform, looking at himself in a mirror.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Rick asked.

  “Just wanted to see if it still fits. It does.” Clete tossed his cap on the bed and started unbuttoning his tunic. “I think I’ll get wardrobe to run me up a couple more,” he said.

  “You’re not due in until noon,” Rick said, wanting to change the subject. “You want some breakfast?”

  “If you’re having some.”

  Rick went into the kitchen and found the Filipino houseman, Manuel, who went to work on the food.

  THEY BREAKFASTED ON THE TERRACE.

  “Aren’t you hungover?” Rick asked.

  “Not really,” Clete replied.

  “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Did you get the schedule pushed back?”

  “Yes, until noon. I called Eddie last night.”

  “There was no need, but it’s nice to have a morning off.” He looked out over the city. “It’s so beautiful here. I won’t see many more mornings like this.”

  “There is an unlimited supply of mornings like this,” Rick said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “A month,” Clete said.

  “What?”

  “I give it a month, six weeks at most. We’ll be at war by then.”

  “Come on, Clete, there’s a lot that can be done in a month. I’m sure the diplomats are working on this full-time.”

  “We wrap the film next week. We’re still on for that fishing trip, aren’t we?”

  “Sure we are. I’ve got the Lockheed booked. What’s the nearest airport to the camp?”

  “No airport. There’s a pasture along the river; you can set down there. I can show you on a Sinclair road map.”

  “I hope we have good weather.”

  “It’s going to be wonderful,” Clete said. “I can feel it.”

  “I’ll get the charts and a road map and have a look. We’re going to need someplace to refuel for the trip back.”

  “You do that, chappie. I want this trip to go well. I want to remember it.” Clete took a notebook from his pocket and began making a list. He tore off the page and handed it to Rick. “Here’s a list of gear you’re going to need for the trip,” he said. “I don’t have enough to loan you these things, but don’t buy any actual fishing equipment. I have plenty of that, and anything I’m short of, the other two fellows will have.”

  “Where do I get all this?” Rick asked, looking at the list.

  “Abercrombie & Fitch,” Clete replied. “They have a branch on Wilshire.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Rick said.

  “By the way, Artie Shaw and his band are opening at Ciro’s tonight. Want to go?”

  “Sure, I love Shaw’s stuff.”

  Then Clete seemed to withdraw into himself.

  35

  RICK WENT BACK TO HIS own house to change. Clete would get himself to work, and he had little to do in his office, so he went down to Abercrombie & Fitch and spent nearly two hundred dollars on waders and clothing and a duffel to put it all in.

  Rick was beginning to see a conflict ahead for himself. Clete still had another four years on his contract with Centurion, but he knew that if England went to war, Clete would bolt for home. He wasn’t sure if Eddie Harris knew, or if he should tell him. His loyalty was supposed to be to his employer, but he and Clete had become good friends, and he didn’t know what to do.

  On the way back to the studio, he stopped for a fill-up at a Sinclair station and picked up their road maps for California and Oregon, then he drove out to Clover Field to see his father.

  “Morning,” the old man said as Rick walked into the hangar. “You still going to use the Lockheed next week?”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here. You got the current chart for Oregon?”

  “In the office. You know where.”

  Rick went into the office and dug out the charts. He found the Rogue River in Oregon, but he didn’t yet know where on the river he’d be landing. There was an airport at Grants Pass, though, and another at the mouth of the Rogue River, where he could refuel. It all looked straightforward.

  He went back into the hangar. “Got what I needed,” he said.

  “Good.”

  “You heard anything more from those Italian gentlemen?”

  “Not a peep. Haven’t seen any strangers around, either. Been pretty quiet.”

  “That’s good news. Well, I’d better get back to work.”

  “What kind of work they got you doing these days?”

  “No two days are the same,” he replied. He didn’t want to tell his father how he was occupying his time. “See you later.”

  “Bye.”

  THAT EVENING, RICK AND CLETE arrived at Ciro’s in their dinner jackets to a wave of popping flashbulbs outside. There was a line of people making their way slowly into the nightclub. Photographers were yelling at Clete to look this way and that, and Clete obliged, laying on the smiles and charm. He was good at it, too, Rick thought.

  Soon they were inside and being shown to a ringside table. No sooner had they sat down than Hedda Hopper sat down with them.

  “No girls this evening, Clete?” she said, after a perfunctory handshake with Rick.

  “Not tonight, my dear. I’ve got an early call tomorrow, so Rick and I are just going to catch the first show, then head to our respective homes.”

  Rick wondered why it was necessary to say that. Was Clete worried that Hedda might think them queer for each other?

  Hedda asked a few more questions, then turned to Rick. “I’m seeing you everywhere around town,” she said. “You must be enjoying the new job.”

  “I just go where the work takes me, Miss Hopper,” he said.

  “Please,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, “you must call me Hedda. All my friends do, and a great many people who aren’t my friends.”

  “Hedda it is,” Rick said, giving her a smile.

  “You’re good-looking enough to be a leading man,” she said. “Have you ever considered acting?”

  “Not for a moment,” Rick laughed.
“I see what Clete has to put up with, and I don’t think I could handle it.”

  “You seem to be keeping him out of trouble.”

  “Oh, I’m just along for the ride.”

  “Well, I have my rounds to make,” Hedda said. “Nighty-night.” She got up, allowed Clete a peck on her cheek and moved on.

  A trio had been playing, but now they stopped, and members of the Artie Shaw band began filtering onstage, making tuning noises with their instruments.

  Rick had expected an announcement, but suddenly the entire club went completely dark for a few seconds, then a spotlight came on, finding the drummer. The great Buddy Rich launched into a head-pounding drum solo that introduced “Traffic Jam,” then another spot came on and found Artie Shaw himself, who had come onto the bandstand in the darkness. He slid up to that high note, and the band was off and running on the up-tempo arrangement, with Shaw leading the charge.

  They finished to a roar of cheers and applause that sounded like something from a football stadium, and when it finally died, a disembodied voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Artie Shaw and his orchestra, featuring Buddy Rich on drums!”

  The band swung into “Begin the Beguine,” and people began to dance. A waiter brought drinks and took Clete’s and Rick’s dinner order. The set continued on through “Frenesi,” “Japanese Sandman” and “Yesterdays.”

  Rick looked around the room and saw Chick Stampano seated on the other side of the dance floor. They were in exactly the same seats as the last time they had been at Ciro’s.

  Clete followed Rick’s stare. “Oh, I see our old friend Mr. Greaseball is back. Is he behaving himself these days?”

  “No,” Rick said, “he’s not. I had a little meeting with Ben Siegel about him yesterday.”

  “Don’t stare at the man,” Clete said, “or we’ll just have another confrontation.”

  “You’re right,” Rick replied. “I’ll just forget he’s there.” He turned back toward the band and began to enjoy the music again.

  Shaw played a novelty version of “Donkey Serenade,” then segued into “Dancing in the Dark,” while the dancers swayed with the music.

  “Good,” Clete replied.

  Artie Shaw had stepped up to the microphone again and held his hands up for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “one of Hollywood’s most beautiful and promising actresses is with us this evening as our special guest singer. She’s starting a new musical at Centurion Studios next week, and we’re very lucky to have her. Here’s Miss Glenna Gleason to sing ‘Stardust’!”

  The band swung into the introduction, and a lovely girl in a sequined dress came across the stage to the microphone and began to sing.

  Rick was frozen in his chair. It was not the first time he’d seen Glenna Gleason, though her eyes had been covered at the hospital, but he was not prepared for the shock. The last time he’d seen that face had been in a bedroom photograph with the late Mr. and Mrs. John Kean—and, of course, with Chick Stampano.

  36

  RICK NOW REALIZED WHY Eddie Harris was so high on Glenna Gleason: The girl was simply gorgeous. She couldn’t be more than twenty-two, he thought, but there was a calm maturity about her. Luxuriant auburn hair fell to her shoulders, and her tall, slim body and full breasts were something to behold in the low-cut, sequined dress. The girl had a beautiful voice, and she sang with a simplicity and sweetness that was overwhelming.

  Rick looked around the ringside tables and saw that everyone else was having the same reaction, men and women alike. This girl had something very rare. Clete Barrow sat and stared, like Rick, transfixed.

  She finished the song, then sang another Hoagy Carmichael tune, “Skylark,” then finished with “I Get Along Without You Very Well,” accompanied only by the pianist. When she was done, the crowd was on its feet.

  “Don’t worry,” Shaw shouted over the din, “she’ll be back for the second show.”

  As the girl began to leave the stage, Clete rose and strode across the dance floor. He took her hand and whispered something to her, then led her back to the table.

  Rick was on his feet, holding her chair.

  “Miss Gleason,” Clete said, “may I present my friend Rick Barron?”

  A flash of recognition passed across her face. She held on to his hand and bent close to whisper, “I owe you a great deal. Thank you so much.”

  “I was very happy to do what I could,” Rick managed to reply, though he seemed to have some difficulty speaking.

  Clete ordered champagne, and they all raised their glasses. “To the beginning of a big career,” he said.

  Then Rick looked up and saw Chick Stampano striding toward their table, apparently to congratulate her. Rick stood and walked around the table, placing himself squarely between Stampano and the girl.

  There was a moment when Rick thought Stampano would keep coming, but instead he stopped, looked hard at Rick for a moment, then changed direction and went to another table, where he spoke with some people. Rick waited for him to finish talking with them and return to his table before he sat down again.

  “Thank you again,” Glenna said.

  “Not at all,” he said. “If he should ever try to contact you again, please let me know immediately.”

  She smiled her gratitude.

  The three of them sat, talking and drinking champagne through the rest of the show, then through the intermission. The second show began, and after a few numbers Artie Shaw called Glenna to the stage again, and she gave another affecting performance, earning another standing ovation from the audience.

  When she had finished, Glenna came back to the table for a moment. She put her hand on Rick’s wrist and looked at his watch. “I really must go,” she said. “I have a dance rehearsal first thing in the morning.”

  “Let us take you home, then,” Clete said.

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

  They worked their way through the crowd, with Glenna accepting congratulations from many people, among them Eddie and Suzanne Harris.

  Eddie whispered in Rick’s ear, “I saw that. Thanks for watching out for her.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Rick replied. He left Clete and Glenna talking with the Harrises and went to get the car. When they came out of Ciro’s, he had the motor running.

  The three of them sat in the front seat on the short drive to the Garden of Allah, and Rick was conscious of Glenna’s scent and of her thigh pressed against his in the close quarters. He waited in the car while Clete walked her to the door.

  “My God!” Clete said when he was back in the car. “Isn’t she something?”

  “She certainly is,” Rick replied. “I can tell I’m going to have to fight you for her.” He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

  “You’re that attracted to her?” Clete asked.

  Rick was about to answer when he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a car he recognized pulling into the place where he had parked. It took him a minute to make the U-turn in traffic, and by that time Stampano was out of the car, striding quickly toward Glenna’s cottage.

  Clete spotted him, too. “And he’s got two gorillas with him,” he said, nodding in the direction of the car, where the hulking figures sat.

  Rick reached into the glove compartment, retrieved his little .45 and handed it to Clete. “Stop them, but try not to shoot anybody. There’s one in the chamber.” He hopped out of the car and went after Stampano, who had disappeared around the corner of the cottage. He looked back to see Clete standing between the cottage and the two men, who were getting out of their car.

  Rick turned the corner of the cottage and ran straight into a sucker punch that staggered him but didn’t take him off his feet. He saw the second one coming and blocked it, getting in a couple of quick jabs before Stampano could step back.

  Stampano reached into a hip pocket and came out with a blackjack. Rick knew that if he took the thing in the head, he’d be unconscious and helpless. As Stampano started his
swing, Rick, instead of stepping back or ducking, stepped into Stampano’s body, blocking the blackjack and getting in a hard right under the man’s heart that made his knees buckle.

  Rick got ahold of the blackjack and twisted it from Stampano’s hand, then tossed it into some bushes. “Now,” he said, “it’s just you and me.”

  Stampano circled him warily, looking around for the blackjack. “Hey, boys!” he shouted. “Get over here!”

  “They’re busy,” Rick said, then staggered him with a left hook. As Stampano was regaining his balance, Rick aimed a right at his nose and felt the crunch as it sailed home. Stampano sat down on the flagstone path, blood gushing all over his white dinner jacket.

  Rick grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him to his feet, then grabbed the seat of his pants with his other hand and marched him down the pathway on his toes. When he came around the corner, Clete had the two goons at bay, the .45 in his hand. “Get the back door,” Rick yelled.

  Clete stepped to the car and opened the back door in time for Stampano to sail past it into the rear of the car. “Get him out of here,” he said to the two men. They got into the car and drove Stampano away.

  “Well,” Clete said, inspecting a bruise on Rick’s chin, “I’m glad to see he was the one bleeding. Did you enjoy that?”

  “More than I should have,” Rick replied. “I don’t think we’ll see him out in public for a few days. He’s going to have a pair of beautiful shiners, and he’ll have to have his nose set.”

  Rick looked up to see Glenna standing at the corner of the house. He ran up to her, took her arm and steered her back toward her front door. “Nothing to worry about,” he said.

  “I saw some of it from my door,” Glenna said. “And I have to say, I enjoyed it.”

  Rick laughed.

  “Once again, I’m in your debt,” she said, when they came to her door. She kissed him on the corner of the mouth, then went inside and closed the door.

  Rick felt weak in the knees, but he made it back to his car.

  Clete laughed. “You look sort of stunned.”

  “She kissed me,” Rick replied.

  “Now you’re in for it,” Clete sighed.

  RICK GOT INTO BED but had trouble falling asleep. A montage of Glenna Gleason ran through his head, not excluding the photograph of her with the Keans and Stampano. He found himself wanting to do to her what Stampano was doing in the photo, but more tenderly. Or maybe not.