The Prince of Beverly Hills

by Stuart Woods

  They drove back to the studio and to the bungalow. It was about the same size as Clete’s, but had been built as a duplex, to accommodate two lesser stars. He carried in the groceries, and she put them away, then unpacked her bags.

  “How long will I have to stay here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know; maybe a few days, maybe longer.”

  She nodded. “I brought everything. I’m going to check out of the Garden of Allah. The rent is just too much.”

  “I’ll help you find a new place when everything’s all right,” Rick said, fighting off visions of her moving in with him.

  “You’re a sweet man,” she said. “There’s a little bar in that cabinet over there, courtesy of the studio. Why don’t you fix us a drink?”

  “What would you like?”

  “A martini,” she said. “I like a martini when I’m cooking.”

  Rick made the drinks and sipped a bourbon while he watched her move around the kitchen from his perch on a bar stool just outside. There was a big window with a counter and the two stools. The scene was, well, domestic, he thought.

  DINNER WAS GOOD. She knew what she was doing in the kitchen. He had grown up, after his mother had died, cooking badly for his father, and he was unaccustomed to people cooking for him. After dinner, he made her a second martini.

  “When will you take me flying?” she asked.

  “When will you have a day off?”

  “Sunday.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll be away on a fishing trip with Clete and some friends of his,” Rick said, with real regret. “I’m flying them up to the Rogue River in Oregon as soon as his picture wraps.”

  “Oh, then I’ll have to wait,” she said, pouting.

  He loved her pout. “How about the Sunday after? We’ll fly out to Catalina for lunch.”

  She brightened. “You’ve got yourself a deal, mister.”

  He liked the deal. When he left, she gave him a little kiss on the lips, and her breasts brushed against him.

  He knew she knew he wanted more.

  40

  CLETE’S MOVIE FINISHED SHOOTING the middle of the following week, and Clete called Rick at his office.

  “We’re done, old sport, so we’re off for the Rogue River tomorrow?”

  “We are,” Rick replied.

  “Good. I’ll let the other chaps know.”

  “Tell them to meet us at my dad’s hangar at eight o’clock.”

  “I say, that’s a little stiff, isn’t it, what with the wrap party tonight. How about noon?”

  “Make it ten o’clock. We have to get there in good daylight so I can see to land. I’m allowing time so that if we have to stop to refuel because of headwinds we can still make it.”

  “Oh, all right, I guess I can manage ten o’clock. You coming to our wrap party?”

  “If I’m invited.”

  “Of course you are. Six o’clock on soundstage two.”

  “See you then.” Rick hung up and thought of inviting Glenna, but she was shooting today, and he didn’t want to call her on the set.

  RICK LEFT HIS OFFICE at six and stopped by Glenna’s bungalow, but she wasn’t back yet. He left a note on the screen door, inviting her, and drove on.

  The crew had still not struck the Indian Army officers’ club set on soundstage two, and the party was held there, with the cast still in costume for the final scene, which had been a ball. The women were in full-length gowns, and the men were in dress uniform. Clete sported lots of braid and medals.

  “I see you had a good war,” Rick said, nodding at the medals.

  “Damn good,” Clete replied, handing him a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “I killed hundreds of the beggars.”

  “Which beggars?”

  “Oh, you know, whoever were the beggars at the time.”

  Some studio musicians, also in British Colonial uniform, began a waltz, and a pretty girl in a ball gown asked Clete to dance. They whirled away in what Rick imagined amounted to a restaging of the ball scene.

  A moment later, somebody tugged at Rick’s elbow, and he turned to find Ben Siegel standing there.

  “We gotta talk,” Siegel said, taking his arm and steering him off the set and into the shadows of the big soundstage.

  When they were out of earshot of the partygoers, Rick stopped. “All right,” he said, “let’s talk.” He was ready to take on Siegel, too, if he had to.

  “I want you to know I did what I could,” Siegel said. “I talked to Dragna about this, and he agreed that Chick was out of line, but he wouldn’t do anything about him. I was hot about what you did to Chick the other night, but I don’t think I got the straight story from him.”

  “He was the one with the blackjack,” Rick said.

  “I figured,” Siegel said. “Here’s the problem. It’s Luciano,” Siegel said. “Jack’s scared stiff of him.”

  “Luciano’s in prison, isn’t he?”

  “That doesn’t matter a bit. He still runs things. Jack thinks Charlie Lucky is going to send somebody out here to take over and get rid of him.”

  “I heard he sent you out here to do that.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “What does all that have to do with Stampano?”

  “Chick is Charlie Lucky’s boy,” Siegel said.

  “So Dragna’s not going to do anything about Stampano.”

  “Not a thing. Jack looks at it like, even if Chick kills somebody, it’s okay, as long as there are no witnesses.”

  “Have you seen Stampano?”

  “This afternoon. His face is a mess, so he can’t see his girls. He doesn’t want them to know what happened to him. So he’s mad as hell, and something is going to happen.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but if I were you, I’d get out of LA for a few days, until his face gets better and he cools off. Right now, every time he looks in a mirror, he gets crazy.”

  “As it happens, I’m leaving town tomorrow morning for a few days, but it’s nothing to do with Stampano.”

  “I’ll tell him he scared you out of town,” Siegel said. “He’ll like that. He can brag about it to his pals.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you tell him,” Rick said. “I wouldn’t cross the street to get away from him. I want him to try something.”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell him that. You just take your trip, and when you come back, be careful. And if you can avoid Chick, do it, because if you hurt him again, Luciano might get into this. You understand?”

  Rick took a deep breath. “Look, I’ve done everything I can to avoid the guy, but he keeps popping up, and you and Luciano and Dragna—all of you—are going to have to understand that my people are not going to put up with Stampano anymore. Either he behaves himself, or there will be more trouble, and it will get worse.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of capping him, Rick.”

  “What?”

  “Capping . . . killing the guy.”

  “I’m not a murderer, Ben, but if he comes after me, I’ll defend myself.”

  Siegel sighed. “Well, I tried,” he said. “Whatever happens now is on your head.”

  “No, it’s on Stampano’s head. Maybe you can communicate that to him.”

  “I’m out of this from right now,” Siegel said, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. “I gave you the message, now I’m gone.” He turned around and walked away.

  Rick went back and stood by the dance floor, watching the whirling couples. Glenna hadn’t shown up.

  And something bothered him about his conversation with Ben Siegel. It just didn’t sit right.

  41

  LA WAS AN EARLY TOWN, but none of the cast of Clete’s film had an early call the next day, having just wrapped a film, so they stayed late. It was after midnight before the party broke up.

  Rick found Clete and edged him away from the parting guests. “You want to change out of that uniform before we take you home?”

/>   “I’m not going home tonight,” Clete said, nodding at a pretty bit player. “I brought my gear to the studio this morning, so I’ll sleep at the bungalow.”

  “Good. There’ll be a studio cop following you and watching the place tonight. They’ll bring you to Clover Field tomorrow morning, too. Don’t be late.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, old chap,” Clete said, then headed for the girl.

  Rick looked around for Tom Terry and his studio cop, saw them standing near the exit and walked over. “Listen, fellows, I’m going to go back to my place and pick up some fishing gear, then come back here for the night. I’m leaving town tomorrow morning on a fishing trip. Tom, you’re riding with me, and I don’t think we’ll need to be followed by another car.” He turned to the studio cop. “You follow Clete Barrow back to his bungalow and stand guard there.” The man left.

  They got into Rick’s car, and he put up the top, thinking he might be less conspicuous that way. They left the studio and drove toward Beverly Hills, and Rick was satisfied that they weren’t being followed.

  They had just crossed Sunset Boulevard when suddenly there were two black cars ahead, blocking the street. Instantly, Rick yanked the emergency brake and turned the wheel hard to the left. The car’s rear end, with its locked brakes, skidded around, putting him into a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. Halfway through the turn, Rick heard multiple gunshots.

  “Jesus, get us out of here!” Tom yelled, drawing his gun and rolling down his window. He got on his knees facing to the rear and transferred his gun to his left hand.

  Rick gave the V-8 all it had, and he winced as Tom fired two rounds at whatever was behind them.

  Tom turned and sat down again. “You think they’ll follow?”

  “I guess we’re going to find out,” Rick said, turning hard onto Sunset and heading north.

  “I’m sure I put one through a windshield,” Tom said. “I don’t know if I hit anybody.”

  Rick drove down a block and turned right, putting him on residential streets again. Ahead was a house with huge rhododendrons out front, and he whipped into the driveway and got out, drawing his gun from the shoulder holster. He and Tom stood behind the car, waiting. They saw nothing, and all they heard was the sound of engines roaring down Sunset.

  “I guess they didn’t like being fired at,” Rick said. “I think we can go to my place now.” They got back into the car, and Rick drove home without further incident.

  As Rick and Tom got out of the car, Tom said, “Hey, look at this.” He was pointing to a bullet hole in the passenger door.

  Rick checked his own door and found another hole. “Jesus,” he said, “it went through your door, then through mine; passed right over our laps.”

  “That’s close enough for me,” Tom said.

  Rick went into the house and phoned Ben Morrison, waking him up.

  “What’s happened?” Ben asked.

  “An attempt on my life,” Rick said.

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Not on my team, but my car has bullet holes in it.”

  “Could you see who it was?”

  “Two black cars, big sedans. I couldn’t tell who was inside, but we both know who it was. Ben Siegel delivered a warning earlier this evening, told me Stampano was out to get me. I gave him a beating last night, when he bothered one of our girls.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I’m taking it back to the studio, if you want to take pictures. Do it tomorrow, though. I’m going to get it repaired.”

  “Nah, why bother? I’ll take your word for the bullet holes. Were there any other witnesses?”

  “Tom Terry, from the Beverly Hills force, was with me.”

  “Good. Can I go back to sleep now?”

  “Yeah, but I want you to send some people to pick up Stampano right now, then sweat him in the morning.”

  “Why? He’s not going to give us anything.”

  “I want him to know the police are thinking about him. Maybe it’ll help calm him down. By the way, Siegel told me that Stampano is Charlie Luciano’s man out here, keeping an eye on Jack Dragna. Dragna’s scared of him for that reason.”

  “That’s interesting to know,” Ben said.

  “I’m going out of town tomorrow for a few days; be back the first of the week.”

  “Sounds like a good idea, considering.”

  “Good night, Ben.” He hung up.

  Rick packed his fishing gear and clothes and tossed them into the backseat of his car.

  BACK AT THE STUDIO, Rick told the cop to pick him up at eight-thirty the following morning for the drive to the airport. “Then you fellows will have a few days off from this detail,” he said. He turned to Tom. “I’ll be okay here on my own. Go home and get some sleep. Our boys will get me to the airport tomorrow morning, and I’ll call you when I’m back.”

  “You want me to make a report of the incident?”

  “Yeah, go ahead and do that. It might be good to have it on the record.”

  Tom left, and Rick hauled his gear into his office. Jenny had made up the sofa as a bed, and he climbed into it with gratitude. It was nearly two A.M., and he had a long flight the next day.

  Before he fell asleep, he spent a little time wondering why Glenna hadn’t shown up at the party, then he dozed off.

  42

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Rick left a note for Jenny to have his car repaired, then he left for Clover Field with a studio cop for company. The cop drove into the hangar and helped him unload his luggage, then Rick sent him on his way, since he knew Stampano would still be in jail at that hour.

  His father came out of his office. “Morning,” he said. “I gassed her up last night, and I did your preflight inspection this morning. You going to have a lot of luggage?”

  “Thanks, Dad, I expect so,” Rick replied. Jack got a little tractor and towed the aircraft out of the hangar and onto the ramp.

  Rick was completing his own preflight inspection when Clete drove onto the ramp, followed by two men in a pickup truck. Clete seemed his usual, unhungover self.

  Clark Gable got out of the driver’s seat of the pickup, followed by a tall, slender young man with a mustache.

  “You’ve met Clark, I think,” Clete said.

  “Sure I have,” Rick replied, offering Gable his hand.

  “How are you, Rick? Looking forward to some trout fishing?”

  “I’m looking forward to learning about it, Clark. It’s my first time.”

  “This is David Niven,” Gable said, introducing the young man. “Another Limey.”

  Rick shook Niven’s hand. “Let’s get your gear loaded, then we’re ready for departure.” The four of them loaded their luggage and a lot of groceries into the airplane, including a case of liquor and two cases of Schlitz beer and some soft drinks. Rick threw a cargo net over it all and tied it down. He put Gable and Niven in the rear seat, Clete in the front, then climbed into the pilot’s seat.

  He ran through his checklist, then primed and started the engine and watched as the gauges came to life. He continued through the checklist, then gave his dad a thumbs-up signal. Jack Barron pulled the chocks from under the wheels, and Rick taxied to the end of runway 21. He went through the runup procedure, listening for any sign of trouble from the big radial engine, then he handed out some earplugs to the others and put on his headset.

  “We’re going to follow the coast to the mouth of the Rogue River, then follow the river up to the camp,” Rick said. “Clete, will you recognize it from the air?”

  “I will,” Gable said. “There’s a big red barn and a farmhouse, and the strip runs parallel to the river along the north bank. There’s a windsock near the barn.”

  Rick looked to the northeast, to be sure there was no landing traffic, then eased the throttle forward and taxied onto the runway. He didn’t slow down, but shoved the throttle to the firewall, and the big single began its takeoff run. A moment later, he eased the yoke forward, and the tail came off the
ground, then he rotated and the craft lifted into the air, climbing strongly.

  As soon as they crossed the beach, Rick turned north and climbed to three thousand feet. The day was bright and clear, and the California coast was gorgeous. They flew northwest, past Oxnard and Santa Barbara, then more northerly past Morro Bay, Big Sur and Monterey. Rick noted that they had a nice tailwind, so they made good time, and it wasn’t going to be necessary to stop and refuel.

  They flew past Half Moon Bay, then across the Golden Gate, admiring the new bridge. By noon, San Francisco was behind them.

  Gable produced some thick ham sandwiches. “Ma made ’em for us,” he shouted. He gave everybody but Rick a beer, and gave him a Coca-Cola.

  Another hour and a half brought them to Gold Beach, Oregon, near the mouth of the Rogue River. Rick found the local airfield and started down. “I’m going to refuel here for the flight back,” he shouted to the others. “We don’t know what the weather will be like for our return.”

  He set the Vega down on the grass strip and taxied to what passed for the terminal. Half an hour later, they were refueled and climbing out of Gold Beach toward the river, shining in the afternoon sun.

  Rick stayed about a thousand feet above the ground, keeping the river off his left wing. For as far as he could see, there was nothing but dense forest, broken only by the river and an occasional farmhouse. After half an hour, Gable tapped him on the shoulder. “It’s up ahead there. See the barn?”

  Rick put the nose down slightly and retarded the throttle. “Got it.”

  “The windsock is to the left of the barn,” Gable yelled. “Usually, you land to the west.”

  Rick found the windsock. He flew past the barn for a mile, descending to five hundred feet, then turned back toward the runway. It was clearly visible, and a tractor parked near the strip with a big mower attached told him the grass had been cut. He flew past the barn and set the airplane down in a perfect three-pointer, then let the speed bleed off before taxiing back.

  “Pull up right there,” Gable said, pointing to a spot beside the barn.

  Rick taxied into position and shut down the engine. They were met by a tall fat man who was introduced as Jake, and a big Irish setter, introduced as Rocky.