by Stuart Woods
“Your fifty is on the counter, Melvin,” Rick said, “and it would be a very big mistake for you to get in touch with Stampano, you understand?”
“Yessir, Lieutenant,” Carson said.
“Enjoy your time as a free man, Melvin, and remember, it could come to an end at any time if you screw around with me.”
“I won’t say a word, Lieutenant.”
“And don’t leave town.” That always sounded good.
“No, sir.”
Rick got back into his car and drove back toward Santa Monica. At the place where the Pacific Coast Highway met Sunset Boulevard, he pulled into a parking lot next to a public beach, parked and got out. The beach was doing a little business today, with a lifeguard on duty and a few dozen people sleeping in the sun or bathing. There was a small brick building with a flat roof, situated maybe eight feet above the beach, that housed a men’s room at one end and a ladies’ at the other, and next to it stood two public telephone booths. He made a note of the numbers.
He turned around and looked at the hillside behind him. The houses were close together here. There was no really good spot. He turned and looked at the little building again, then he dragged over an empty garbage can, turned it upside down, climbed on top of it and had a look at the low roof. There was a parapet about eighteen inches high. That would do, he thought.
He had one more look at the view from the building down to the beach, then he got into his car and headed for Melrose Avenue, where he had two appointments to keep.
53
RICK GOT TO JIMMY’S before the others. He went to the pay phone and called Al, across the street in his gun shop.
“Hi, Al, it’s Rick Barron.”
“How are you, Rick?”
“Just fine.”
“You enjoying my little .45?”
“Well, I haven’t killed anybody with it yet, but you never know. You going to be around the shop for a while?”
“I close at six.”
“Wait for me until I show up, will you? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Rick thanked him and hung up, in time to see Ben Morrison and Tom Terry walk in together.
“You two know each other?” he asked them, shaking hands.
“We’ve met a couple of times,” Morrison said.
Rick took them to a booth in back. “What are you drinking?”
“Some of that twelve-year-old scotch, if you’re buying,” Morrison said.
“Same here,” Tom said.
Rick got the drinks and brought them back to the booth. They raised their glasses.
“Now, what’s up?” Morrison asked.
“Stampano.” He gave them a brief rundown on Glenna’s experience with the man, then he showed them the motel owner’s statement and the photograph of Stampano with the Keans and Glenna, with her face cut out. “He wants twenty-five grand for the negatives.”
“You going to pay?” Tom asked.
“I haven’t decided yet. Ben, do you think you could get a conviction of Stampano on the murder of the Keans and the kidnapping of Glenna with this evidence?”
“No, I don’t,” Morrison said. “All right, sure, he’s got a motive for the Keans, what with their holding out on him and all, but I can’t put him at the scene, and the guy in charge of that investigation says there’s no physical evidence. As for the kidnapping, the motel owner’s statement was written under duress, right?”
“Sort of.”
“So we’re nowhere.”
“I thought so,” Rick said.
“So why are we here?”
“If I can’t get the guy sent up, then I want to make him harmless.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“I think Glenna hasn’t been his only victim,” Rick said. “My guess is that he’s got photos and negatives of other actresses from other studios and that he’s making very nice money from it. But none of them is ever going to testify against him. What I want is for you two guys, with whatever help you need, to steal the material from him while I keep him busy.”
“You know where he’s keeping them?” Tom asked.
“I think in one of four places,” Rick said. “His home, his office at the liquor distributor’s or the office at the Trocadero.”
“That’s only three.”
“The fourth is a darkroom somewhere on the premises of the Trocadero.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Where is Stampano going to get the film developed? He can’t take it to a drugstore or to a photo lab—they’d call the cops as soon as they saw what was on the film. But Ben Siegel runs the Trocadero, and there’s a woman there who goes around taking pictures of the guests, then developing them on-site.”
“Sounds good,” Morrison admitted.
“You know where Stampano lives?”
“Yeah. He’s got a house up in the Hollywood Hills, not all that far from your place.”
“Good.”
“I don’t think the liquor distributor is a good spot to search, though,” Ben said. “Stampano doesn’t have an office there, and I’ve never known him even to visit the place.”
“Okay, then we’re down to three spots.”
“When do you want this done?”
“Probably at dawn tomorrow morning.”
“Well, there won’t be anybody at the Trocadero at that hour, but how are you going to get Stampano out of his house?”
“You leave that to me. I want you to stake out his place from about five o’clock tomorrow morning, and as soon as you see him leave the house, get in there.”
“Do you know where he keeps the prints and negatives?”
“My guess is he has a safe, so I want you to take a safecracker with you. You know Hans?”
“The little German guy? Sure. Will he do it?”
“Show him a badge, and he’ll do it.” Rick peeled off five hundred dollars and gave it to Morrison. “Give Hans a hundred, and you guys split the rest.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you tonight and confirm that I have Stampano set up.”
“Okay.”
“And, Ben, Tom: Don’t get any ideas about hanging on to some of what you find for entertainment purposes, you understand me?”
“Rick, you wound me,” Ben said.
“I want all of it, so that I’ll know it’s been destroyed.”
“Of course.”
“How you going to get Stampano out of the house?”
“I’m going to offer him money.”
“That ought to do it.”
“Okay, fellas, go home and wait for my call.” He got out his notebook and wrote down two phone numbers. “And when you’ve finished the job at all three places, call me at one of these numbers. Let it ring once, then hang up. Then call again and let it ring twice and hang up. Then I’ll know you were successful. If you don’t find the stuff, just let the phone ring until I pick it up, and that may take a lot of rings.”
“Whatever you say, Rick.”
Rick tossed off the rest of his drink. “I’ve already paid for another round, so take your time.” He shook hands with them, then left Jimmy’s and walked across the street to Al’s gun shop. The lights were still on.
Rick let himself into the shop and looked around. Al waved from his desk at the rear of the shop. He was the only one in the place. Rick locked the door and turned around the CLOSED sign, then walked to the rear.
“Have a seat,” Al said. “You want a drink?”
“I just had one, thanks.”
“What’s up?”
“Let me get right to the point: Eddie Harris has told me I can call on you for, ah, extracurricular work.”
“He did?”
“He did, and I need some done.”
Al regarded him evenly, then he sat back in his chair. “Who do you want killed?”
“Nobody yet, I hope. But I need you just the same. What kind of shot are you with a rifl
e?”
“I can shoot the eye out of an owl at three hundred yards,” Al said. “If it ain’t too windy and I can choose my weapon.”
Rick explained what he wanted done. “What kind of weapon would you use?”
“For a long-range kill?”
“No, for short range—say, twenty-five yards, and to frighten, not kill, unless it becomes necessary.”
Al beckoned for him to follow, then led him downstairs to the basement, where he had a firing range. He took a big rifle from a rack and handed it to Rick. “I’d use that,” he said.
“Pretty heavy,” Rick said, hefting it. “What is it?”
“A BAR—Browning Automatic Rifle. The army used it in the last war. It’ll fire semiautomatic, or full automatic, five hundred and fifty rounds a minute. Takes a magazine of twenty, fires a 30–06 round. Highly accurate with a scope, highly frightening without one, on auto.”
“Sounds perfect,” Rick said. He told Al what he wanted done. “Here are the signals I’m going to use.” He showed Al the signs.
“Got it.”
“And if anybody so much as points a gun at me, kill him.”
“I’ll want a grand to be there. If I have to kill anybody, it’s five grand apiece.”
“I’ll bring cash,” Rick said. He gave Al a full briefing, then left the shop and returned to the studio.
Glenna was still sleeping peacefully, and he did not disturb her. He went to his own office on the stage and dialed Stampano’s number.
“Hello?”
“This is a friend of Glenna,” Rick said. “She’s asked me to deliver your money.”
“It’s Barron, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. If you want the money, there are rules to follow. Deviate from the rules and you don’t get paid. Is that clear?”
“Tell me your proposition.”
“There’s a public beach where Sunset ends at the Pacific Coast Highway. Know it?”
“Yeah.”
“You show up there tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp, and I mean sharp. Come alone. You park at the extreme south end of the parking lot, walk down to the beach and walk north on the sand. I’ll be walking south on the beach. Got that?”
“Why the beach?”
“So that I can see you’re alone. You bring all the negatives and prints of any photographs showing Glenna. I’ll bring twenty-five grand. You hand me the prints and negatives, I hand you the money. We both walk away. Glenna never hears from you again and no photograph of her taken at the motel is ever published anywhere. That’s it. Take it or leave it.”
There was a silence.
“Well?”
“I’m coming armed.”
“That’s okay, so am I, but you’d better not have anything in your hand at any time.”
“I don’t like the sound of all this.”
“Then go fuck yourself.”
“All right, all right,” Stampano said quickly. “I’ll be there.”
“At six A.M., before there’s anybody on the beach. Don’t be late.” Rick hung up. He checked on Glenna again, then ordered dinner sent over from the commisary.
He slept on the floor next to Glenna that night.
54
RICK WOKE AT FOUR A.M. without an alarm clock. Glenna was still asleep, and he didn’t disturb her. He went to his office, showered and got Eddie Harris’s money from the safe.
He examined the five five-thousand-dollar bills closely, since he had never seen one before. James Madison’s picture was, indeed, on the notes. He stacked them together squarely, then took some scissors from his desk and cut them in two, lopping off the right-hand one-third of each. Then he took cellophane tape and joined them together again and returned them to the envelope.
He checked his .45 again, put on his coat, put the money in a pocket, then went to his car and left the studio. He was parked at the north end of the beach lot at five-thirty. It was still dark and very foggy.
He got out of the car, walked over to the little building housing the toilets and checked both pay phones to see that they had a dial tone. “Al?” he called. “You there?” He couldn’t do this without Al.
Al’s voice came from the roof of the building. “I’m here.”
“Can you see the beach in front of you?”
“Just barely. The fog should begin to lift a little when it gets light.”
Rick hoped so. He hadn’t counted on fog when he’d made his plan. “Okay, I’m going down to the beach.” He walked down a flight of concrete steps to the beach, found a rock and sat down on it. The light was slowly coming up, and he could just make out the line where the water met the sand. The tide was low, leaving a wide stretch of wet, packed beach. He waited as patiently as he could, checking his watch frequently. It was at times like this that he missed smoking.
At five minutes to six, he heard a car, then the engine stopped and a car door slammed, then another. Stampano hadn’t come alone.
Rick got up and walked down to where the sand was wet and waited. The light was coming up fast, now. He unbuttoned his jacket, reached inside it and unsnapped the thumb break on the shoulder holster, made sure the gun was cocked and locked.
Then, as he gazed into the fog, a single figure materialized. Stampano kept walking, then stopped about ten feet from Rick.
“Okay, let’s do it,” Stampano said.
“Tell the other guy to come up here and stand next to you, where I can see him, and tell him his hands better be empty.”
Stampano thought about it, then turned and called out something to somebody. A moment later a large man appeared, his hands empty but his jacket unbuttoned. He came and stood next to Stampano.
“All right,” Stampano said, “I’m here.”
“I told you to come alone,” Rick said. “You broke the rules.”
“I’m here. Let’s get this done.”
Rick opened the right side of his jacket so that Stampano could see there was no gun there, then he reached into the inside pocket and took out the envelope. He removed the five bills, spread them out and held them up. “Five five-thousand-dollar bills,” he said. “Let me see the prints and negatives.”
Stampano reached under his jacket for the small of his back.
“Careful,” Rick said. “Do it slowly, and don’t show me any hardware.”
Stampano slowly produced a large brown envelope and held it up. “Here they are.”
“Show me.”
Stampano reached into the envelope and pulled out some eight-by-tens. “Six prints,” he said. He replaced the prints and pulled out half a dozen negative strips. “Here are the negatives; twenty-four exposures.”
“Stand very still,” Rick said. “Either of you moves a muscle, you’re dead.”
The big man’s hand began to move inside his jacket.
Rick raised his left hand and pointed one finger at the sky. Half a second later, a burst of automatic fire erupted, making a row of explosions in the sand between Rick and the other two men. They froze.
“You bastard,” Stampano said.
“You brought backup, I brought backup,” Rick said. “Now I want you to walk over to me and hand me the envelope. I want to inspect the goods. If they pass inspection, you’ll get your money.” He pointed at the other man. “And if you move a muscle, your head will explode.” He beckoned to Stampano.
Stampano walked slowly forward and stood three feet from Rick, who held out his left hand. Stampano gave him the envelope.
Rick opened it, looked at the prints, which were all of Glenna and Stampano, but with his face cropped out. He held the negatives up to the increasingly bright sky. They were all duplicates of the print of Glenna. None showed the Keans or Stampano’s face.
“Take five giant steps backward,” Rick said.
“Gimme the money.”
“In a few minutes. We’re going to wait for a phone call.”
“A phone call? What are you talking about?”
“Shut up and walk backwar
d if you want the money.”
Stampano backed up. “What’s going on?”
“Be patient, Chick. We’ll be done in a few minutes.”
The three men stood on the beach, staring at each other. Ten minutes passed, then another five. Twenty minutes were gone before Rick heard a phone ring once, then stop. He held up his hand. “Stand still.” A moment later, the phone rang twice, then stopped. Rick smiled. “All right, Chick, come and get the money.”
Stampano walked up and held out his hand. “Gimme,” he said.
Rick opened his envelope and removed the print of the four people, with Glenna’s face cut out, and handed it to Stampano. “You cheap little chisler,” Rick said, “you held out on me.”
“Where’d you get this?” Stampano demanded.
“It shows you with the Keans, doesn’t it? And only a few days before you killed them. This photograph, along with Glenna’s testimony, can put you in the death chamber up at Quentin.”
“Sez you.”
Rick took the five bills from the envelope, ripped them apart where they had been taped, and handed the short ends to Stampano. “Here’s all the money you’re going to get for now. A year from today, you’ll get the rest—on the following conditions: One, Glenna doesn’t hear from you again, and neither does any other actress in town. Two, none of the photographs of Glenna or any of the other girls is circulated or published. I’d better not ever even hear of a rumor to that effect. I’m not going to ask you for the rest of the prints and negatives because I already have them. That’s what the phone call was about.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re all cleaned out, Chick, but there’s more. If Glenna or the other girls hears from you again, ever, you’re dead. You get a bullet in the brain. If any of them, or me, for that matter, stubs a toe, or gets so much as a flat tire, you’re dead. If I or any of them ever walks into a restaurant or a club and you don’t leave immediately, you’re dead. Do you understand everything I’ve said?”
Stampano stood, his jaw working, but speechless.
“Or I can just lift one finger, and you die right here on this beach, right now, you and your man. You hear me, Chick?”
Stampano still didn’t speak.