by Stuart Woods
“Of course. Tell you what: I’m jammed up for the next few days, but I expect to be in New York late next week. Why don’t you and I sit down and talk about it then. I’ll gather some specifics on my current situation, and we can discuss the workload.”
“That sounds very good.” They exchanged cards, shook hands, and rejoined the other guests.
Over coffee, Stone exchanged a glance with Betty Southard and nodded toward the door. She smiled and nodded, and after a moment, he said his goodbyes to his host and left, a minute behind her.
8
Stone pulled into the Bel-Air parking lot and surrendered the car. In the lobby, he had to ask where the bar was. The room surprised him; it was more English than Californian, darkly paneled, with a blazing fire in a handsome fireplace. He found Betty already seated on a small sofa near the fireplace, a waiter hovering nearby; it was only a little after ten, but there were few people in the room.
He sat down beside her and ordered a brandy. “Thanks for coming; I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more at the party.”
“Oh, it was my job to shepherd Arlene, the journalist, around the place; Vance didn’t want her talking to any one person for too long. He was very nervous about having her there at all; I still can’t figure out why he wanted her, and he wouldn’t tell me when I asked.”
“I’m sure he had his reasons,” Stone said, a little uncomfortable with knowing something she didn’t. “Does he confide in you about everything?”
“Not necessarily; it’s just that I work so closely with him that it’s hard to hide anything.” She smiled. “Say, you were quite a hit at the party.”
Stone squirmed in his seat. “Aren’t they that nice to everybody?”
She shook her head. “Normally, an out-of-town lawyer at a party like that would find himself talking to the wallpaper.”
“So how come I’m so popular?”
“You’re a handsome man they’ve read about in the papers, you’re younger than most of the other men there, and you’re the personal guest in town of their host, who is a major movie star.”
“And what was all that about the screen test?”
“Have you seen the test?”
“Yes. I found it excruciating.”
She laughed. “I saw it in a room with a dozen secretaries who’d heard about it, and there was a heavy scent of vaginal juices in the air.”
“Stop it!” he groaned.
“I believe you really are embarrassed,” she said, surprised.
“The whole thing is humiliating.”
“Forgive me; I’m accustomed to actors, any one of whom would have understood immediately what that test meant to his future in this town.”
“I don’t have a future in this town.”
“You do if you want it.”
“That’s what Fred Swims said,” Stone replied disconsolately.
“Come on, Stone, cheer up! It’s not as though you’re being tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on a rail. You’re having a moment in the limelight; enjoy it! Most men would be jumping up and down with glee!”
Stone laughed. “I suppose you’re right, but it’s a lot more than I’m accustomed to. I’m a bit at sea.”
She put a hand on his cheek. “What is it, baby?” she asked as if talking to a small child.
“Well, the test is pretty strange,” he said. “Then there’s the party tonight.”
“What about the party?”
“Look, I’m in town for hardly more than twenty-four hours, and I get a screen test and a part in a movie for very nice money. Then an agent—apparently a top one—wants to represent me, and then…” He stopped himself.
“Go on.”
“Here we get into a confidential area.”
“Most of my job is keeping Vance’s secrets; I suppose I can keep yours, too.”
“What do you know about David Sturmack?”
She shrugged. “He’s very important in these parts—behind the scenes, mostly.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you never see anything in the trades about how Sturmack made this deal or even made a movie, but you hear stories…”
“What sort of stories?”
“Did you see Vance’s movie Parting Time?”
“Yes, a long time ago.”
“Vance wasn’t supposed to be in that movie; he was under contract to another big studio, and they wouldn’t release him. Story is, Sturmack made one phone call and ten minutes later, Vance was in Parting Time. It got him his first Academy Award, and the picture did half a billion dollars worldwide. A lot of informed opinion says that the picture would have tanked without Vance. So you see the kind of power that Sturmack can wield in a single phone call.”
“How did he come by all this power?”
“He had something to do with the unions.”
“What unions?”
“The craft unions, the ones that have all the technicians in the business as members. He got a reputation early on for solving the most difficult contract negotiations—he represented at least two of the unions, I forget which ones. That’s really about all I know about him, except that he and Vance are very close. I can tell better than anybody who Vance is really close to by the way he responds to their telephone calls. He drops everything when Dave Sturmack calls. The only other person who gets that kind of attention from Vance is Lou Regenstein. And right now, you.”
“Me?”
“You’re on the hot list right now.”
“You mean, for the moment.”
“Nobody stays on Vance’s hot list forever, but right now, you’re up there.” She frowned. “Why is that, Stone?”
“Beats me,” Stone replied.
“Yeah, sure. I know it’s something to do with Arrington, but I can’t figure out what.”
“I haven’t spoken to Arrington for months.” Not many months, he thought, but months.
“You’re not going to tell me, huh?”
He shrugged. “I’m a lawyer, Betty; some things have to remain…”
She patted his hand. “I understand. I operate under pretty much the same strictures. When you work for somebody like Vance, confidentiality is currency. If Vance suddenly clutched his chest and turned blue, half the town would be trying to hire me before the paramedics arrived. But if I talked out of turn about Vance…”
“I understand,” he said.
“Then we both understand.” She smiled. It was sowthing she did well.
“Will you give me some advice?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Should I actually do this part in the movie?”
She placed a hand on her chest. “Good God! If you don’t, Lou Regenstein will have a stroke. Mind you, he strokes very quietly: he’ll lift an eyebrow and you won’t ever get a dinner table in this town again.”
“So I’m stuck?”
She put her hand back on his cheek. “Don’t take it so hard, baby; it’s only fame and fortune. Most men would jump at the chance.” She lowered her voice. “And most men would have propositioned me by now.”
“You are bold, miss.”
“By this time tomorrow, any woman on the Centurion lot can be yours; I figure I’d better hurry.”
“I live near here.”
“Show me.”
Stone signed the check, and they left the bar and walked through the cool evening toward his suite. She put her hand in his, but neither of them said anything. Along with the scent of frangipani, there was anticipation in the air.
The suite was softly lighted, and she went straight to the bedroom, dropping articles of clothing along the way. A message envelope had been pushed under the door; Stone couldn’t think about that now. He dropped it on the bedside table and started working on his own buttons.
She was naked first. “Leave the lights on,” she said, stripping the bedcover and top sheet off the bed.
He followed instructions.
She stretched out on the bare bed and clasped he
r hands behind her neck. Her tan ran from top to bottom without interruption, something he wasn’t accustomed to seeing in New York.
“Me first,” she said.
He started with her breasts and worked his way down. She kept her hands clasped behind her neck until he hit bottom, then her fingers were in his hair, pulling, while she made little noises.
After a while, it was his turn. It was worth the wait.
9
Stone woke slowly, at first disoriented in the strange room. The bed was a wreck, with covers everywhere, and he was alone. He stretched and thought about the night before, which was indeed a pleasant memory, then jumped as the phone rang. The bedside clock said six-thirty. He grabbed the phone.
“Hello?”
“It’s Bill Eggers; why didn’t you call me last night? I was up half the night waiting.”
“Why, Bill, I didn’t know you cared.”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
“Oh,” Stone said, ripping open the little envelope. It read: CALL ME TONIGHT, NO MATTER HOW LATE. “Sorry, Bill, I was preoccupied, I guess, and I didn’t even read it.”
“How the hell did you get to know David Sturmack?”
“I met him at a dinner party last night, at Vance Calder’s house.”
“Only last night? He called me about you yesterday afternoon; that was before you even met him?”
“That’s right.”
“Jesus, what are you doing in Hollywood, having dinner with movie stars and fixers?”
“Fixers?”
“Don’t you even know who David Sturmack is?”
“I know he has a lot of influence in the movie business; that’s about it. Who else is he?”
“Stone, if it doesn’t happen on the Upper East Side between Forty-second and Eighty-sixth Street, you don’t have a clue, do you?”
“Am I supposed to know who Sturmack is?”
“Well, maybe not. Only a handful of people really know, and I happen to be one of them.”
“Why is he so little known for such a powerful fellow?”
“Because he wants it that way. Things usually get to be the way Sturmack wants them.”
“Oh.”
“You bet your ass. That was some conversation I had with him yesterday; he called me right out of the blue. I’m glad I was in.”
“Bill, you were telling me who Sturmack is.”
“He’s the prince of fucking darkness, that’s who he is.”
“You copped that line from a movie.”
“That doesn’t make it any less true,” Eggers said defensively.
“I guess not; now explain yourself.”
“It started like this: Sturmack’s old man, whose name was Morris, or Moe, was Meyer Lansky’s right-hand man for thirty years.”
“No kidding?”
“Absolutely no fucking kidding. Word is, he sent son David to law school both to make him respectable and to make him useful.”
“And he was useful?”
“You better believe he was. His specialty was the mob connection to the unions; he was very tight with Hoffa and Tony Scotto and a dozen other big-time labor guys. In the late fifties he went west and became a conduit between the Hollywood unions and the mob. He was always very discreet; he didn’t even practice law out there, so nobody could go running to the bar association if they didn’t like his methods. Over the years, he’s sunk more and more out of sight until he’s practically invisible, but at the same time he’s gotten a better and better grip on the town.”
“How do you know all this, Bill?”
“I know everything about everybody; didn’t you know that?”
“Come on, tell me how you know.”
“I once had a client who was in business with him, who murmured a word about him from time to time. He enjoyed telling stories about the old days. The guy died earlier this year, but apparently he had mentioned me to Sturmack. That’s how he knew who to call about you. Now I’ve got a question for you.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“How the hell did you impress Sturmack so much in so short a time? I mean, I know you a lot better than he does, and I’m not all that impressed.”
“Thanks. The whole thing is a mystery to me. The only person Sturmack and I have in common is Vance Calder, and Calder and I have never had any dealings.”
“Maybe not, but Calder probably heard a lot about you on the pillow.”
“He did say that Arrington had told him a lot about me, but still…”
“Well, I think you ought to grab the opportunity, pal, and we’ll back you up over here, but the name of Woodman and Weld is never going to appear on any piece of paper that goes from here to you to Sturmack. Do we understand each other?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t taken him on yet. He seems like the kind of guy who might tend to monopolize my time; right now I have a lot of independence, but if I find myself working full time for him, then I’m no longer self-employed.”
“I get your drift, and you’re smart to think that way.”
“Something else that bothers me: he says he does some, not a lot, of business in New York—some real estate, a couple of restaurants—but he also says his present lawyers billed over a million a year from him. That doesn’t quite add up, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t; if he’s spending a million a year on lawyers, he’s either doing a lot of business in the city, or he’s in a lot of trouble here. I’d raise the question, if I were you.”
“I will. He also says that I’ll have investment opportunities in my dealings with him.”
“I’d be real careful about that, boy; you’re liable to end up in front of a grand jury or a congressional committee. Whatever the investment is, make sure it’s squeaky clean.”
“Well, I don’t know yet if I’m even going to take him on. What kind of name is Sturmack, anyway?”
“He’s a Swedish Jew, if you can believe that.”
“I guess there are Jews everywhere. Why not Swedish?”
“Why not indeed. The way I hear it, Sturmack’s grandfather was a big wholesale fish dealer in Stockholm, and his son, Moe, got into big trouble, maybe even killed somebody, and had to flee the country. He ended up in New York, and through some family connection met Meyer Lansky; it was apparently love at first sight.”
“By the way, there was another guy at dinner who struck me as a little odd, name of Onofrio Ippolito. That ring any bells?”
“He’s a banker, that’s all I know; straight arrow, I’m told.”
“Funny, he looked more like a mob guy.”
“Stone, you were a cop too long. Not everybody with an Italian name is mobbed up.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Now tell me, what are you doing in L.A.?”
“Oh, I’m doing a part in a movie.”
“You’re what?”
“I had a screen test yesterday, and I passed. I’m apparently the town’s hottest new discovery.”
“Okay, you’re obviously not going to tell me what’s going on, so I’ll go now.”
“I kid you not, Bill,” Stone said, but Eggers had already hung up.
Stone had a shower and ordered some breakfast, and when the waiter arrived, Stone noticed a fat envelope on the living room coffee table. He opened it and found a script. Well, he had some work to do, he thought.
He went over his lines for the next hour, then the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Stone Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Bobby Routon; I’m doing the costumes for Out of Court.”
“Right; how are you?”
“Harried. Listen, the wardrobe department at Centurion isn’t up to dressing this lawyer you’re playing—not on short notice, anyway, so we’ve got to get you some duds.”
“Okay.”
“Whose suits and shirts do you normally wear?”
“Ralph Lauren’s suits, Purple Label, when I can afford them, and Turnbull and Asser shirts.”<
br />
“Yeah, they’ve got the shirts at Neiman’s. What about size?”
“I’m a perfect 42 long in a suit; they only have to fix the trouser bottoms.”
“What size shirt?”
“16. The T and A sleeve lengths are all the same.”
“Shoe size?”
“10 D.”
“Got it. I’ll have some stuff for a fitting when you get to the studio at eleven. You’re furnishing your own underwear, and remember, you might get hit by a streetcar, so don’t embarrass your mother.”
Stone laughed. “See you at eleven.” He hung up. “Jesus,” he said aloud, “I guess I’m not in Kansas anymore.”
10
Stone arrived at Centurion Studios, and this time the guard at the gate had his name. He was given a parking pass marked VIP and directed to Stage Twelve. Following his route of the day before, he found his way to the huge building and slipped the Mercedes convertible into a VIP-reserved spot. A young man in his early twenties was standing at the stage door.
“Stone Barrington?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Tim Corbin, assistant production manager; I’ll get you oriented, then I’ll take you to wardrobe and makeup. Follow me.” He led the way around a corner into a street between soundstages, dug a key out of his pocket, and unlocked a medium-sized recreational vehicle. “This is number twenty-one; it’s yours for the duration.”
Stone followed Corbin inside. There was a living room, a bedroom, a kitchenette, a toilet, and a small room with a desk, a phone, and a fax machine. The refrigerator was stocked with mineral water, juices, and fruit. “Very nice,” he said.
“It’s a cut above what a featured player usually gets,” Corbin said. “You been sleeping with the director?”
“He’s not my type.”
“This is where you’ll hang out when they’re not using you. Unless you’re told different, you’re expected to be on the lot from eight A.M. until six P.M., and if you haven’t been told to be on the set, this is where they’ll always look for you. You’ve got a phone line and a fax machine with its own line. By the way, the keys are in the ignition, but don’t ever ever crank it up and move it; that’s a Teamster’s job, and we don’t want to annoy the Teamsters, do we?”