by Stuart Woods
Dodging traffic, Stone walked across the street and entered the bank. There was another lighthouse high on a wall, and a nautical motif. A large ship’s clock behind the tellers chimed the hour. He walked to a teller’s window and presented the check. “I’d like to cash this, please.”
The teller looked at the check and handed it back to him. “For a check of this size you’ll have to get Mr. Marshall’s approval,” she said, pointing to an office behind a row of desks. “See his secretary, there,” she said, pointing to a woman.
“Thank you.” Stone walked to the secretary’s desk. “I’d like to see Mr. Marshall, please, about getting approval to cash a check.”
“Your name?”
“Barrington.”
“Just a moment.” She dialed a number, spoke briefly, and hung up. “Go in, please,” she said, pointing at the office door, which was open.
Stone rapped lightly on the door and entered. “Mr. Marshall?”
“Mr. Barrington,” the man said, rising and offering his hand. “Please have a seat; what can I do for you?”
Stone handed him the check and sat down. “I’d like to cash this,” he said.
Marshall examined the check. “Do you have some identification?” he asked.
Stone handed over his New York driver’s license.
Marshall looked at Stone’s photograph, compared it with the original face, wrote the license number on the back of the check and handed it back. “May I ask how you happen to have a check on the account of Centurion Studios for twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“It’s a paycheck; I had a role in a Centurion film this week.”
“Ah, an actor.”
Stone didn’t disabuse him of the notion. “I live in New York, you see; I’m just out here for the Job.”
“Can we open an account for you? That’s a lot of cash to be walking around with.”
“No, I’m going back to New York shortly, but you’re right, it is a lot of money. Why don’t you give me a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand, and the rest in hundreds?”
“As you wish.” He buzzed for his secretary, then signed a form and handed it to her. “Have a cashier’s check drawn in that amount, please, payable to Mr. Stone Barrington, and bring me that and ten thousand dollars in hundreds.” He turned the check over. “You’ll need to endorse it,” he said to Stone.
Stone signed the check and sat back to wait for his money. “You’ve a handsome bank here,” he said.
“Thank you; all of our offices are designed with something of the nautical in them. Mr. Ippolito is something of a yachtsman.”
“Mr. Ippolito?”
“Our chairman,” Marshall replied.
“What does he sail?”
“He has a small armada,” the bank manager said. “A large sailing yacht, a large motor yacht, a sports fisherman, and several runabouts.”
“Business must be good,” Stone said.
“Oh, yes; we’re the fastest-growing bank in Southern California. We’ve got fourteen offices in the greater L.A. and San Diego areas, and by this time next year we’ll have closer to twenty. We’re expanding into San Francisco.”
“Might you have a copy of your most recent annual report?” Stone asked. “I’m going to need to invest some of this paycheck.”
“Of course,” Marshall replied. He reached into a cabinet next to his desk and produced a thick, handsomely designed brochure.
“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’ll read myself to sleep tonight.”
“I think you’ll find us a good investment; our stock has doubled in the past two years.”
“Sounds interesting,” Stone said.
The secretary returned with the cashier’s check and Stone’s cash. Marshall signed the check with a flourish and handed it over, along with a thick stack of hundreds, held together with a paper band. “Better count it,” he said.
Stone stood up and tucked the check and the cash into his inside pockets. “I trust you, Mr. Marshall,” he said. “Thanks very much for your help.”
They shook hands, and Stone left the building. He didn’t know a hell of a lot about banking, he thought as he crossed the street to his waiting car, but Safe Harbor seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds. He wondered what was fueling the growth.
Once in the car, he opened the annual report and flipped through it, stopping at a list of the bank’s officers. Ippolito was indeed chairman, and Louis Regenstein and David Sturmack were listed as directors. His portable phone rang.
He dug the little Motorola StarTac from an inside pocket and flipped it open. “Stone Barrington.”
“It’s Rick Grant. I’ve got a report on Arrington’s car.”
“That was fast. Where was it spotted?”
“Driving away from Spago Beverly Hills less than five minutes ago.”
“Jesus!” Stone said. “I’ll get back to you.” He closed the phone, hopped out of the car, and ran to the valet. “Did a white Mercedes SL600 just leave here?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, “just a minute ago.”
“Can you describe the driver?”
“You bet I can: she was tall, dark hair, late twenties or early thirties; a real looker.”
“Did you see which way she went?”
“She turned left at the corner, toward Rodeo Drive.”
“Thanks,” Stone said, then jumped into his car. He gunned it, then made a left turn across two lanes of traffic, the sound of horns following him. A block ahead, the traffic light was turning green, and the white Mercedes was turning right on Rodeo.
Then there was the sound of a siren in his left ear, and a cop on a motorcycle pulled in front of him, lights flashing, and stopped. The cop got off and sauntered toward him, while Stone dug for his ID.
“Afternoon,” the cop said, producing a ticket book. “In a terrible hurry, are we? License and registration, please.”
Stone opened the small wallet and flashed his NYPD badge.
The cop took it and read the ID thoroughly. “Retired, huh? You look a little young for retirement.”
“A bullet in the knee did the job.”
“Now that’s a lucky break, you still being alive and all. Makes for a nice pension, huh? Let’s see your license and registration.”
“Listen, I’ve got to catch up with a lady in a white SL600 that just turned into Rodeo Drive.”
“You listen, ah…” he glanced at the ID, “…Detective Barrington. Did you happen to see the Rodney King videotape?”
Stone sighed. “Two or three hundred times,” he said.
“Well, I heard that Mr. King was reluctant to show his license and registration, too.”
Stone produced his driver’s license and dug into the armrest compartment for his rental contract. “All right, all right,” he said, handing them over.
The cop glanced at the license. “You take a very nice picture, Detective Barrington,” he said.
“Could you just write me the ticket and let me be on my way?”
“Oh, it’s a rental,” he said, reading the contract. “Well, seeing how you’re a brother officer and all, sort of, I’m going to let you go with a warning. Here’s the warning; this is not New York City, and we frown on high-speed left turns.”
“Thanks; in New York, the average speed is four miles an hour, and you can’t turn left, ever.”
The cop smiled appreciatively. “You’ll have to go faster than that out here; we like our traffic to move, but not quite as fast as you were moving, okay?”
“Okay, and thanks,” Stone said.
“Have a really nice day,” the cop replied. He got on his motorcycle and moved out, stopping at the traffic light, which had just turned red.
Stone couldn’t turn right with him sitting there, so he just sat and tapped his fingers on the wheel. When he finally turned onto Rodeo Drive, the SL600 was nowhere in sight, and fifteen minutes of searching the adjoining streets didn’t turn it up, either. Stone drove disconsolately back to Betty’s hous
e.
18
S tone was wakened by a finger running lightly down his cheek. He tried to sit up, but a hand on his chest pressed him back down. He blinked and looked at the face above him.
“Don’t get up; I like you in a horizontal position,” Betty said.
“Oh, hi; I guess I fell asleep.”
“Waiting anxiously for me to come home, huh?”
“What time is it?”
“A little after eight. I take it you’re not cooking for me this evening.”
“Why don’t I take you out? You book us a table somewhere you like.”
“Good idea; I’d like to change out of my working togs, too.”
Stone went into the bathroom, threw some cold water on his face, and combed his hair, then got into one of his new Ralph Lauren Purple Label suits and went downstairs.
Betty came down in a little white dress, very short, and slipped a hand into his. “We’ve got a table at Maple Drive,” she said. “That’s a restaurant, as well as a street. Let’s take your car; I hope you like jazz.”
“You bet.”
They had a table near the piano player, who was very good. “Dudley Moore and Tony Bill own this place,” she said, sipping her drink. “Dudley comes and plays sometimes.”
“Sorry I missed him; I like his piano. How was your day?”
“Long; they’re still shooting on Stage Twelve, redoing your scenes, so we can be sure Vance won’t turn up here. It’s a favorite of his.”
“I must have been pretty bad, huh?”
“Not in the least; I saw all your dailies, and you were very good indeed. I told you about the female reaction.”
“So why would they go to all the trouble to get me to do that, then hire somebody to do it over?”
“The word on the lot is, the actor they wanted was unavailable, then suddenly he was available.”
“Do you buy that?”
“It’s not the first time it’s happened.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Okay,” she said, downing the rest of her martini, “what’s your theory?”
“I think they were trying to keep me busy so I wouldn’t be looking for Arrington.”
“So they tie up a whole company and a soundstage filming you, just to keep you off the streets? That’s not how the movie business works, Stone; they don’t waste that kind of money.”
“Are you kidding? From what I read in the papers, they waste a lot more than that on a lot of films, and for less reason.”
“All right, I’ll grant you that; I’ve just never seen Lou Regenstein do it. I think he really wanted the other actor. Can I have another martini?”
Stone signaled a waiter for another round; he brought the drinks, and they ordered dinner.
“Did Vance say anything about Arrington today?”
“He said she was still visiting her family in Virginia.”
“Funny, he told me she was staying with a friend in the Valley.”
“This is all so weird,” she said.
“Did you pick up on anything helpful today?”
“He talked with both Lou Regenstein and David Sturmack this morning.”
“Did you overhear any of it?”
“No.”
“Hear anything about Ippolito?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t mention that name to Vance.”
“Okay. What did you find out today?”
“Well, I came within about a minute of seeing Arrington.”
“Come again?”
“I had lunch with a cop friend, and he put out a bulletin on her car for me.”
“Jesus, I hope Vance never finds out you went to the cops.”
“This was all very informal, just a favor. Turns out Arrington was at the same restaurant—Spago Beverly Hills.”
“And you didn’t see her?”
“Nope; I went to a bank across the street to cash a check, and when I came back, I got a call from my cop friend that she had just left the restaurant. I tried to catch up, but a motorcycle cop pulled me over for a bad turn.”
“So she’s not in Virginia with her family, and she’s not in the Valley, either?”
“Right. And she’s not in the storeroom at Grimaldi’s or at a table at Spago.”
Betty shook her head. “This is all too much for me, after a martini and a half.”
Dinner came, and they ate slowly, enjoying the very good food.
“Where are you from, originally?” Stone asked.
“A small town in Georgia called Delano,” she replied.
“What brought you out here?”
“Fame and fortune; I wanted to be an actress. I even was an actress, for a while.”
“Why didn’t you keep at it?”
“I wasn’t good enough, and I knew it. There were an awful lot of girls who were better than I who were out of work. If I’d kept it up I’d have ended up giving producers blow jobs for work, and I wanted to keep my private pleasures private.”
Stone smiled. “How did you meet Vance?”
“I had a little part in one of his pictures; it wasn’t much, but it kept me on the set for a month. Vance and I had our little fling, and I started helping him on the set—answering the phone, that sort of thing. He didn’t like his secretary, so he offered me her job.”
“Did you find it easy to give up acting?”
“Vance sat me down and talked to me like a Dutch uncle,” she said. “He told me that I didn’t have any sort of real career ahead of me, and when I thought about it, I realized he wasn’t being cruel, he was right. I took the job and never looked back.”
“You never married?”
“Nope. It doesn’t appeal, really. I mean, I couldn’t get married and keep the job with Vance; he’d drive any husband to the wildest kind of jealousy; I’d be dead in a month.”
Stone laughed. “I guess I’m a little jealous myself.”
“Oh, no, you’re not,” she said. “You’re just like me; you like your independence and take your sex where you find it. And you’d make a lousy husband.”
“I would not!” Stone said. “I’d be a very good husband.”
“Oh, come on, Stone; you’re still in love with Arrington, but you’re fucking me.” She smiled. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“What makes you think I’m still in love with Arrington?”
“A woman’s intuition.”
“Let’s just say that Arrington and I never had the kind of closure we should have had. I’d have felt better if we’d had a fight and she’d walked out. And there are other reasons I’m…” He stopped himself.
“Not to pry, but what other reasons?”
“Don’t pry.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll find out eventually anyway.”
“Probably.”
“Well,” she said, putting down her fork, “that was an excellent dinner. Now would you take me home and do lascivious things to me?”
“Love to.” Stone signaled for the check.
They pulled away from the restaurant, which was in a residential neighborhood, and as they did, Stone caught sight of another car pulling in behind them, halfway down the dark block. He thought nothing of it until after a couple of turns, when it was still there.
“I don’t think we should go directly to your house,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Not to get all dramatic, but I think we’re being followed. Don’t look back.”
“Who would be following us?”
“I don’t know, but I’d rather not have them follow us to your place.” They crossed Santa Monica Boulevard and drove up Beverly Drive. “Is there such a thing as a cab stand in this town?” he asked.
“The Beverly Hills Hotel is a few blocks ahead.”
“That’ll do. Why don’t you take the scarf you’re wearing and put it on your head, just to hide the red hair.”
She did as instructed.
They crossed Sunset Boulevard and turned into the drivew
ay of the hotel. “Okay, here’s what we do; there’s only one car and they can’t follow us both. I’m going to drop you at the entrance to the hotel. You go inside, use the ladies’ room, then get a cab and go straight home. I think the car will stick with me; I’ll lose him and turn up at your place later.”
“Whatever you say,” she said as they pulled under the hotel’s portico. “I’m off.” She jumped out of the car and ran inside the lobby.
Stone drove straight through the hotel drive, and his tail picked him up again on Sunset. He caught a glimpse of the car under a street light; it was a Lincoln town car. He devoted himself to losing it.
19
I t was late now, and there wasn’t a lot of traffic on Sunset. Stone drove quickly along the winding road, up and down hills. When he reached the freeway he turned south toward the Pacific; the Lincoln stuck with him, a discreet distance back. Stone turned onto the Santa Monica Freeway, then onto Santa Monica Boulevard, driving right down to the beach. He turned left and, glancing at the rental agency’s map, saw he was headed for Venice. The Lincoln had closed to within half a dozen car lengths, which bothered him. Apparently his pursuers didn’t care if he knew they were following him.
He was on a broad street that was nearly empty of traffic, and he began to get annoyed, so he decided to do something he’d been taught years before in a police driving school. He checked his mirrors for traffic, then stomped on the emergency brake, locking the rear wheels, and spun the steering wheel to the left. The car traded ends, then he released the emergency brake and stood on the accelerator. The car behaved impeccably, its three-hundred-plus horses rocketing its small mass back down the street.
The Lincoln blew past in the opposite direction and, simultaneously, the two men in the front seat raised their left hands, blocking his view of their faces, as if they were accustomed to doing it. A moment later, Stone checked his rearview mirror; the Lincoln was behind him again. Still, the driver made no effort to overtake him or close the distance between them.
Using his map, Stone worked his way back toward Beverly Hills, taking care to keep to wide, brightly lit streets. He was not going to lead his tail down any dark alleys. He found himself on Wilshire Boulevard, now only a dozen blocks from Betty’s house, and he saw something ahead that looked very inviting. A block short of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, a cop car had pulled over a driver, his patrol car parked behind the car he had stopped, the lights flashing, and he was now leaning on the car, talking to the driver. Stone pulled up next to the cop. “Excuse me, officer, can you direct me to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel?” he asked. The Lincoln drove past him, not slowing down.