MacArthur Cellars is located on eight hundred pristine acres in the north end of the Napa Valley. Big Dick purchased it twenty years ago to keep up with his friend and competitor, Francis Ford Coppola, who bought and lovingly restored the Niebaum estate and the Inglenook winery near Oakville. MacArthur once told Barbara Walters that he would never—ever—sell the winery or use it as collateral to fund a film project. He said he’d give up the house at Sea Cliff and the condo in Beverly Hills before he would hand over the keys to the winery.
“How did Richard respond?” I ask
“Unenthusiastically.”
No surprise. “Can’t you restructure the deal? Maybe he’d be willing to take a smaller interest if you dropped the guaranty and the mortgage. Maybe you could buy him out.”
“It’s not that simple,” Petrillo says. “The deal will pencil out only if we have reliable long-term tenants. If MacArthur Films goes under, we’ll have an empty building. We have a timing problem, too. We’re scheduled to have a final hearing before the redevelopment agency next Friday. We’ve tinkered with the deal a dozen times. It’s never been popular among the neighborhood groups.”
“Can’t you get an extension?”
“Not likely. We’ve already gotten three. If they don’t like the revisions to the plans, they may open up the process to other proposals. Then we’re back to square one.”
And they’ll lose the millions they’ve already invested. I think about my conversations with Tony. “Have you heard anything about a competing plan?” I ask.
His expression suddenly becomes guarded. “Why do you ask?”
I begin evasive maneuvers. “I saw something about it in the Chronicle.”
“Jerry Edwards has been against the project from the beginning. The redevelopment agency has assured us it won’t consider other proposals unless they turn us down.”
“What are your chances of approval?”
“Before Dick died, I’d say ninety-nine percent.”
“And now?”
“Assuming we can get our finances reordered, about fifty-fifty.”
“And if you don’t get the approvals?”
“That’s not an option. We’ve spent millions on start-up costs, environmental impact reports, design expenses and attorneys’ fees. The redevelopment agency isn’t unreasonable. They know about Dick’s death. They won’t say it out loud, but they’ll let us rework our finances. They’ll approve it. You’ll see.”
I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me or himself.
“I appreciate your forthrightness,” I tell him.
“The details of the studio project are no secret,” he says. “Any changes will become a matter of public record. It would serve no useful purpose to lie or be disingenuous.”
I don’t know if he’s lying, but I’m sure he’s being disingenuous. I notice a change in Rosie’s expression. Her bullshit detector just went off.
“Besides,” he adds, “we’ll piss off the redevelopment agency if we screw around.”
That they will. I understand why somebody wanted to get the support of the businesses in the Mission—not that I expect him to admit he’s making payoffs. I say, “I understand you’re trying to get some help from the local businesses.”
He says in a carefully measured tone, “We’re doing everything we can.”
“I heard you might be willing to make it worth their while.”
He eyes me up and down. “Who said anything about that?”
I try to keep my tone conversational. “I saw that in the paper, too. They said you might be willing to give the locals first crack at jobs.” I leave out the fact that they’re also blatantly trying to buy their support in cold, hard cash.
He relaxes a bit. “We really want their backing,” he says.
Time to spin the roulette wheel. “It said you might give them more than jobs.”
He tenses again. “What are you suggesting?”
I keep my tone even as I repeat, “You might be willing to make it worth their while.”
His tone changes to one of tempered annoyance. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Absolutely not. It’s not uncommon for developers to provide incentives to the neighborhood. Maybe you promised to build a park or donate money to a community group.” Maybe you’re doing it the more traditional way and just offering bribes to the local politicians.
“What does that have to do with Dick’s death?”
I want to find out who authorized the payments to Tony and his neighbors. “Maybe nothing. Somebody who was trying to screw up your deal would have put a big monkey wrench in the works by arranging for Dick’s death.”
He keeps his tone level as he says, “I trust my partners and I’m not aware of any competing proposals.”
I won’t get more from him unless I want to accuse him of bribery. I glance at my watch. I need to get what I can. “Maybe you could tell us what you saw Friday night,” I say.
“It’s in the police reports.”
It’s an evasive response from a guy who keeps promising to do everything in his power to help us. “We’ll study them,” I say. This may be my only chance to hear him tell his story in his own words. “Maybe you can give me the abbreviated version.”
His demeanor remains businesslike as he tells his story. It jibes with what we’ve heard so far. He arrived at the MacArthur house by limo at eight, and they watched the movie and drank champagne. “I left with Carl Ellis by limo at one-forty-five,” he says. “We went to the Ritz.”
Your alibi is duly noted. “Were you at the hotel the rest of the night?”
“Yes.”
“Ellis, too?”
“I can’t imagine he went out for a walk at two in the morning.”
I ask, “How was the movie?”
He answers too quickly, “It was fine.”
I press him. “You were happy with the way it turned out?”
He repeats, “It was fine.”
“But there were some things you didn’t like?”
He shows a hint of irritation. “There are always some things you’d do differently.”
It’s an opening. “Like what?”
“We might have tweaked the script or tinkered with the ending. We might have cast a few characters differently.”
“Were you happy with the cast?” I ask.
“Happy enough.”
“Were you happy with Angelina’s performance?”
He gives us a half-hearted, “Yeah.”
“And Daniel Crown?”
“He was fine.”
Everything was fine. I don’t have time for finesse. “It sounds to me like you were unhappy about the movie.”
“Not true,” he says. “It’s perfectly fine.”
There’s that word again.
“Like all movies,” he continues, “it has some problems. We didn’t set out to make Citizen Kane. Dick MacArthur was no Scorcese. And believe me, Angelina is no Meryl Streep.”
Got it. “So you’re prepared to release the movie in its current form?”
“Of course.” His face reddens and his jowls shake. “Look,” he says, “making movies is like playing craps. Everybody thinks they have a winning system. In reality, you roll the dice and hope for the best. It may be a blockbuster or a bomb. It will probably end up somewhere in between. A lot of it is completely out of your control. If you have bad weather in certain parts of the country, your numbers may go down. If Roger Ebert has a lousy dinner the night before the preview, you may be in trouble. You never know until you put it out there.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement from a man who has been described as a master of movie marketing. His tone suggests he has nothing more to say about it. I decide to shift gears. “How was Dick acting the other night?” I ask.
“He was all right.”
At least he didn’t say fine. He’s answering my questions without telling me anything. “Was he happy with the movie?”
He gives me a non-co
mmittal shrug. “There were some holes in the script. He was still tinkering with the editing.”
“What about the cast?”
“What about it?”
“Was he happy with their performances?”
“Overall, yes.”
“But he would have made some changes?”
“You always think about things you might have done differently.”
“What did he think of Angelina’s performance?”
He wiggles his fingers, but doesn’t say anything. Another unenlightening response.
I attack from another direction. “How was Angelina acting the other night?”
He gulps his scotch and says, “She isn’t the only temperamental actress in the world. At times she was the perfect hostess. Later in the evening, she was stressed out and angry.”
“Anything out of the ordinary?
“Not really.”
“Was there a problem the other night?”
His expression changes to one of feigned sadness. “She’d had too much to drink. She may have been high.”
“On what?”
His tone remains level. “Probably coke.”
“Daniel Crown’s fingerprints were found on a baggie of coke in the car.”
“I don’t know anything about that. If it’s true, we have another problem.”
“You said she was angry.”
“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate.
“Why?”
He strokes his beard and sighs. “All right. This is just between us, okay? Because I can’t afford for it to get out before the movie opens. You asked me about Angelina’s performance. She’s very pretty. Her smile lights up the screen. But she has limitations. She can handle romantic comedy. She could probably do action adventure. The Return of the Master is a serious drama. She was miscast.”
“And?”
“Some of us may have been a little too forthcoming about her limitations.”
They probably humiliated her. “Who?” I ask.
The corners of his mouth turn down. “Her husband was an immensely talented man who had many virtues,” he says. “Diplomacy wasn’t one of them. He told her if he had a chance to do it again, he would have cast somebody else in the lead. This didn’t sit well with her.”
Rosie and I share a quick glance. I ask, “Did she say something to him?”
Petrillo frowns. “I believe she said he was a lying, back-stabbing asshole.”
I get a stern look from Rosie. Petrillo’s version of the events on Friday night is considerably different than the story Angel told us. “What did she do?” I ask.
“She stormed upstairs.”
“Did Dick go up to talk to her?” Rosie asks.
“No.”
Sensitive guy. “Why not?”
“Look,” he says, “there was a lot of tension. She was upset. He wasn’t good at apologies. He wanted to let her sleep it off.”
“And then you decided to leave?”
“It seemed like an appropriate time to call it an evening.”
I ask him who was still there when they left.
“Dick and Angelina. Dick’s son. Danny Crown and Cheryl Springer. Marty Kent.”
This jibes with what we’ve heard so far. “What was Little Richard’s temperature?”
“He didn’t like Angelina’s performance, either.”
“Did he inform his father of his opinion?”
“Every day for eight months. They both had egos and opinions they were not afraid to express. They both had tempers.”
“Did Richard make his views about Angelina’s performance known to his father on Friday night?”
“In minute detail. He handled himself with his usual finesse.”
“What was his father’s reaction?”
“It precipitated another shouting match of rather epic proportion. Never underestimate the level of venom that parents and children are capable of inflicting upon each other.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes and asks, “Do you have children, Mike?”
His question takes me by surprise. I guess I’ve always assumed guys like Petrillo don’t have families. I tell him about Grace.
He tells me he has three grown children and six grandchildren. He says, “I have never uttered the words, ‘fuck you’ to my children. Even when they did drugs and wrecked the cars. Likewise, my kids never used those words to me.” He holds up his hands and says, “The same cannot be said for the MacArthurs. They were still going at it at full tilt when I left.”
In some respects, the Daleys weren’t as dysfunctional as I’d always believed. “Where was Angelina when all of this was happening?” I ask.
“Upstairs.”
“Did she hear any of it?”
“She must have.”
I ask him about her reaction.
“I don’t know. She didn’t come back downstairs.”
It must have been a memorable night. “How was Kent acting?”
“To all outward appearances, he was acting pretty normally. But if you’d spent some time with him, you’d have known he was really pissed off.”
“How could you tell?”
“He was twitching.”
“Excuse me?”
“The corner of his mouth twitched when he was mad.” He holds his index finger a quarter of an inch from his thumb and says, “Just a little. That’s when you knew the explosion was coming.”
“What kind of explosion?”
“Yelling. Throwing things. A moment later, he’d stop.” He arches his eyebrows and adds, “They were always directed at Dick.”
I ask him if there was an explosion on Friday night.
“Not while we were there,” Petrillo says. “Just twitching.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t like the movie. And then there was the whole matter of the China Basin project. Marty put up some of his own money. He didn’t like it from the start.”
“It was business,” I say. “He was a big boy. He knew what he was getting into.”
Petrillo’s voice takes on a sharp edge. “That doesn’t mean he was happy about it. Dick and I understood the risks. Carl Ellis knows any development project can go south. You put up your money and you hope for the best. I’ve made and lost fortunes over the last thirty years. Marty never liked taking risks.”
“Then he shouldn’t have put up his own money,” I observe.
“Dick strong-armed him into it.”
Then he has nobody to blame but himself. Maybe that’s why he was twitching. “Surely he could have afforded to have lost his investment,” I say. “He must have been worth millions.”
“I’m not so sure,” Petrillo says. “His wife’s illness ate up a lot of their resources.”
“Do you think he was mad enough at Dick to have killed him?”
Petrillo shrugs. “He was really ticked off. He was having some financial difficulties and he was wound tighter than a drum. That’s all I know.”
Seems like Petrillo is more than happy to point a finger at Marty Kent.
Rosie asks, “Do you think he was the kind of guy who would have killed a man with whom he had worked with for more than three decades?”
Petrillo doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not.” Then he ponders for a moment and adds, “People do strange things sometimes.”
“Was he desperate enough to have jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge?”
“I don’t know.”
I ask him about Daniel Crown and Cheryl Springer.
“Have you ever met Crown?” Petrillo asks. “Realgood looking guy. Billion dollar smile. Twenty cent brain. Life is unfair. You point a camera at schmucks like us, we look like, well, schmucks. You point a camera at Danny, read him his lines a couple dozen times and tell him to smile, and people will pay ten bucks a head to see him.” He winks at Rosie and says, “You’d like to sleep with him, wouldn’t you?”
“He’s not my type.”
“And I subscribe to Playboy just to read the articles. Come on. Just between
us.”
“Is this sexual harassment?”
Enough. “How was he acting the other night?” I ask.
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