The Prince of Beverly Hills (7 page)

“Where to now, old bean?” Clete asked, turning his face to seek the morning sun.

“A place on Melrose,” Rick said, driving away. Ten minutes later, they sat in front of Al’s Armory, waiting for the shop to open.

“You’re gun shopping?” Clete asked.

“Yeah. When I left the force, I gave them back their gun, and I sold two of my own a while back, when I needed a few bucks.”

“Some special reason why you need one?”

Rick shrugged. “Seems like a good idea, since I’m in the security business.”

“You’re in the movie business, my friend. You’re worried about Chick Stampano, aren’t you?”

“He pulled a knife on me in the men’s room,” Rick said, “and again later, when I found him in the street about to beat up Lara Taylor.”

“Are you joshing me?”

“He hit her only once, before I could get out of the car.”

“I’m sure Metro will thank you. I happen to know she’s in the middle of a big production right now. You’re lucky Mr. Stampano’s knife didn’t end up in your gizzard.”

“I took it away from him and broke the blade.”

“Do you often get into street fights?”

“No, but I stopped a lot of them when I was a cop, before I made detective.”

“So you humiliated Chick Stampano in front of his girl?” Clete patted him on the shoulder. “I think you ought to be very careful, old sport. Stampano may not have many friends, but he has a lot of associates, so to speak. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he sent a couple of them to call on you.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Rick said. “And here’s Al.” He nodded toward a man unlocking the door of the shop. They got out of the car and walked in.

Al was just turning on the lights. “Well, Rick,” he said, “I hear you’re in the movie business.”

“God, word gets around,” Rick replied. “I only started yesterday.”

“Your German safecracker friend was in yesterday, sold me a gun. Come to think of it, last time I saw you, you were selling, not buying. What can I do for you today?”

“I want something to carry, something light but with plenty of stopping power.”

Al opened a case and took out a small semiautomatic. “Colt model 1908,” he said. “It’s a .380, but with hollowpoints, it ought to do you.”

“That’s a little light, Al. I like autos, but I’d like a bigger slug, something that will knock a man down and stop him from shooting me back.”

Al scratched his chin. “I do some gunsmithing,” he said, “some custom work.”

“I’ve seen a few examples, Al. You do beautiful work.”

“I’ve got something I did for myself, actually, but I don’t carry very often. Let me get it.” Al walked to the rear of the store, and Rick could see him opening a large safe. He came back a moment later with a walnut box.

“What have you got there?”

Al didn’t open the box just yet. “I started with a Colt .45 Officer’s Model slide, and I milled a smaller frame out of a block of aircraft-grade aluminum,” he said. “I installed a three-and-a-half-inch barrel and a better trigger, shortened the slide half an inch, deburred it, so it doesn’t hang on clothing, refinished it, changed the grips. It holds one less round, only six, plus one in the chamber, because I shortened the grip, too.” He turned the box around and opened it.

Rick blinked. “It’s gorgeous, Al,” he said.

“Go ahead, handle it, see what you think.”

Rick picked up the gun, dropped the magazine and worked the action to be sure there wasn’t a round in the chamber. It was polished to a mirror blue finish, and the grips were ivory. “It may be too beautiful to carry. I’d hate to scratch it.”

“I build guns to be used, not displayed.”

“I can’t believe how light it is.”

“Nineteen ounces, unloaded, and it’s accurate, too. I can put six rounds in a one-inch circle at twenty-five feet, and you’re not likely to use a gun like this beyond that range.”

“Are you sure you want to sell it?”

“I’ve been thinking of building myself another one.”

“What do you want for it?”

Al scratched his chin again. “For you, five hundred.”

Rick whistled. A couple of days ago that would have been beyond his dreams. “Done,” he said.

“You have yourself a very fine piece,” Al said. “I’ve never built anything better. How do you want to carry it?”

“Shoulder holster, I think. Do you have something?”

“I do.” Al went back to the safe and returned with a shoulder rig made of glossy mahogany leather. “I had this made for the gun. Let’s see, you’re a little heavier than I am.” He unscrewed a couple of screws and adjusted the length of the straps. “Try it on.”

Rick took off his suit jacket and slipped into the rig. It settled on him as if it had always lived on his body. He slipped the gun into the holster and snapped the thumb break closed.

“Wait a minute,” Al said, taking two full magazines from the walnut box. He slipped them into the mag holders on the right side of the rig and snapped them shut. “That’ll help balance things a bit.”

Rick slipped on his jacket and buttoned it.

“Doesn’t show,” Clete said. It was the first time he’d spoken.

“You need to wear it a lot to get used to it,” Al said. “After a while, the leather will soften and conform to your body better, like breaking in a pair of shoes. In a week, you won’t feel dressed without it. The shoulder rig is fifty bucks. I’ll throw in the walnut box.”

Rick took his checkbook from an inside pocket. “I’m going to need some ammo, too.”

Al took down four boxes of ammunition. “Two of hardball, to fire at the range, and two of my own loads—hot hollowpoints. You don’t want to put too many of them through the gun, but then you’ll only fire them when it’s really important. Call it five sixty-five for the works.”

Rick wrote the check and handed it to him. “Thanks, Al. I feel safer already.”

“Before we go,” Clete interjected, “I think I’d like something, too.”

“What did you have in mind?” Al said.

“I’m sorry, Al,” Rick said, “I didn’t introduce Clete Barrow.”

“It’s a familiar face,” Al said, smiling and offering his hand.

“I want a Colt .45, new, full-sized, and I want you to do whatever you’d like to it.”

“What do you want to use it for? Range? Self-protection?”

“Combat,” Clete replied.

Al nodded. “How soon do you need it?”

“Soon.”

“Give me a few weeks.”

“If I have to. I’ll need a holster for it, too—something military-looking.”

“I’ll postpone some other work, do it as fast as I can.”

Clete gave him a card. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

They all shook hands, and Rick and Clete returned to the car.

“Combat?” Rick asked.

“I hold a commission in the Royal Marines, remember? I served four years before turning to the theater.”

“Combat?” Rick asked again.

“We’ll talk about that another time,” Clete said.

They drove on toward the studio through the bright California morning.

11

RICK DELIVERED CLETE to the soundstage at eleven sharp, costumed, made up and sober. He drove back to his office, and as he walked in, Jenny Baker, his secretary, was hanging up the phone.

“That was Eddie Harris’s assistant,” she said. “Mr. Harris would like you to call him.”

“Thanks.” Rick went into his office and called Harris.

“Good morning,” Eddie said.

“Good morning.”

“I want to thank you for getting Clete Barrow to work on time this morning.”

“You’re welcome. It’s what you asked me to do.”

“You free for lunch?”

“Sure. Where and what time?”

“Studio commissary, twelve-thirty.”

“See you there.” Rick hung up. He went to his safe, opened it, unlocked the compartment inside and took out the envelope. He sat back down at his desk and removed the photograph. He had wanted to study Stampano’s face, but he found himself drawn to all four faces.

John Kean looked fifty, gray around the temples, but in pretty good shape. He wasn’t looking into the lens—none of them were—which made Rick think they hadn’t known the camera was there. Kean’s wife was attractive, dark-haired and had very large breasts. The other girl was slim, but with pretty breasts, hair a little lighter than Mrs. Kean’s and the expression on her face could have been either ecstasy or revulsion; Rick guessed the latter, a reaction to what Stampano was doing to her.

Stampano was grinning, really putting it to her, and the expression made Rick like him even less, if that was possible. He picked up the phone and called a detective sergeant he knew who worked organized crime at the LAPD.

“Ben Morrison,” a voice said.

“Ben, it’s Rick Barron. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Rick, and I hear you’re even finer. How’s life in Hollywood?”

“Jesus, word gets around in a hurry.”

“It’s a small town, in its way.”

“I guess it is.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Ben, I wonder if you’d run a name for me, see if the guy has a sheet?”

“Sure. Who is he?”

“Goes by the name of Chick Stampano.”

Morrison laughed. “No need to run the name. Born Ciano Stampano, Palermo, Sicily, thirty-three years ago. Parents emigrated to the U.S. when he was six, settled in New York. Father was a stonemason who, for lack of any other work, became a button man and muscle for the mob. Mother ran a little restaurant. He was naturalized at eighteen, finished high school, got through two years at the City College of New York before dropping out to help his mother in the restaurant. Didn’t help his mother in the restaurant; instead, took up with his father’s buddies, but worked occasionally in the restaurant for cover. A favorite of Charlie Luciano, it seems. Charlie sent him out here when he got into some sort of trouble in New York—killed a civilian, rumor has it. He’s never been arrested, but everybody knows he works for Ben Siegel and Jack Dragna. No visible means of support, but he’s carried on the books of a liquor distributor that Dragna owns as assistant director of sales, which is a laugh. As far as anybody knows, he’s never done a day’s honest work in his life.”

“That’s pretty good, for off the top of your head, Ben.”

“I’ve had my eye on him since the day he got off the train, four years ago. I’d love to bust him.”

“Well, he pulled a knife on me twice last night, but I don’t think I could prove it.”

“No kidding? Pity you didn’t need a few hundred stitches, then you could have identified him as your assailant, and I could send him to Quentin for a while.”

“You may get another shot at him. I’m not sure he’s done.”

“He still wants to cut you?”

“I humiliated him in front of his movie-star girlfriend. I think he’d like to cut my head off.”

“You better watch your back, pal. The guy has a hair-trigger temper, and the goombahs often travel in twos and threes.”

“I’ll watch myself.”

“If he takes another swipe at you, try and dig up a witness or two, and I’ll get him out of your hair for a few years.”

“I’ll sure try, Benny. Thanks, and take care.”

“Get me a date with a movie star, will you?”

“What would your wife say?”

“Oh, yeah, forgot about her.”

“See you, Benny.” Rick hung up. Nothing he had learned about Stampano was encouraging.

RICK FOUND THE STUDIO commissary and Eddie Harris at a table for two in a quiet corner. He looked around as he walked across the room. It was a Hollywood zoo—people in all sorts of costumes: cowboys and French aristocrats, sepoys and lumberjacks. He shook Eddie’s hand and sat down.

“I already ordered for you,” Eddie said. “I don’t have much time.”

“Thanks.”

“I got a call from Eddie Mannix over at Metro this morning. You know who he is?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Mannix is at Metro what I am here. He told me what you did for Lara Taylor last night, and he wanted you to know he’s grateful to you.”

“How the hell did he find out about that?”

“A makeup lady called him, after she had to patch up Miss Taylor for work this morning. Mannix is a good guy to have owing you a favor,” Eddie said, “and a bad one to be on the wrong side of. He’s tough as nails, and he always gets what he wants.”

“Then I hope he wants Chick Stampano’s head,” Rick replied.

“I think he’d like that, but Eddie won’t do anything about Stampano. He wants to stay on the good side of Ben Siegel.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t want labor problems, and Siegel can make a couple of phone calls and give him plenty of trouble with the extras union, on which he has a grip.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t want any labor problems, either,” Harris said, “so I try to stay on Siegel’s good side, too.”

“I’m sorry if my personal problems are causing you any difficulty, Eddie.”

“They’re not. Last night’s incident is not the sort of thing Stampano would want Siegel to know about, so it’s going to stay strictly personal.”

Rick nodded.

“Not that that’s good news, Rick. Stampano is not the sort of guy who’d take this and not do something about it. Do you own a gun?”

“I bought one this morning,” Rick replied, “and I’m wearing it.”

“Good. I don’t want you found bleeding in a gutter somewhere.”

“Me, either.”

Eddie looked around to see that he was not being overheard. “If you have another encounter with Stampano, you’d better make it decisive.”

“Beg pardon?” Rick said, surprised.

“If you hurt him, he’ll keep coming back. If you should make sure that he can’t come back at you, then you’d better do it in such a way that nobody who works for Siegel can figure out it was you. And, it goes without saying, be sure you stay clear of your former colleagues.”

Rick was stunned and said nothing.

“I’m just trying to give you some practical advice,” Eddie said. He wrote a number on a paper napkin and pushed it across the table. “Memorize that and then eat it, or something,” he said. “The guy’s name is Al, and he’s the sort of fellow who makes problems go away. Tell him that Eduardo sent you, and don’t give him any money. I’ll take care of that.”

“Eduardo?”

“That’s what he calls me. I’ve known him a long time.”