The Prince of Beverly Hills (3 page)

“I’m beginning to wonder if we’re kinfolks,” Rick said. “So what did you find out?”

“You’re unmarried, smart, good at your job, cool under pressure, discreet, reasonably honest, for a cop. You can hold your liquor and you get your hair cut twice a month.”

Rick laughed. “What else is there to know?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” Harris said. “I’m a good judge of character, and last night I made you for a fellow of some substance. You handled a difficult situation well, you were calm, thorough, and you wouldn’t let Clete Barrow have another drink. You saved this studio one hell of a lot of money. Barrow is in the middle of the most expensive production we’ve ever filmed on this lot, and if you’d arrested him it would have been very difficult to keep him out of jail. You can’t recast the lead in the middle of a picture, you have to start over. I like it that you didn’t try to put the arm on me, either.” Harris opened a desk drawer, took out an envelope and tossed it to Rick. “That’s a week of Clete’s salary,” he said. “You deserve it more than he does.”

The envelope felt thick, and Rick slipped it into his inside pocket without looking at it. “Thank you,” he said.

A buzzer sounded, and Harris pressed an intercom button. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Harris is here,” a voice said.

“Send her in.” He turned back to Rick. “My wife. This’ll just take a minute.”

A tall, blond woman in her mid-thirties swept into the room and gave Harris a big kiss. “Hey, honey,” she said.

Rick was on his feet.

“Rick, this is my wife, Suzanne,” Harris said.

She offered her hand, and Rick took it. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said.

“So has your husband, apparently,” Rick replied. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“Eddie is naturally nosy,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive him.”

“Would it do any good?”

“No.” She laughed. “I guess not.” She turned to her husband. “I need some money, sweetie.”

Harris reached into the desk drawer and came out with a check. “Put that in your account,” he said. “I hope it’ll last you a while.”

“Probably not,” she said. “Rick, it’s very nice meeting you. I have to run, dear. See you at dinner.” She whispered something in her husband’s ear, kissed him again and left.

“She’s lovely,” Rick said.

“Thanks. She is, isn’t she? I love it that she was never an actress. She was an agent, if you can believe it.” Harris walked around the desk. “Come on, let me show you the lot, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

Rick followed along like a puppy. He was dying to find out what Harris had in mind.

4

OUTSIDE THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING, they got into a small, open electric vehicle with a fringed canvas top, and Harris drove down the nearest street.

“You ever visited a movie studio before?” Harris asked.

“Not until last night.”

“Well, the big, hangar-like buildings are soundstages, where the interior shots of movies get shot, and sometimes exteriors, too. Over there is the props warehouse, and next door is costumes and makeup. The stars all have bungalows. All the other actors get made up en masse over there. Remember where the wardrobe department is.”

“Okay.”

“Let me tell you about my problem, Rick,” Harris said. “You remember hearing about a murder-suicide in town last month?”

“Up in the Hollywood Hills somewhere?”

“That’s the one.”

“I read about it in the paper. It wasn’t in my jurisdiction.”

“Fellow named John Kean shot his wife—she was twenty years younger than he was, and the thinking is he thought she was screwing around. Then he shot himself. Kean was chief of the studio police here, and he was good at his job.”

“I see.” Now Rick began to get the point of his visit.

“I’ve already replaced Kean with his deputy, Cal Herman.”

Now Rick was back to square one. If he’d already replaced the guy, why was Harris talking to him?

“Cal’s a good cop, very competent,” Harris said, “but there were a lot of things that Kean took care of that Cal isn’t really suited for, if you get my meaning.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Rick replied.

“As our chief of police, Kean was in charge of more than just studio security. He handled a lot of the more delicate matters having to do with the press, the public’s perception of the studio, and . . . well, the sort of thing you handled last night.”

“I see,” Rick replied.

“Have I explained what I do here?”

“No, you haven’t. Your card says ‘executive vice president.’ ”

“Right. I’m the number-two man at the studio. Sol Weinman is my only boss. As such, I do a lot of things. I produce movies; I hire and fire administrative and financial personnel, as well as producers and directors; I approve the casting of every movie we shoot; the head of production reports to me, and so do the studio police. I’ve got a public relations director, but I still spend a lot of time seeing that what gets into the press about the studio is favorable.”

“Sounds like a big job,” Rick said.

“It is, and it’s getting bigger. I’m trying to delegate more work, and with that in mind I’ve decided to create a new position at the studio. Let’s call it director of security. Instead of reporting directly to me, the chief of studio police will report to this man. I wouldn’t expect the new man to spend a whole lot of time overseeing the studio cops, because Cal Herman can do that. The principal job of the new man will be to protect the studio and its people from scandal, from the press, and, if necessary, protect it from the unwarranted attention of the police—sometimes even protect it from its own employees.”

“You mean, embezzlement, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, but more than that, I mean the behavior of some employees.”

“What kind of behavior?”

“The movie business attracts kids from all over the country—all over the world, even. They arrive here with nothing more than ambition and talent, and sometimes not even talent. If they find work, then they’re making more money than they would as secretaries and gas-pump jockeys, and sometimes it goes to their heads. They get into trouble, and it can reflect badly on the studio, unless these situations are handled. Often, we can do more to straighten out difficulties than the police can, and we can do it a lot more quietly and with less harm to everybody concerned.”

“I understand,” Rick said.

Harris was now driving through the main street of an Old West town. “We’re on the back lot now. We’ve got several hundred acres with various sets and open ground where we shoot war movies and Westerns and other outdoor situations.” He made a turn, and they drove into a street of neat houses, shaded by large trees. “Here’s our American small town,” Harris said.

“This is all amazing,” Rick replied, looking around. “A lot of it looks familiar from movies I’ve seen.”

“You go to the movies much?”

“A couple of times a week, I guess. I enjoy them.”

“That’s good. Back to business: Rick, you know when you called me last night? I don’t want to get calls like that. I want you to get them. I want you to be my new director of security at the studio. What would you think about that?”

Rick took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. “That sounds very appealing.”

“The movie business is very big, and it’s getting bigger, and Centurion is getting bigger, faster than almost anybody else. There are going to be a lot of opportunities here over the next few years. There might come a time when you’d want to do something else with us. I like to promote my own people, when I can. You do a good job for me, and I’ll be appreciative. I want you to remember that.”

“I certainly will.”

Harris had headed back toward the administration building now. “Here’s my offer,” he said. “Three hundred a week to start. When you’re worth it, you’ll get more. There are the usual perks—a pension plan, et cetera. You’ll have an office, but you’ll spend a lot of time out of it. I warn you, this is a twenty-four-hour-a-day job.”

“I’m accustomed to that,” Rick said.

Harris turned a corner and pulled into a large building that Rick had thought was a soundstage. It was filled with all sorts of vehicles—sedans, convertibles, police cars, ambulances, wagons and buggies, even stage-coaches. “This is our motor pool,” Harris said.

“That’s my car,” Rick said, pointing at a Chevrolet.

“It is.” Harris waved a man over. “Hey, Hiram, how you doing?” he asked.

“Pretty good, Eddie. This the guy?”

“Rick, this is Hiram Jones. He runs the transportation department.”

Rick shook the man’s hand.

“What do you reckon his car is worth?” Harris asked the man.

“I’ll give him three hundred for it.”

“Sell the man your car, Rick. We’ll find you something else to drive.”

“Done,” Rick said, grateful to be rid of his old crate.

Harris climbed out of the cart. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Hiram.”

Jones led them down a row of parked cars, and Harris stopped in front of a cream-colored 1938 Ford convertible. “This looks like you, Rick,” he said. “What do you think?”

“I’ll defer to your judgment,” Rick said, smiling.

“Put it in the admin parking lot, Hiram,” Harris said. “Come on, Rick, let’s get back. It’s getting late.”

Rick looked farther back into the building and saw Clete Barrow’s Mercedes. It looked a total wreck to him. “What are you going to do with that?” he asked Hiram Jones.

“Repair it,” Jones replied. “It’s impossible to replace.”

They got back into the cart and drove back to the administration building.

“One thing I didn’t ask you,” Harris said.

“What’s that?”

“How do you feel about Jews?”

“Just fine. I have no problem with anybody.”

“Good, because Jews invented this business, and most of the people who run it are Jewish. They’re great people, and I don’t like it when people call them yids or tell kike jokes.”

“I understand.”

“I’ve got some poker buddies; we’re all gentiles. We call ourselves the ‘goy scouts.’ ”

Rick laughed.

“You’ll have to play poker with us sometime.”

“Thanks,” Rick said, “but I don’t play poker with people who are richer or smarter than I am.”

Harris grinned. “I think you’re going to work out just fine.” He led Rick through a door at one end of the administration building, past the reception desk and through a glass door marked “Studio Police.” Harris went to an open office door. “Cal,” he said, “come out here. I want you to meet your new boss.”

Cal Herman, in uniform, came toward Rick with his hand out. “You must be Rick Barron,” he said. “Glad to have you aboard.”

“Thanks, Cal,” Rick replied, surprised that Herman was expecting him.

“Come on, I’ll show you your office,” Harris said.

“See you later, Cal.”

“Sure thing, Rick. I’m available when you want to talk.”

Harris led Rick out of the police office and across the reception room to another door. A sign painter was lettering “Director of Security” in gilt, and below it, “R. Barron.” Harris opened the door and a secretary stood up at her desk. “Rick, this is Jenny Baker. She’ll be your secretary, if that turns out to be all right with both of you.”

“Hello, Jenny,” Rick said, shaking the girl’s hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Barron?”

“Rick, please.” She looked like the Central Casting all-American girl, he thought.

Harris led him into the adjoining office. It was a quarter the size of Harris’s, but still spacious, with a handsome desk, a leather sofa and chairs, a bathroom with a shower to one side and Centurion movie posters on the walls. There was a safe in one corner. “Will this do?” Harris asked.

“It certainly will,” Rick replied. “This is all a little overwhelming.”

Harris went to the desk and picked up a stack of cards from a silver tray. “Put these in your pocket,” he said.

Rick looked at the cards. “Richard Barron, Director of Security, Centurion Studios.” Below that were two phone numbers, one office and one home. “Very nice,” Rick said, “but this isn’t my home number.”

“We’ll talk about that tonight,” Harris said. “I want you to come to dinner at my house.”

“I’d be delighted,” Rick said.

Harris handed him a card with the address and phone number. “Seven o’clock, black tie.”

“I’m afraid I don’t own a tux, and it’s a little late to rent one,” Rick said.

“Go back to wardrobe and ask for Marge. She’s waiting to fix you up.” Harris steered Rick back to the reception area, where Celia Warren, Harris’s assistant, was waiting for them. “Celia, Rick is joining us as of this moment.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” she said. “Here’s a check for your car, Rick.” She handed him an envelope.

“I hope you’ve no problem with leaving the police department immediately,” Harris said.

“None whatsoever,” Rick replied, and he meant it. He walked out to the parking lot and saw the cream-colored convertible parked in a spot, which was reserved by a neatly lettered sign with his name on it. Harris had been very confident that he would accept the job.

He drove over to the wardrobe department. Marge was a motherly woman in her fifties, and she had a handsome tuxedo waiting for him.

“We made this for Clete Barrow,” she said, “and you’re about his size. Try it on.”

It fit as if it had been made for him. She found him a pleated shirt, a black tie, shoes and some cuff links and studs, too. “You’ll look very elegant,” Marge said as she showed him out.

ON THE WAY HOME, with his studio tuxedo on the backseat of the convertible, Rick stopped at the Beverly Hills City Hall, went into the police department squad room, borrowed a typewriter and wrote out his resignation. He took it to his captain’s office, knocked once and opened the door without being invited in.

“What do you want?” O’Connell said, glaring at him.

“To resign, Captain,” Rick replied, handing him the letter and placing his badge and Smith & Wesson revolver on the desk. “Effective immediately.”

O’Connell nearly smiled. “And good fucking riddance,” he said.

Rick closed the door behind him, walked out of the building and to his new car, seeming to float. As he tucked a copy of his resignation letter into his inside pocket, he felt the envelope that Harris had handed him earlier. He opened it, looked inside and quickly counted. Apparently, Clete Barrow made five thousand bucks a week. “My God, what a day!” he said aloud.