Stuart Woods: Bel-Air dead

“I didn’t until he went after Centurion; then he made a point of meeting me and pitching for my shares. He’s very charming and persuasive.”

“Is he the sort of guy who might kill to get his hands on Centurion’s property?”

Charlene stopped eating. “You mean like murdering Jennifer Harris to get her shares?”

“It crossed my mind.”

Charlene shook her head. “He doesn’t strike me as the type. I mean, if he doesn’t get Centurion, he’ll just move on to another project. He’s a businessman.”

“I hope you’re right,” Stone said. “That will make him easier to deal with.”

Manolo brought Stone a phone.

Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Rick Barron. It’s been a while since you were out here; I thought you might like to take a look at Centurion this morning.”

“I’d like that, Rick,” Stone replied. “Any news on the cause of death of Jennifer Harris?”

“We’ll talk about that when I see you. Come to my office at eleven, and bring Dino; I’ll buy you both lunch.”

“See you then,” Stone replied, then hung up. “Dino, we’re invited to the studio by Rick Barron for a tour of the place and lunch. You available?”

“Do I look busy?” Dino asked.

The guard at Centurion’s main gate took Stone’s name, then placed a pass on the dashboard of his rented Mercedes and waved him through.

“How do we know where to meet Rick?” Dino asked.

“You forget, I’ve been here before,” Stone said. “His office will be in the main administrative building.” He made a turn, pulled into the parking lot, and left the car in a guest slot.

At the main reception desk they were directed to an elevator that opened into a paneled area and were met by a middle-aged woman in a smart business suit.

“Mr. Barrington? Mr. Bacchetti? I’m Grace Parsons, Mr. Barron’s executive assistant. Please follow me.”

They walked past half a dozen people working at desks and into a small sitting room, then through double doors into a large office, where Rick Barron was seated at his desk, talking on the telephone. He waved them to a seating area with comfortable chairs, finished his conversation, then joined them.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, sinking into an armchair. “I trust you slept well.”

“I did,” Dino replied. “I can’t speak for Stone.”

“Very well, thank you,” Stone said, ignoring Dino.

“I was just on the phone with a homicide detective of my acquaintance,” Rick said, “a Lieutenant Joe Rivera. Jennifer Harris’s death is being treated as a natural one, but Joe is going to see that the medical examiner takes a closer look.”

“I see we’re on the same page,” Stone said. “Do you think this Prince fellow is capable of murder to get what he wants?”

Rick shrugged. “Who knows?” He shifted positions and looked thoughtful. “I used to be a cop,” he said. “I was a homicide detective, too, until I got busted by a captain whose niece I was seeing.” He threw up his hands. “Oh, hell, whose niece I got pregnant. That’s how I got into the movie business.”

Stone frowned. “By getting a girl pregnant?”

“You might say that. It’s what got me demoted to sergeant and put back in a patrol car. It was patrol duty that got me into the movie business.”

“I’m not following,” Stone said.

“Of course not,” Rick said. “I was sitting in my patrol car one night in 1939, parked just off Sunset, trying to stay awake, when I heard the howl of the supercharger on a powerful automobile. I looked up just in time to see a Model A Ford coupe run a stop sign and start across Sunset, just in time for a Mercedes SS to plow into it and send it tumbling down the boulevard. The coupe came to rest upside down, and the Mercedes veered left into a high hedge.

“I checked the coupe first and found the female driver dead, then I ran over and checked on the Mercedes. The driver had been thrown out and into the hedge, and I thought I recognized him. Then it came to me: his name was Clete Barrow, and he was Centurion’s biggest star. He was conscious, but very drunk. He handed me a little black book and said, ‘Call Eddie Harris.’ I knew who Harris was, of course. I got him out of bed, and he told me to get Barrow out of there and to Centurion Studios before anybody else saw him.

“I got him into my car and turned the accident scene over to another sergeant who showed up and who knew the score with movie stars. I got Barrow to the studio, to his bungalow, where a doctor was waiting to examine him, and Harris showed up a few minutes later. The doctor pronounced Barrow well, except for a black eye, and he asked Eddie if he wanted a blood sample taken. Eddie said sure and told me to roll up my sleeve.”

Stone and Dino burst out laughing.

“One thing led to another, and I found myself head of security for the studio, and everything grew from there.”

“That’s a hell of a story,” Dino said.

“Nothing is stranger than real life,” Rick said.

“And then you found yourself in the navy?” Stone asked.

“I didn’t find myself there; I fled to the navy after murdering a man.”

Stone and Dino were stunned into silence.

“His name was Chick Stompano, a mobster connected to Bugsy Siegel who liked to hurt women. He made the mistake of beating up Glenna. I had already talked to a naval recruiting officer, knowing that I’d have to go, and I’d had my physical. I went to Stompano’s house, rang the bell, and when he came out I shot him in the head. I was at the door of the recruiting office when it opened that morning, and before noon I had been sworn in and was on a bus for Officer Candidate School in San Diego, thence to Pensacola, Florida, for flight training.”

“There’s nothing stranger than real life,” Dino said.

“By the time I was invalided out, in ’44, with a shot-up knee, the whole business had blown over.”

“No repercussions?” Stone asked.

“Just one. When Glenna and I got married, a huge floral arrangement was delivered with a card from Ben Siegel, which I took as an overt threat. I don’t know all the details, but I know that Eddie Harris made a call to a guy named Al, who owned a gun store and who was said to do contract killings on the side.

A day or two later, Siegel was shot dead with a Browning Automatic Rifle, and the mob got the blame, because Siegel’s girl had been stealing from them, and they held him responsible.”

“Wow,” Dino said softly.

Rick stood up. “Let’s get some lunch,” he said, leading the way out of his office and down to the parking lot, where they got into a golf cart. Rick drove them down studio streets, past the huge soundstages. People in the streets wearing odd costumes-cowboys, policemen, showgirls-made way for Rick’s cart.

“This is what Prince wants to destroy, so that he can build a hotel,” Rick said, waving an arm. “It took me and others more than half a century to build this, and if Prince wins, it will be gone in a month, and so will the movies that would have been made here.”

He parked the cart outside the Studio Commissary and led them inside. The place was packed with producers and actors, some of them in costume. Stone, Dino, and Rick were seated at Rick’s reserved corner table, and a waitress brought menus.

“I had heard of this fellow Prince,” Rick said, “but I had never met him, until he came to see me one day. He didn’t bother with the CEO, he came straight to me, and he told me he was going to buy this studio. He was brazen; he didn’t ask me if we wanted to sell, he just told me, as if it were a fait accompli. I’m afraid I didn’t react very well. I told him to get out of my office, or I’d have security throw him out.”