Stuart Woods - Bel-Air dead

“That’s one way to begin a negotiation,” Stone said.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” Rick replied.

“Everything is a negotiation,” Stone said. “You and Prince were just staking out your opening positions.”

“I suppose you could look at it that way,” Rick said. “Maybe I’m getting too old to deal with something like this.”

“It seems to me you’re doing a pretty good job of dealing with it,” Stone said. “You haven’t folded yet, and you may not have to.”

“On the other hand…” Rick said.

“Let’s not look at the other hand, until we have to,” Stone said.

After lunch they got into Rick’s electric cart, and he took them back via a different route, to show them more standing sets.

They passed down a tree-lined, small-town street, lined with comfortable houses.

“They’re just facades,” Rick said, “nothing behind them. If we did a shot of someone walking through a front door we then cut to a shot on a soundstage of him entering the living room.”

They came to a small city square with a park in the middle and a courthouse facing it. The rest of the square was shops, a department store, and a corner drugstore with a lunch counter. Then Rick turned a corner, and they were in New York.

“Wow,” Dino said, “this gives me chills; it’s like the beats I used to walk. You’ve got street lamps, fireplugs, the works.”

“The fireplugs operate, too,” Rick said. “We have our own firehouse with two trucks.”

Soon they were back at the admin building, standing next to Stone’s rented Mercedes. “Thank you for lunch and the tour, Rick,” Stone said.

Dino thanked him, too.

“What’s your next move?” Rick asked Stone.

“I’m doing some due diligence on the investment Arrington is looking at, and I think I’d better meet Terrence Prince,” he said.

“I’d give you an introduction,” Rick said, “except that he and I are not really on speaking terms, and he might view you as my representative, instead of Arrington’s.”

“That’s all right,” Stone said, “I won’t need an introduction.”

They shook hands, and Stone and Dino got into the car.

“I know Joe Rivera at the LAPD,” Dino said. “I gave him some help on the extradition of a fugitive a couple of years ago. You want me to talk to him about Jennifer Harris?”

“Good idea,” Stone said. He got out his iPhone and Googled Prince Investments. “Wilshire Boulevard,” Stone said. “Drop me there. Then you can have the car.”

“How will you get back to Arrington’s house?” Dino asked.

“I’ll improvise,” Stone replied. He made his way to Wilshire. It was easy to find Prince’s offices, since the name was emblazoned at the top of the tall building. Stone got out, and Dino got behind the wheel. “See you later,” Stone said, and walked into the building.

A large reception desk blocked access to the elevators, and it was manned by uniformed security officers. Stone noted that they were armed.

“May I help you?” a beefy officer asked.

“Yes, I’m here to see Terrence Prince; my name is Stone Barrington.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the man asked.

“No, but Mr. Prince will see me. Let me speak to his secretary.”

The officer dialed a number, then handed the phone to Stone.

“May I help you?” the woman asked in the voice reserved for handling nut cases.

“Yes, my name is Stone Barrington; I’m an attorney from New York, and I represent Arrington Calder. I’d like to see Mr. Prince, please.”

“Does Mr. Prince know you?”

“Not yet,” Stone replied. “Please tell him what I said.”

“Please hold.” She clicked off, and a string quartet kept Stone company. She came back on. “Let me speak to the officer,” she said.

Stone handed the phone to the man, who listened, then hung up. He would either get an appointment or the bum’s rush.

“Please go to the fortieth floor,” the man said, pointing at an elevator with a guard standing in front of it. “You’ll be met.” He waved to the guard.

Stone walked to the elevator and looked for a button to push, but there were no buttons. The door closed, and the elevator rose fast enough to nearly buckle his knees. When the door opened a tall, very beautiful blonde in a black suit stood waiting in an open, carpeted area.

“Mr. Barrington? I’m Carolyn Blaine. Please follow me.”

“My pleasure,” Stone replied. The view of her from behind was very good. As they crossed the open area, lighted from both ends by floor-to-ceiling windows, Stone reflected that Prince had devoted several hundred square feet of very expensive office space to impressing his visitors.

They passed a dozen offices with glass fronts and closed doors, then a large conference room where a dozen people sat around an acre of mahogany table. Somebody was exhibiting a large chart on a huge, flat-screen monitor. Finally they came to a pair of tall doors. Ms. Blaine placed her right palm on a glass plate and tapped a code into a keypad; then, with a click, one of the doors opened. Stone was faced with a pale mahogany partition containing a large Picasso from his Blue Period. Fifty to a hundred million, he thought. Blaine led him around the partition into a large room with a large desk, large windows, and large furniture. A large man in a pale yellow linen suit stood and began walking around the desk, talking, apparently to himself.

“I have to go,” he said. “Get it done, then get back to me.” He removed a clear plastic microphone boom from his ear and tossed it onto the desk; then he held out a hand. “Mr. Barrington,” he said, “I wasn’t expecting you, though I knew, of course, that you were in town.” He was six-three or -four, of athletic build, and with a mop of blond hair that fell across his forehead. His hand was large and hard.

Stone shook it. “How do you do, Mr. Prince?”

“I do very well,” Prince replied. “Please come and have a seat,” he said, leading Stone toward a seating area, backed by a wall containing a single, very large Rothko oil, one of those that always reminded Stone of an atomic blast. “Would you like some refreshment?”

“Perhaps some iced tea,” Stone replied.

“Of course. Carolyn? I’ll have the same.”

Stone watched Ms. Blaine walk toward a wet bar in the opposite room.

“She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Prince asked.

“Quite,” Stone said.

“I think one should make a good first impression before making a first impression. What brings you to Los Angeles, Mr. Barrington?”

“Come now, Mr. Prince,” Stone said. “You know why I’m here or you wouldn’t have seen me without an appointment.”

Prince nodded. “Quite so. Maybe not even with an appointment,” he said. “How is Mrs. Calder these days?”

“Healthy,” Stone replied.

“Is she considering my offer?”

“Anyone would consider a billion-dollar offer,” Stone replied, “but she has other business interests that she must attend to as well.”

“Ah, yes,” Prince said, “Champion Farms. How is old Rex?”

Stone wondered exactly how he knew about the racing farm deal. “Never met the gentleman,” he replied.

Their ice tea arrived, and Stone had the pleasure of watching Carolyn Blaine bend over to set it on the coffee table.

Prince raised his glass in a toasting motion. “Now to business,” he said.

Stone took a sip of his iced tea. It was flavored with tropical fruit and delicious. “I’d like to know why you want to buy Centurion Studios,” he said.

“I have no interest in Centurion,” Prince replied, “only its land. From my time in Los Angeles I have observed that making a profit from the production of motion pictures is a very iffy way to invest one’s money. One can make money from the movies, of course, but a better way to do it is to let the studios and the independent producers flail about judging scripts and putting together packages of directors and stars, then, when the projects are ready to go, deciding which ones to back. I have done very well that way.”