Stuart Woods: Swimming To Catalina

As if by magic, a waiter appeared with a small pizza decorated with smoked salmon, capers, and onions. “Compliments of Wolfgang,” the waiter said. “May I get you a drink, Mr. Calder?”

“Stone?” Calder asked.

“I’ll have a Beefeater’s and tonic, please.”

“Bring me a very dry Tanqueray martini,” Calder said pleasantly. “A twist, no olive.”

The waiter vanished, then reappeared faster than Stone had ever seen a waiter move.

They ordered, then sipped their drinks.

“I met Louis Regenstein on the airplane,” Stone said. “A charming man.”

“That he is,” Calder agreed, “and one of the three smartest men I’ve ever dealt with.”

“Who are the other two?”

“David Sturmack and Hyman Greenbaum.”

“I’ve heard of Greenbaum, I think; an agent, isn’t he?”

“Was; he died nearly ten years ago.”

“Who is…?”

“David Sturmack? Of course, you’ve never heard of him-that would have pleased him-but along with Lou Regenstein and Lew Wasserman at MCA, he has more personal influence in this town than anyone else. You’ll meet him tomorrow night.”

Stone wondered why Calder was entertaining while his wife was missing, but before he could ask, Calder began talking again.

“Hyman Greenbaum was my first agent-in fact, my only one-and he gave me the best advice a young actor could ask for.”

“What was that?”

“He taught me the relationship between money and good work.”

“You mean, if you’re paid better, you do better work?” “No, no. When Hyman signed me, he sat me down over a good lunch and talked to me like a Jewish Dutch uncle. He said, ‘Vance, you’ve got everything going for you in this town, but there is something you have to do.’ What’s that, I asked. He said, ‘Pretty soon you’re going to begin to make some real money; what you have to do is not spend it, at least, not at first.’ He went on to explain. He said, ‘I’ve watched talented young actors come to this town for a long time, and this is what they do: they get a good part that pays pretty good money, and the first thing they do is move out of the fleabag where they’ve been living, take a nice apartment and buy a convertible. They make a couple more pictures, getting even more money, and they buy a house in the Hollywood Hills, then, after a couple more pictures, in Beverly Hills, and they buy aMercedes convertible. Then there’s a pause, and nothing good comes along. Then a script comes in that’s not good, but there’s a good co-star, and it’s being shot in the south of France, so what the hell-there’s a mortgage on the house and a loan on the car, and expenses have to be met, so they take it. The picture bombs, and after a couple like that, they’re overlooked for the best scripts. After that, it’s a TV series and some movies of the week, and once they start doing those, it’s almost impossible to get a good feature part again. Don’t behave that way.’”

“And you didn’t?”

“I certainly didn’t. I was sharing an apartment with two other actors, and I stayed right where I was. I drove a motor scooter to and from the studio, and I let Hyman invest my money. After two years of this, I was getting first-class supporting parts and learning my trade, and the money was good, too. I moved into a nicer apartment, but small and cheap, and I bought a used car. After five years I was hitting my stride, and when I brought my first house it was in Beverly Hills, and I paidcash for it, and when the bad scripts shot in nice places came along, I was able to turn them down and wait for the good stuff. I learned never to do a movie for money alone, or because it was being shot in Tahiti or some other paradise. You have no idea how many actors have made those mistakes and how much it cost them.”

“I see your point,” Stone said. “Vance, what have you heard about Arrington?”

Vance glanced to either side of him. “Is anyone listening to us?”

Stone looked around. “Everyone seems to be trying to.”

“Let’s not talk here.”

“I take it you’re entertaining tomorrow night?”

Calder lowered his voice. “I am. It’s been planned for nearly a month, and if I cancel, people will start to talk. When people start to talk, somebody tells somebody in the gutter press, and the next thing I know, I’m all over the tabloids, and I have a battalion of paparazzi camped at my front gate. It’s important that I behave as I normally do, no matter what’s happening in my personal life, and it’s important that you understand this.”

“I understand.”

“One other thing: I expect all our conversations on that subject to be conducted under the attorney-client privilege.”

“As you wish.”

“Good, now here’s our dinner; let’s enjoy it, then we’ll talk on the way home.”

Back in the Bentley, Calder finally opened up. “It’s been three days now, and I haven’t heard anything from her.”

“What precipitated this?” Stone asked.

“I don’t know. I came home from the studio, and her car was gone. It was seven in the evening, and it was unusual for her not to be waiting for me. She hadn’t given any instructions to the cook for dinner, and the houseman, who usually has a nap in the afternoon, hadn’t seen her leave the house.”

“Did she take anything with her?”

“I’m not sure. I suppose she could have taken a few clothes-I couldn’t look at her closet and say for sure. She may have taken a suitcase, but there’s a room full of luggage, and I can’t know if one or two pieces are missing.”

“Had you quarreled? Was she angry about anything?”

Calder pulled into the Bel-Air parking lot, stopped, and waved away the attendant. “No, not angry, but she was…different. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“How was she different?”

“The night before, she had told me about the baby. I was overjoyed; I’ve always wanted a child, and I thought she did, too. She…was not overjoyed.”

“What did she say?”

“It’s not so much what she said as the way she behaved. Then I did some thinking, and it occurred to me that the child…might not be mine.”

Stone said nothing.

“Stone, you and I both know that Arrington and I married after the briefest of courtships and that she was living with you up until a week or ten days before we married.”

Stone still said nothing.

“She didn’t come right out and say that the child was yours, but she was very subdued.”

“Did you ask her?”

“No, but she knew I was thinking that.”

“What about the following morning?”

“She said nothing. I had to be at the studio at seven-I’m in the middle of a picture-and she wasn’t up when I left, so we had no opportunity to talk. I went to work, and I thought about nothing else all day, and I came home prepared to tell her that I didn’t care who the biological father was, I wanted to be the father who brought up the child. But she was gone.”

“She didn’t leave a note?”

“No. Nothing.”

“And you still haven’t called the police?”

“Stone, I just can’t do that; I think I’ve already explained why not.”

“The tabloids.”

“Yes. That, and the fact that I don’t really feel that she’s in any danger.”

“What do you expect me to do, then?”

“I’ve told you about the dinner party tomorrow night.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve done something unusual; I’ve invited a reporter. The following day, there’ll be a story recounting the evening and the guest list. Your name will be mentioned.”

“And you think she might read it?”

“Almost certainly; she follows the trade papers closely.”

“And you think she might try to get in touch with me?”