Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

“I think I can do it without it,” Stone replied.

“All right, here we go.”

A man stepped in front of Stone and held up a slate. “Barrington test, take one.”

The director spoke up. “Camera?”

“Rolling,” the cameraman said.

“Action.”

Stone waited for a moment, then pointed behind him to an imaginary defense table. “That young man sitting over there in his nice blue suit looks like a very nice fellow, doesn’t he?” He stopped. “Can I move back and forth along the table?”

“Cut!” the young man said. “Sure, whatever; we’ll follow you. Ready, here we go again.”

“Barrington test, take two,” the slate man said.

“Camera?”

“Rolling.”

“Action.”

Stone began again, but this time he leaned on the table and looked directly at his imaginary jury. “That young man over there in his nice blue suit with the neat haircut looks like a very nice fellow, doesn’t he? Well, if you’d seen him a month ago, his hair was in dreadlocks, and under that suit he’s covered in prison tattoos. This, ladies and gentlemen, is not his first time around the block.” Stone straightened and began pacing back and forth along the dining table. “That nice-looking young man kidnapped a fourteen-year-old girl, took her out into the woods, tortured her, raped her a few times over the course of an afternoon, and then strangled her to death. You’ve heard the evidence; it doesn’t leave any room for doubt. Your choices are simple: you can send him up to the state prison to be put to death, or you can put him back on the street. Next time, maybe it’ll beyour daughter.”

“Cut!” the director yelled. “That was good for me; good for you, Bob?”

“Good for me,” the cameraman said.

“Good for you, Mr. Barrington?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Okay, rack it up in Screening Room One for Mario and Mr. Regenstein to see. I’ll let them know.”

Everyone grabbed his gear and walked away. Stone sat down at the dining table and wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

Half an hour later, Stone sat in a tiny movie theater with Louis Regenstein, Mario Ciano, and Vance Calder.

“Roll it,” Ciano said into a phone.

Stone stared at himself on the screen. As the lines came out he slunk lower and lower into his seat; the scene seemed to go on forever, and it was very clear to him that he was no actor. Then it was over, and the lights went up. Stone sat up straight and started looking for the door.

“Jesus, that was damn good,” Ciano said, sounding surprised.

“I wish I’d looked that good in my first movie,” Calder said. Both he and the director turned and looked at Regenstein.

“Stone, you’re hired,” the studio head said.

“Be in makeup at eleven tomorrow,” Ciano said, rising. “We start shooting at one.”

Stone, stunned, stood up and shook the men’s hands. But he had been terrible, he thought. Couldn’t these people see that? He had never been so embarrassed. These people were crazy.

Stone pulled up at the gate to Vance Calder’s house and rolled down the window. An armed, uniformed security guard approached.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Your name?”

“Barrington.”

“Go right in, Mr. Barrington.” The gate slid open.

Stone drove some distance up a winding drive, and it was not until he had crested a little hill that he saw the house. It was of white stucco, in the Spanish style, with a tiled roof A valet took charge of the car, and Stone walked through the open double doors into a broad tiled hallway that ran straight through the house. A man who looked Filipino, dressed in a white jacket, approached.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so; I know all the other guests. Will you come this way, please?”

Stone followed him into a very large living room where at least a dozen couples were chatting. He had worn a tan tropical suit and a necktie, and he was glad, because everyone he saw was, for L.A., very dressed. Vance came toward him from the other end of the room, wearing a white linen suit. Stone had always wanted such a suit, but he didn’t have the nerve to wear one in New York.

“Good evening, Stone,” Calder said, grasping his hand warmly, “and welcome to the cast ofOut of Court. ”

“Is that what the picture is called?”

“That’s right; everyone is talking about your test. Come on and meet some people.”

Stone followed Vance around the room, greeting other guests. Half of them looked or sounded familiar from the papers and television-some were actors, others were producers or directors. He spotted Betty Southard at the other end of the room, talking to another woman.

“Stone,” Vance said, “I’d particularly like you to meet my good friend David Sturmack.”

“How do you do?” Stone asked. He remembered that Vance had said that Sturmack was one of the most powerful men in L.A.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Stone,” Sturmack said. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from Vance and Lou.” He was a tall man in his mid-sixties, slim, dressed in beautifully cut but conservative clothes. He turned to an elegant blonde woman next to him who was a good twenty years younger. “This is my wife, Barbara. Barbara, this is Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, hello,” she nearly gushed. “You’re Vance’s and Arrington’s friend from New York. I read about your Caribbean case in the papers. I’m so sorry about the way it turned out.”

“Thank you,” Stone replied, “I’m glad to meet you, Barbara.”

Louis Regenstein joined the group. “Everyone’s talking about your test this afternoon, Stone,” he said.

“Oh,” Stone said, uncomfortable. Why the hell was everyone talking about it? A waiter took Stone’s order for a drink, and everyone chatted amiably for a few minutes. Stone wanted very much to get Vance alone for a moment to ask him why he wanted him in his picture, but his host was busy with his guests. Someone gently took hold of Stone’s elbow and turned him a hundred and eighty degrees. He was faced with a deeply suntanned man of forty who took his hand, squeezed it, and began shaking it, slowly, as he talked.

“Stone, I’m Fred Swims of the SBC Agency. You need an agent, and I’d like very much to be the man.”

“An agent?” Stone asked, nonplussed.

“I saw your test, and I understand why everyone is so excited about it. It’s the best test, bar none, I’ve ever seen.”

“Excuse me, but I’m baffled. It’s only been what, four hours, since we did that thing.”

“Good news travels fast in this town,” Swims said. “Let me tell you a little about us: we’re made up of a group of younger agents who left CAA and ICM to form our own shop, and we’ve got a very hot list of clients. I’d like very much to make you one of them.”

“Mr. Swims…”

“Fred.”

“Fred, I’m not an actor, really I’m not. I’m a lawyer, and I don’t even live out here.”

“You will soon, Stone, trust me. Can I ask-I hope I’m not prying-what is your real name, the one you were born with?”

“The one I’m still using.”

“Are you serious? That’s amazing! I couldn’t have come up with a better one myself, and I’mvery good at bankable names. You know what Vance’s name was, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Herbert Willis.” He held up three fingers, Boy Scout-style. “I swear to God.”

“That’s fascinating,” Stone said, trying not to offend the man.

Swims stopped shaking his hand, took him by the arm, and steered him a few feet away from anyone else. “I’ve got to tell you what a test like this and a role like this can mean. We’re talking the biggest bucks here, and I’m not kidding.”