Bel-Air dead

55

Stone turned and looked at Arrington. She was still staring at where the screen had been, and tears were running down her cheeks. He gave her his linen handkerchief.

“That was wonderful!” she said, trying not to sob.

“And showing it was brilliant,” Stone replied.

Rick began calling names of shareholders: “Gladys Hemmings, Wardrobe,” he said. “Fifty shares.”

“I vote with Centurion!” a woman shouted from the rear, and applause broke out again.

“Harry Bland, Maintenance, sixty-five shares.”

“You’ve got my vote, Rick,” a man shouted.

“Martin Manulis, Production, twenty thousand shares.”

A man in the front row stood. “I vote with Centurion!” he shouted.

The roll call continued, and fifteen or twenty names had been called before someone voted his ten thousand shares with Prince. A low rumble of disapproval began.

Stone had his notebook out and was keeping score. The studio was ahead about sixty-forty, he reckoned, then someone voted twenty-five thousand shares with Prince, and the developer edged ahead.

“We know where this is going, don’t we?” Arrington asked.

“Not yet we don’t,” Stone replied, busy with his pen. He looked around for a moment at the faces near him. They were tense, worried, and some had tears on their cheeks. Not a one seemed uncaring. He continued to tot up the totals.

“Where are we?” Arrington asked.

“Behind,” Stone said. And then something happened that stunned him.

“The estate of Jennifer Harris,” Rick called out. “I’m sorry, those shares have changed hands.” He looked carefully at the page before him. “Strategic Services, twenty thousand shares.”

Mike Freeman stood up. “Strategic Services votes with the studio!” he shouted, then sat down. He turned toward Stone, whose mouth was open. “It seemed like a good investment,” he said.

Arrington threw her arms around him.

“And that makes it worth every penny,” Mike said.

Rick made a note and continued. “James Long, Production, twenty thousand shares.”

Jim Long struggled to his feet from his wheelchair, assisted by Eleanor Grosvenor. “Every share voted with Centurion!” he said, raising his voice as much as he could, then he collapsed into the wheelchair.

But Mrs. Charles Grosvenor was still on her feet. She turned and shouted at Terry Prince, just across the aisle, “Take that, you son of a bitch!” then sat down.

The other shareholders laughed and applauded.

Rick continued to call the roll, and Stone continued to track the count. “Jack Schmeltzer, Production, twenty thousand shares.”

Schmeltzer stood up. “I vote with the studio,” he said quietly.

“That concludes the voting,” Rick said. “We’ll have a final count in a few minutes.” Several board members gathered around him, comparing notes. A couple of them had calculators.

“Tell me, Stone,” Arrington said.

“I must have it wrong,” Stone replied. “Let’s let Rick tell us.”

“You know,” she said, “I don’t think I understood how much this would mean to me until this moment.”

“I understand how you feel,” Stone replied.

Finally, Rick Barron got to his feet and plucked the microphone off its stand. “Quiet please,” he said. “We have a final count.”

The crowd became hushed.

“Centurion Studios has received seventy-two percent of the shares voted. The motion to sell our land is defeated.”

Pandemonium reigned. People embraced or shook hands, and music was rising. Somewhere in the ether, a brass band was playing “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

Dino grabbed Stone’s elbow. “I told you it was going to be a good day,” he shouted. “My bones are never wrong, and it’s not over yet.” He walked away from the crowd, pulling out his cell phone.

It seemed that every person in the crowd wanted to hug Arrington or shake her hand. She stood, tears still streaming down her face, and received every one.

Finally, Rick Barron, still shaking hands and kissing women, made his way through the crowd to her side with Glenna in tow. The three of them embraced wordlessly.

Then a studio policeman made his way to Rick. “Something’s wrong outside in the street,” he said. “I can’t make any sense of it on the radio. There’s too much noise from out there.”

Most of the crowd was out of the soundstage by now. Stone fell in step beside Rick. “That film was brilliant; where did it come from?”

“We shot the footage for the stockholders’ meeting the year Vance died,” he said, “but in the hubbub that followed, it just got shunted aside. I found the stock last Friday and edited it, put the opticals in, and got it scored over the weekend.”

“I think it turned the tide,” Stone said.

“I know it did. I watched Jack Schmeltzer’s face at the end, and I knew he was going to vote with us.”

“Did you know about Strategic Services buying Jennifer Harris’s stock?”

“Not until this morning, and the name didn’t mean anything to me until Glenna explained who they were.”

“Then it’s time you met your new shareholder,” Stone said, and introduced him to Mike Freeman.

They continued out of the building, and as soon as they were on the street Stone saw what was going on. A big to-do was raging a few yards away. Terrence Prince’s Bentley Mulsanne was on fire, and he could hear the studio fire engine’s siren approaching.

Stone looked around and saw Jack Schmeltzer standing across the street, a broad smile on his face.

Then Stone was surprised again. He saw Sergeant Rivera of the LAPD and two uniformed officers approach Prince, say a few words to him, then handcuff him and lead him away, him protesting the whole time.

Stone turned to Dino. “What was that?”

Dino smiled. “Rivera and I brought Carter back from Mexico yesterday. In return for immunity, he’s agreed to testify against Prince for the attempted murder of Jim Long.” He laughed. “Is this a good day, or what?”

Stone began laughing. “It’s a very, very good day, Dino,” he said.

“I told you about my bones,” Dino said.

“And I’ll never doubt your bones again,” Stone said.