Beverly Hills Dead

13

They landed at Santa Monica on Monday evening, their return flight longer than the trip out, because of the westerly winds. Everybody piled out of the airplane, and the linemen got their luggage unloaded and into the trunks of their respective cars.

On the way home, Rick felt very satisfied with their weekend. “We got a lot done,” he said to Glenna.

“You sure did, but nothing compared to Eddie.”

Rick laughed. “That was a surprise; I didn’t have a clue. I just knew he and Mac Cooper were spending a lot of time together.”

“When will you go back to start shooting?”

“A couple of weeks. Everything will be in place by then, and we’ll be trucking up equipment and crew in advance of that.”

“What do you want me to do while you’re gone?”

Rick looked at her, surprised. “Why, I want you and the girls to come with me. Didn’t you know?”

“Well, you didn’t mention it until now.”

“I’m sorry. I just assumed you’d think the same way. I think we’d enjoy the time together up there.”

“You’re going to be busy as hell, and I’m going to be spending a lot of time with Ellie Cooper, quilting or something.”

“Would you rather not go?”

“No, I want to go, but I want to be able to bail out if I get... whatever the reverse of cabin fever is.”

“Sure, you can go home any time you like.” He had a thought. “Listen, all your experience is in front of the camera; how’d you like to spend some time behind it?”

“What do you mean?”

“How would you like to be an associate producer?”

She thought about that. “You mean, order people around?”

“No, I mean we’d carve out some responsibility for you, and you’d be in charge, reporting to the producer.”

“And that would be you?”

“No, that would be Leo Goldman. He’s a bright new guy who’s seriously on the make, and I think you’ll like him.”

“And if I don’t like his decisions, can I appeal to you?”

“No. Leo would probably fire you.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” she said.

Vance Calder went back to his rooming house, cleaned out the last of his belongings and put them into the ’38 Ford convertible; he had already sold the Whizzer to the guy across the hall for sixty dollars. He gave his landlady a check, then drove to Centurion Studios, to his cottage/dressing room.

The place had a living room with a foldout sofa, dressing room, bath and kitchenette. It was snug, but it was a lot more room than he was accustomed to.

He put away the last of his things: three pairs of Levis, some work shirts, boots and underwear, and his one suit, two good shirts and one pair of good shoes. It wasn’t much of a wardrobe, but when he left New York he was so broke he couldn’t even afford a bus ticket. He took a commuter bus to a New Jersey station, then hitchhiked all the way across the country, carrying one suitcase and a backpack, along with a rolled-up sleeping bag. It took him twelve days, and he slept in barns, the backs of rolling trucks and in the woods. Along the way he gained a real appreciation of the size, diversity and wealth of this amazing country.

A short time ago he had been making two dollars an hour as an equipment operator. Now, all of a sudden, he had a place of his own, a car and a little over four thousand dollars; also an agent, a lawyer, a three-picture contract and, if he worked hard and played his cards right, a career. He sat down and wrote his parents a long letter, detailing everything that had happened to him over the past weeks and giving them the studio as a mailing address.

He unpacked half a bottle of good Scotch, poured himself a drink and got back into the Ford, taking the bottle with him. Slowly, he drove around the studio, taking it all in. He drove down the set streets: the New York brownstones, the downtown business street, the small-town set, with its village square and pond and, on the back lot, the western street. The studio police never stopped him because they knew the car.

On his way back to his cottage he noticed lights on in the motor pool, and he turned in and stopped. Hiram, who ran the place, slid out from under an elderly Rolls Royce and looked at him.

“Hey, Vance, what brings you around, car trouble?”

“No, Hiram. The car is just great. I was just driving around, looking at the place. You want a drink?” He held up the bottle.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Hiram said. He stood up, walked to his desk and found a coffee cup, watching as Vance half-filled it. “Down the hatch,” he said and took a swig. “Good stuff.”

“Black Label. I splurged.”

“How’s it going for you?”

“It’s a dream, Hiram; don’t pinch me.”

Hiram laughed.

“That’s quite an old crate,” Vance said, nodding at the Rolls.

“Yes, it is, and it’s in perfect shape, or it will be when I finish this little job. You want to see something really special?”

“Sure.”

Beckoning for Vance to follow, Hiram walked over to a rear corner of the big garage, switched on the overhead lights and pulled a sheet of canvas off a car. “What do you think of that?” he asked.

Vance stared at the sleek black roadster. “My God,” he said, “is that a Mercedes SSK?”

“You bet it is.”

“I thought they were all destroyed in the war.”

“Not this one, though Clete Barrow tried hard enough.”

“This was Clete Barrow’s car?”

“Hasn’t Rick told you the story?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

Hiram climbed into the passenger seat and motioned for Vance to sit behind the wheel. “Well,” he said when they were settled, “this goes back to ’39. Rick Barron was a cop on the Beverly Hills police force at the time, and he had just been busted from detective to patrolman. He and his captain didn’t get along.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll let Rick tell you that part, but don’t ask him right out.”

“All right.”

“Anyway, late one night, he’s sitting at the corner of Sunset and Camden in his patrol car, and Clete Barrow, driving this car, came barreling down Sunset and made scrap metal out of an old Ford driven by a woman who had run the stop sign.

“The Mercedes spins across Sunset into a hedge, throwing Clete out. Rick runs over there, recognizes Clete, finds out he isn’t hurt much, checks on the woman, who, he says, was hamburger. Then he did something really smart: Clete gave him Eddie Harris’s home number, so instead of taking Clete to a hospital, where the cops and the press would have been all over him, he calls in another car to deal with the wreck and, after taking the plates and the registration off the Mercedes, calls Eddie and takes Clete to the studio.

“They get the famous Dr. Judson over here to check out Clete, and Eddie and Rick fall into conversation. Eddie likes him, and within seventy-two hours, Rick has a new job as head of security for the studio. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“And you fixed the car?”

“We had to order the parts from Germany, and they came in on the last German merchant ship before the war started. I worked on it in my spare time for two years, until I had it back in mint condition, as you see it. It hasn’t been driven since.”

“Why not?”

“Rick inherited the car when Clete was killed in the war, and I guess he’s never had the heart to use it.”

“Seems like a waste,” Vance said.

“Yeah, well. Maybe they’ll use it in a picture, or something.”

“What do you suppose it’s worth, Hiram?”

“Christ only knows. More than anything else in this barn, that’s for sure. More than a new Cadillac.”

Vance tried to imagine himself driving it.

“Well, I gotta get back to work, get this job done and get home. The little woman is saving supper for me.”

“Thanks for the look at the SSK,” Vance said.

“Thanks for the drink.”

Vance got back into the car, drove back to his cottage and heated up a can of chili con carne for dinner.