Swimming to Catalina Read online

  “I’d really need to talk to Vance about this,” Stone said.

  Regenstein produced his tiny cellular telephone and dialed a number. “Betty, this is Lou; find Vance for me, will you?” He looked at Stone. “This’ll just take a moment. Hello, Vance? We’ve solved the casting on the prosecutor; how about Stone Barrington for the part? I’m sitting here with him right now, and Mario thinks he’d be great; we’d do a test this afternoon. Great! See you tonight.” He hung up. “Vance is all for it, Stone, so you’re out of excuses.”

  Ciano produced his own phone, called his assistant, and ordered preparations for the test. He hung up. “Welcome to Holywood,” he said, grinning.

  Stone stood in the dining room of the Connecticut farmhouse on Stage Ten and listened to the young man who was directing him.

  “Okay, you’ve had a few minutes with the lines,” the director said. “You okay with them?”

  “Seems almost as if I’ve said them before,” Stone said.

  “That’s the way! Now, you pretend that the dining table there is the railing in front of the jury. I want you to deliver the lines across the table as if the jury were there, but don’t look directly into the video camera, just to either side. Got it?”

  “I guess so,” Stone replied, putting his script on the table.

  “You can hang onto the script,” the young man said.

  “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 be your 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.

  7

  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 of Out 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 hour
s, 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’m very 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.”

  Stone laughed. “Lou Regenstein tells me I’m too old to be a star.”

  “God forbid I should contradict Lou, but the mature leading man is in right now—look at Harrison Ford—Christ, look at Clint Eastwood! The man is in his late sixties! And you’re what, thirty-eight?”

  “I’m forty-two.”

  Swims leaned forward and spoke conspiratorially. “Promise me that number will never pass your lips until you’re fifty,” he said. “That number will be between you and me; you’re thirty…well, in your late…in your early late thirties.”

  “I promise,” Stone said gravely.

  Swims slipped a card into Stone’s jacket pocket. “I want you to call me tomorrow morning, early, and we’ll do lunch and talk about what the future holds for you. Believe me, it’s very bright, but I don’t want to impose on my host’s good nature by talking business in his house.” He gave a Boy Scout salute and wandered off in pursuit of a waiter.

  Stone was finally able to find Betty Southard, who was still talking with the only other unaccompanied woman in the room.

  “Hello,” Betty said warmly. “Stone, this is Arlene Michaels of the Hollywood Reporter.”

  “So you’re the new actor in town,” the woman said, shaking hands. “I’ve heard about your test.”

  Stone shook his head. “I think that test is going to turn out to be a great embarrassment,” he said.

  “My dear, whyever would it be embarrassing? I saw Fred Swims buttonhole you. He’s tops, you know; you couldn’t do better for an agent. Your dreams are about to come true.”

  “I’m afraid my dreams don’t run in that direction,” Stone said. “I’m a lawyer, and I like to confine my acting to the courtroom.”

  “Well,” Betty said, “that is where you’ll be doing your acting. They’re working overtime tonight to build the set; the scene wasn’t scheduled for another three weeks, but I guess Lou Regenstein really wanted to get you into that part while you’re here.”

  Stone was surprised. Regenstein had told him that the scene had already been scheduled for the next day. “I’m baffled by the whole experience,” Stone said.

  Arlene Michaels suddenly produced a notebook. “It’s two r’s, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re a New York lawyer?”

  “Right again.”

  “You used to live with Arrington, didn’t you?”

  “I live in my own house,” he replied. “Arrington and I are good friends.”

  “Well, ‘good friends’ can mean anything in this town,” she said, scribbling away. “This your first movie part?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “I think I’d remember if I’d been in a movie.”

  “Tell me, how does Vance feel about having Arrington’s old beau in town?”

  “You should ask Vance; I’m here at his invitation.”

  “A little male bonding while the wife is out of town, huh?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Stone said.

  “Really, Arlene,” Betty broke in. “You’re grilling Stone.”

  “It’s what I do, honey,” Michaels said. “What are your first impressions of L.A., Stone?”

  “I’m very favorably impressed,” Stone said, looking around the room.

  “Well, it’s not all like this,” she said. “My first time in this house, I can tell you. Vance isn’t known for inviting the press into his home.”

  Betty spoke up. “Arlene, you know Vance is a very private person.”

  “Shy, you could say.”

  “You could say. I’d think you’d be pleased to be the first reporter in this house for years.”

  “Well, there was the Architectural Digest piece last year, wasn’t there?”

  “It’s hardly the same thing.”

  Stone took Betty’s arm and guided her away. “Arlene, would you excuse us for just a moment? There’s something I have to discuss with Betty.”

  “Sure,” Michaels replied.

  Stone made sure his back was to the woman. “I understand that L.A. parties end early.”

  “Always,” Betty said. “It’s an early town; everybody is at work at the crack of dawn.”

  “Do you think you and I could have a drink somewhere later?”

  “All right, but I have to be at work early, too. Let’s meet at the bar in the Bel-Air Hotel,” she said.

  “Fine.”

  “Now, we’d better rejoin Arlene; we don’t want her to go away miffed.”

  They turned back to the woman and found her gone. She’d cornered Vance, and he was saved only by the tinkling of a silver bell.

  “Dinner is served,” the Filipino butler called out.

  The crowd, which had grown since Stone had arrived, moved out of the rear doors to a wide terrace, where tables of eight had been set. Stone looked at the place cards and found his seat, between Barbara Sturmack and a man who appeared, like Stone, to be alone. He helped Mrs. Sturmack with her chair, then turned to meet the man next to him.

  “I’m Onofrio Ippolito,” the man said. He was shorter than Stone, heavily built without being fat, with thick, short salt-and-pepper hair.

  “I’m Stone Barrington.” They shook hands.

  “What brings you out here, Mr. Barrington?” the man asked.

  “Just visiting friends,” Stone replied.

  “That’s not what I heard,” Ippolito said.

  Stone was about to ask what he’d heard when Barbara Stunnack tugged at his sleeve and began introducing him to others seated at the table. Stone never did resume his conversation with Ippolito.

  When dinner was finished, they rose to go into the house for coffee, and Stone found David Sturmack walking alongside him. “Could I have a word with you alone?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Stone replied and allowed himself to be steered into what he thought must be Vance’s study, a medium-sized room paneled in antique pine, with many fine pictures on the walls. When they were comfortably seated, Sturmack began.

  “Stone, I do a great deal of business on the West Coast and some business in New York. I’m considering changing my legal representation in the city, and I wondered if you might be interested in representing me?”

  “That’s very flattering, Mr. Sturmack—”

  “David, please.”

  “David. What sort of business do you do in New York?”

  “Some real estate; I have interests in a couple of restaurants, and I may want to develop more with some friends; I invest in businesses; I buy, I sell; occasionally I litigate something. I’m a lawyer myself by training, but I haven’t practiced in years.”

  “I should tell you that I don’t have any extensive experience in real estat
e and none at all in restaurants.”

  “I’m aware of that; I spoke at some length with a Mr. William Eggers at Woodman and Weld this afternoon. He says that since you’re of counsel to his firm, they’d be willing to lend backup support and expertise in various specialties as needed.”

  Stone was off balance; he hadn’t expected this. “Who represents you at the moment?”

  “My principal attorneys are Hyde, Tyson, McElhenny and Wade, but I’ve been contemplating a move for some time.”

  “What sort of billing have they experienced with you?”

  “In excess of a million dollars a year. Of course, you’d have to take care of Woodman and Weld, but all the billing would be through you, and I imagine you’d be able to hang on to most of the fees. Also, there would be opportunities to invest some of your fees in various ventures, at an extremely good rate of return.”

  “Mr. Sturmack, may I be frank?”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “You and I have met only this evening; you know little about me or my skills; why do you want me to represent you?”

  “Stone, I know a great deal more about you than you think: I know about your record with the NYPD, I know about the major cases you’ve handled, and I know about how you handle yourself”

  “You must understand that Woodman and Weld make some demands on my time, and it’s an association I value; I couldn’t undertake to represent you as my only client.”

  “Of course I understand that, Stone. I’m not making this offer off the top of my head.”

  “You don’t seem the sort of man who would do that,” Stone said.

  “You’re right. Understand, a great deal of what I want from a lawyer is his personal skills—the way he handles himself in a situation. I like to avoid litigation when possible, but I like to get my way, too.”

  Stone smiled. “All clients do. David, I really don’t think I can give you an answer immediately. Of course, your proposal is extremely attractive, but I think I’d have to talk with Bill Eggers about it, preferably in person, and I expect to be here for another week, maybe longer.”