Swimming to Catalina Page 6

  “Certainly not.”

  “You’re going to find that a lot of stuff on the set gets done by union guys, so don’t ever move any furniture, or even a prop, unless it’s called for in a scene, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “When in doubt, ask me.”

  “Okay, Tim.”

  “Now let’s get you to wardrobe.” He led Stone to a golf cart and drove quickly to another building.

  Bobby Routon greeted him, sticking out a hand. He was short, plump, and gay. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “I think we got you togged out.” He grabbed a suit off a rack, and Stone slipped into the trousers and coat. “You were right, a perfect forty-two long.” He pinned up the trousers, and Stone tried on three more suits while a woman hemmed the trousers of the first. “All actors should be so easy to fit,” Routon said. “Okay, get into suit number one, and I’ll find you a tie.” He handed Stone a lovely ivory-colored Sea Island cotton shirt. “You’ve got a dozen of these, in case you sweat or spill something. For Christ’s sake, don’t eat lunch in any of the suits; if you spill catsup on it, we don’t have a backup, and it could cost an hour’s shooting while it’s cleaned, and an hour’s shooting is more bucks than either of us can imagine.”

  “I’ll be neat, I promise.”

  “A dream actor,” Routon sighed. Stone got into a shirt and Routon got a tie around his neck. “Let me tie it, I can do it better than you; it’s my job to make you look good.”

  Stone checked himself in a mirror while Routon folded and stuck a silk pocket square into his breast pocket.

  “Shoes,” Routon said, holding up a pair of Italian-looking captoes. He helped Stone into them and tied the laces. “Comfy?”

  “Comfy,” Stone said, walking around.

  “You’re ready to be famous,” Routon said. “All the suits will be put in your dressing room, and you’ll be told which one to wear on which day of the trial you’re shooting, but I think you’ll be in this suit all day. When you have as much as half an hour to yourself, go to your RV and take the suit off; a wardrobe lady will press it. Get used to being seen in your underwear by strange women.” He waved goodbye.

  “That was easy,” Stone said as he and Corbin left.

  “Bobby’s the best in the business,” Corbin said. “Now makeup.” He drove a couple of buildings down.

  Inside, Stone was greeted by a pretty young woman in jeans who relieved him of his jacket and sat him down in a barbers chair. “I’m Sally Dunn,” she said, “and I’m going to make you even more beautiful.”

  “What, exactly, are you going to do to me?”

  “Not much,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt collar and lining it with tissues. “Your problem is you’re the world’s whitest white man.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Can’t tell you how long it’s been since I saw a real blond, male or female. You have fairly blond skin, too, although I see you’ve picked up a little sun since you’ve been in town. You’re going to have a lot of light dumped on you on the set, and without makeup, you’d look like a corpse, especially next to Vance, who’s so tan he doesn’t need makeup. My job is to make you look like a living person under those lights.” She tilted his head back onto the headrest and went to work.

  When she had finished Stone opened his eyes and looked into the mirror. “I’m orange,” he said.

  “You won’t be under light. I’ll be on the set to touch you up between takes. Try not to get too hot and start sweating; it just makes everything hotter. I’ll have a fan for you. At the end of the day, you can come back here for cleanup, or there’s cold cream in your trailer. Use that before you shower.”

  Corbin drove Stone back to Stage Twelve, and escorted him inside.

  It was as cavernous as the first stage Stone had visited, but instead of the farmhouse, there was a warren of sets—offices, a conference room, a jury room, a bedroom, and, finally, a courtroom.

  There was a lot of action in the courtroom—technicians of every sort swarmed over the set, adjusting lights and props. Gradually, actors arrived, dressed as lawyers, cops, jurors, and spectators, then Mario Ciano made his appearance.

  “Good morning, Stone,” he said. “We’re going to shoot Scene 14A, where you question your first witness, the junkie.”

  “Right,” Stone said, finding the right page.

  “We’re not going strictly in chronological order; I don’t want you to have to shoot your opening statement to the jury first time out of the stall. We’ll get you warmed up with a rehearsal, then your little scene, then we’ll shoot Vance’s cross-examination, then we’ll get reaction shots from both of you. You’ll have to be on the set most of the day, because you can be seen in backgrounds.”

  Stone was introduced to the actor playing his second chair, then rehearsals began. Stone learned to stop on a mark and ignore the camera, then they began shooting. It was more difficult than he had imagined it would be, but he got it done.

  He had a sandwich in his RV dressing room at lunch; his suit was pressed, and Sally Dunn came and redid his makeup. “I hear it’s going well,” she said.

  After lunch, Vance Calder did his scenes, then Stone sat and did reaction shots while Vance read his lines off-camera, then Stone read while Vance reacted. By the end of the day they had finished five pages of script, about five minutes on film, which Stone was told was a good day. When shooting was done, he removed his own makeup, showered, and surrendered his new suit to wardrobe, which would press and, if necessary, clean it overnight. By the time he arrived back at the Bel-Air, he was exhausted.

  He opened the door to his room and found two little envelopes on the floor containing his day’s messages. The first was from Bill Eggers.

  “So how’s the movie star?”

  “Exhausted. You wouldn’t believe how hard actors work.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I made a few calls about Onofrio Ippolito.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “It was really weird; nobody would say anything about him, good or bad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, every time I asked somebody about Ippolito he’d say, ‘Oh, he’s a banker, I think,’ and then he’d get Alzheimer’s. And these are people who should know stuff about him, people who know stuff about everybody.”

  “So they’re protecting him?”

  “More likely, they’re scared shitless of him.”

  “Maybe I should have been nicer to him at dinner.”

  “I hope you didn’t spill anything on him.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  “It worries me, Stone. I’ve never run into anything quite like this before. Usually I can find out anything about anybody with three or four calls.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to be worried about. I sat next to him at dinner, and that’s it. There’s no reason why I should have any further contact with him.”

  “I’d keep it that way, if I were you.”

  “I’ll try; thanks for your help.” Stone said goodbye and hung up.

  He opened the second little envelope and the message froze him in his tracks.

  SORRY I MISSED YOU, it read. I’LL TRY LATER, IF I CAN. It was signed “A.”

  11

  Stone immediately called the hotel operator. “I got a message signed ‘A.,’” he said. “What time did the call come in?”

  “It should be written on the message, Mr. Barrington,” the woman replied.

  “Oh, yes; less than half an hour ago.”

  “I’m double-checking…yes, that’s right.”

  “She didn’t leave a number?”

  “No, sir, just said she’d try and call later.”

  “Do you have caller ID on your phone system?”

  “Yes, sir, but we rarely use it.”

  “Would you please make a note that on all the calls I receive to make a note of the caller ID number?”

  “All right, I’ll do that; and I’ll let the other shifts k
now.”

  “Thank you.” Stone hung up. Vance had been right; getting his name into the trade papers had produced results. If only he’d been at home when she called. He fixed himself a drink from the bar, switched on the television news, and watched it blankly, absorbing none of it. When his glass was empty, he got into the shower and stood under the very hot water, letting his muscles relax. Then, as he turned off the water, he heard the phone ringing. Grabbing a towel, he raced into the bedroom, but just as he reached for the instrument, it stopped ringing; all he heard was a dial tone. “Dammit!” he yelled at nobody in particular. He called the operator. “You just rang my suite, but I was in the shower. Who called?”

  “Yes, Mr. Barrington, it was the young lady again; she wouldn’t leave a number, but I got it on the caller ID.” She read out the number, and he wrote it down. “The name that came up on the screen was Grimaldi’s; I think it’s a restaurant. The concierge would know.”

  “Please switch me to the concierge.”

  “Concierge desk.”

  “This is Stone Barrington; do you know a restaurant in L.A. called Grimaldi’s?” He gave her the number.

  “Yes, sir; it’s on Santa Monica Boulevard, I think, though I haven’t booked a table there for anyone in a long time. It’s sort of an old-fashioned place, not exactly chic.”

  “Could you book me a table there at eight?”

  “Of course, sir; for how many?”

  “Ah, two.”

  “I’ll book it and call you back if there’s any problem.”

  “Thanks; I’ll stop by the desk on the way out and pick up the address.” He hung up, thought for a moment, then dug in his pocket for a number and dialed it.

  “Hello?”

  “Betty? It’s Stone.”

  “Hi there; I was just thinking of you.”

  “Telepathy at work. You free for dinner this evening?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Beverly Hills; why don’t I meet you at the Bel-Air?”

  “Seven forty-five?”

  “Perfect. I’ll meet you in the car park. You want me to book something for us? I can always use Vance’s name.”

  “Not necessary; I’ll see you at seven forty-five.” He hung up and started to get dressed.

  Betty climbed into the passenger seat and gave him a wet peck on the cheek. “Where are we going?”

  “A place on Santa Monica called Grimaldi’s.”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of it,” she said, “and I didn’t think there was a restaurant in L.A. I’d never heard of.” She looked at the address on the card in his hand. “That’ll be somewhere down near the beach; let’s take the freeway.”

  Stone followed her directions, and they found the restaurant, its entrance tucked in a side street off Santa Monica.

  “How’d you hear about this place?” Betty asked as they approached a glass door, which was covered with credit card stickers.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said, opening the door for her.

  They descended a staircase which emerged into a large basement dining room, half full of diners, with low ceilings and elaborate decor—textured wallpaper and heavy brocade drapes much in evidence. Stone gave his name to the headwaiter, and they were shown to a banquette table in the middle of the room, where they sat beside each other with their backs to the wall.

  “The decor is right out of the fifties,” Betty said, looking around her. “It looks like a set from an old black-and-white Warner Brothers movie.” A waiter appeared, took their drinks order, and left them a heavy velvet-bound menu. “This thing must weigh ten pounds,” she said.

  Stone opened the menu and was astonished at the range of dishes, which were from every region of Italy. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this,” he said. The waiter came with their drinks. “Give us a few minutes,” Stone told him. “It’s such a big menu.”

  “Would you like some recommendations?” the waiter asked.

  “Please.”

  “The specialty of the house is the rabbit in a cream sauce, and any of the pastas are excellent.”

  “Thanks,” Stone said. “I’ll try the rabbit.”

  “I’ll try the pasta,” Betty said, grimacing. “Which one.”

  “The bolognese is good,” the waiter replied.

  “Fine.”

  “Shall I leave you the wine list?”

  “Suggest something,” Stone said. “A big wine.”

  “Try the Masi Amerone, the ’91.”

  “Sold.”

  “Something to start?”

  “A Caesar salad,” Stone said.

  “Make it two,” Betty echoed.

  The waiter departed, leaving them with their drinks.

  “Okay, so how did you come up with this place?” Betty asked.

  “Arrington called me from here earlier this evening.”

  “But she’s still in Virginia,” Betty said. “I made her flight reservations.”

  “I’m going to have to trust your discretion.”

  “Sure.”

  “She’s not in Virginia; she disappeared nearly a week ago.”

  “What?”

  “Vance called me and asked me to come out here and find her.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “That’s right; he doesn’t know where she is.”

  “I can’t believe this could have happened and I wouldn’t know about it.”

  “He’s keeping it very quiet, because he doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  “She just ran out on him?”

  “He doesn’t know; she hasn’t been in touch with him.”

  “And she called you?”

  “Arrington must have read the piece in the trade paper; that’s why Vance invited the reporter to the party.”

  “Well, I must say, I thought there was something weird about that; it was very unlike Vance. What did Arrington say to you?”

  “I was in the shower; the hotel operator got the calling number from caller ID.”

  “Well, this is very mysterious, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is.” Stone looked around the restaurant at the other diners. “Wait a minute,” he said, half to himself.

  “What?”

  “You notice anything about the other customers?”

  Betty looked slowly around the restaurant. “I guess a lot of them look Italian. That speaks well of the restaurant, I suppose.”

  “It’s a wiseguy joint,” Stone said, keeping his voice low.

  “You mean Mafia?”

  “Not so loud. That’s exactly what I mean. It’s just like a New York wiseguy joint; just look at these people.”

  “Well, the women are a little flashy.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many Italian suits outside of Rome.”

  “Right.”

  “Does this make me a racist pig or something?”

  “No, it just makes you observant. I’ll bet half the faces in this place are in the mug books down at the LAPD.”

  “But what could Arrington possibly have to do with the Mafia?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s got to be some kind of connection.” As he spoke, Stone looked up and saw four men coming down the stairs into the dining room. “Look who’s here,” he whispered.

  She followed his gaze. “You know those guys?”

  “One of them,” Stone said. “I met him at Vance’s.”

  12

  Stone pretended to consult the wine list, covering his face. “Don’t look at him,” he said. “I don’t want him to see me.”

  “Look at who?” Betty asked. “I can’t see a thing.” She leaned back and looked behind him. “One of those backs looks familiar,” she said.

  “His name is Ippolito.”

  “I remember his name on the invitation list, but he was the only one I didn’t know.”

  “Stop craning your neck.”

 
; “It’s okay, he’s sitting at the round corner table with his back to us.”

  Stone peeked over the wine list. “Do you know any of the other three?”

  “Nope; they don’t even look familiar. A lot of beef on the hoof, though.”

  The waiter arrived with their salad, and they tucked into it.

  “This is the best Caesar I ever had,” Betty said.

  “If the goombahs can’t make a Caesar salad, who can?”

  “It isn’t an Italian dish, you know.”

  “I thought it was.”

  “Nope, it was invented by a Mexican at some famous restaurant in Acapulco, or someplace like that. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Caesar, maybe?”

  “Nobody likes a smartass, Stone.”

  Their main courses came, and Stone tasted the wine. “Absolutely perfect,” he said to the waiter.

  “Of course,” the waiter replied, pouring the wine.

  Stone tasted the rabbit. “Words fail me,” he said.

  “Me, too,” Betty said, tasting her pasta. “Why does nobody know about this place?”

  “We like it that way,” the waiter said, then he left them alone.

  “I think everybody knows about this place that they want to know about it,” Stone said.

  “God, the wine is good!”

  Stone made a note of it. “I want some for home,” he said.

  “I want the chef for home,” Betty cried, stuffing more pasta into her mouth. “I could make him very happy.”

  “Heads up,” Stone said. “One of them is coming this way.” He addressed his rabbit as the man walked past and entered a hallway at the rear of the restaurant. “He was looking right at me; do you think he recognized me?”

  “Really, Stone,” she replied, “he was looking at me.”

  “Oh. I wonder what’s in the rear hallway.”

  “The men’s room. See the sign?”

  “Oh.”

  Stone watched as the man returned to his table. “You’re right, he was looking at you.”

  “I’m accustomed to that,” she said, twirling the last of the pasta on her fork. “That is the first time in ten years I have finished a whole meal in a restaurant,” she said, swallowing. “If you bring me here again I’ll be able to audition for Roseanne’s replacement.”