Doing Hard Time Read online

  “Is Billy Burnett your real name?”

  “Burnett was my birth name, but I used my stepfather’s name all the way through school and in the army. After that, after my stepfather died, I changed it back to the original. And Pete has already seen proof that I exist when he ran me through his computer.”

  “How old are you?”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  She cocked her head and looked closely at him. “Forty-eight,” she said.

  Teddy laughed. “That’s a very good guess.” Teddy was in his early sixties, but during his ten months in Asheville he had had some work done: he cured his baldness with hair transplants; he had dental veneers attached to his teeth; and he had his face and neck lifted and implants inserted that firmed up his jawline and changed the character of his face. No one who had seen him a year ago would ever recognize him.

  “You look very fit,” she said. “Do you go to a gym?”

  “No, but I exercise every day using an old book called the Royal Canadian Air Force Exercise Plans. I’ve worked my way slowly up to the upper levels, where it’s very strenuous, but it doesn’t require any weights or other equipment. I run a couple of miles once or twice a week, too—less than I used to. It’s not good for the knees.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “At military bases all over the world. I was born on one. My father was a colonel in the army, and a couple of years after he died, when I was three, my mother was remarried to one of his friends, also an army man.”

  “Did you go to college?”

  “I graduated from the United States Military Academy, which I attended because all I knew was army, and because I was entitled to admission, because my father had won the Medal of Honor in World War Two.” Teddy had chosen his alias after reading an account of the events leading to his chosen father’s medal. If Pete Genaro looked there, he would learn only what Teddy wanted him to know.

  “How long did you serve in the army?”

  “Eight years, in military intelligence, which some people say is a contradiction in terms.”

  She laughed. “What did you do after the army?”

  “I stayed in intelligence, but with another arm of the government.”

  “Now, let me guess: you won’t tell me which arm or anything about what you did.”

  “You’re partly right, I won’t—rather, can’t—tell you what arm, but I can tell you that my work was equipping other intelligence officers for their missions.”

  “What kind of equipment?”

  “Every kind you’ve ever read about in spy novels or seen at the movies.”

  “When did you stop doing that?”

  “A few years ago.”

  “So you live on a government pension?”

  “Not entirely. The technical skills I acquired in the army later helped me invent a lot of ordinary household items. A few of them made a lot of money—still make a lot of money—so I have no financial worries.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Right now, in a very nice hotel on the beach, where I’m going to take you after dinner and ravish you.”

  She laughed merrily and finished her martini. He ordered another drink for them both, then they ordered dinner.

  “Now it’s my turn,” he said. “How old are you?”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Now, so I won’t wear myself out asking a lot of questions, give me a brief autobiography.”

  “I was born in a little town in Georgia called Delano, and I went to the public schools there and later got a degree in English Lit from the University of Georgia. I married a guy I met in school—charming, but a gambler, and that got us to Las Vegas, where he went to dealer school and then got a job in a casino. He ran up a gambling debt and then got fired when he tried to run a scam against the casino with a friend of his who was a card counter. Then I divorced him and got a job at the casino and paid off his debt. They liked me and promoted me, and now I handle the VIP guests. Is that enough for you?”

  “That’s enough basics,” Teddy said. “I’ll learn the rest a little at a time.”

  Their dinner came, and they became closer as they dined. After dinner, Teddy took her back to Shutters and ravished her.

  Peter, Ben, and Leo Goldman sat in Leo’s screening room off his office and watched Tessa Tweed be put through her paces by a director who specialized in screen tests. First, she was beautifully lit and photographed from every angle in a dress, sports clothes, evening dress, and a bikini; then she performed two scenes, one dramatic, one comedic, with a young actor who was under contract to the studio. The film ended, and the lights went up. Nobody spoke at first.

  Finally, Leo said, “Ben? What did you think?”

  “I’m seeing the girl, so I’m not going to have an opinion on this occasion, and I want to note for the record that this test was not done at my behest.”

  “Duly noted,” Leo said. “Ben loves it. Peter, in case you’re shy, I’ll give you my take on this young woman: she is absolutely sensational. The camera loves her. She reads well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better test.”

  “Well,” Peter said, “it’s the best test I’ve ever seen, too, but it’s the only test I’ve ever seen. I think she’s wonderful, though, and I think she’d be great as Ashley in our current production.”

  “So do I,” Leo said. “Ben, do you have any objections?”

  “Are you kidding?” Ben replied. “Of course not.”

  “Then I’ll offer her a seven-year studio contract,” Leo said.

  “Leo,” Peter replied, “I don’t think that’s going to work. Her mother, Emma Tweed, the fashion designer, is in town. She’s Tessa’s business adviser, and she’s appalled at the idea of her daughter going straight from RADA into the movies. I think it would be better if I offered her a two-picture deal with our production company, with the second picture to be done at a mutually agreeable later date, so there’s no pressure for her to move permanently to L.A. I think her mother is less likely to faint at that prospect.”

  “Smart idea,” Leo said. “Don’t let her get away.”

  • • •

  Peter and Ben left Leo’s office and got into Peter’s cart for the short drive back to their bungalow. “You okay with this, Ben, really?”

  “I’m not going to have anything to do with it,” Ben said. “You make her the offer. I don’t even want to be in the room.”

  “I got it—you’re hands off.”

  “Right,” Ben said, “but if you don’t get her signed, I’m going to murder you.”

  • • •

  Teddy and Charmaine had breakfast on their terrace overlooking Santa Monica Beach. He marveled at how good she looked without makeup.

  “How’d you like to fly up to Carmel for lunch today?” Teddy asked her.

  “Just like that? Hop in your airplane and fly to Carmel?”

  “Fly to Monterey, actually, then drive to Carmel—it’s right next door.”

  “I’d love that,” she said. “It’s such a beautiful day for flying, isn’t it?”

  “Severe clear,” Teddy replied. “After all, it’s Southern California, where it never rains.”

  “Except when it pours buckets, and the mountains slide down to the beaches,” Charmaine said.

  “Let’s get a shower and get out of here,” Teddy said, throwing down his napkin.

  Charmaine followed him inside, shedding her robe and running past him toward the bathroom. “Me first,” she called over her shoulder.

  Teddy followed and stepped into the shower with her. “You have to learn to share,” he said.

  • • •

  Igor was working at his desk when the young man at the conference table came alive.
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  “I’ve got him!” he called. “He’s taking off from Santa Monica!”

  Igor rushed over to the table and watched the airplane move away from the airport, north. Then, suddenly, it disappeared from the screen.

  “What happened?” the young man asked.

  “He turned off his transponder as soon as he left Class B airspace, where it’s required,” Igor replied, “and I’ll give you two-to-one odds that he hasn’t filed a flight plan.” He checked, and he was right.

  “Well, at least we know he’s headed north,” the young man said.

  “No, we don’t. Anybody leaving Santa Monica is going to get vectored around by air traffic control. He could be headed back to Las Vegas or north to San Francisco or even east to Phoenix. You’ll just have to keep watching that screen. And you’d better watch closely, because Majorov gets into Vegas tomorrow, and he’s going to want to see that guy.”

  “Why does he have the hots for this Billy Burnett?”

  “It goes back to a deal to acquire The Arrington that Majorov tried to pull off last year, and failed.”

  “Burnett’s connected to that?”

  “Not exactly,” Igor replied. “Burnett’s connected to Peter Barrington, and his father, Stone Barrington, is connected to The Arrington.”

  • • •

  Peter, Hattie, Ben, Tessa, and Emma dined that evening at the newly redesigned Spago Beverly Hills. After they had ordered drinks and then their dinner, Ben excused himself and went off in search of the men’s room.

  “Tessa,” Peter said, “Ben has left the table because he doesn’t want to take part in the discussion we’re about to have.”

  “Why not?” Tessa asked.

  “Because he doesn’t want his friendship with you to play any part in your decision.”

  “What decision?”

  “Leo Goldman ran your screen test this afternoon, and we were there. You did an absolutely wonderful job, and I’d like to offer you—”

  “Hold it right there,” her mother said, throwing up a hand like a traffic cop. “Don’t you dare try to sign her to a studio contract.”

  “Mother, please . . .”

  “I’m not having it. I’ll have you bound and gagged and thrown on the first flight back to London if you even consider such a thing.”

  “Please, Mrs. Tweed,” Peter said. “Let me finish. I’d like to offer Tessa a featured role in our production that begins principal photography next week. It’s not a seven-year studio contract, not even close. What I’m offering Tessa is a two-picture deal with our production company, and the second film will be shot at some future, mutually agreeable date.”

  “How long would she have to stay in L.A.?” Emma asked.

  “Mother, kindly be quiet for a moment, will you?” Tessa pleaded. “I can’t make an informed decision until I’ve asked some questions. If Peter and I agree, then you can do the deal, all right?”

  Emma sighed deeply but said nothing.

  “How long would I have to stay in L.A.?” Tessa asked Peter.

  “Only a month or so,” Peter said. “Then you’ll be free to return to London or to stay here as long as you like. The second picture won’t be shot until next year at the earliest.”

  “She’ll be returning to London,” Emma said.

  “Mother! If you don’t be quiet, I’ll fire you and get an agent.”

  Emma threw up her hands. “All right, all right.”

  “Is this the part of Ashley?” Tessa asked. “I’ve read the script.”

  “It is,” Peter replied.

  “Then I accept, dependent on you and Mother agreeing on a deal.”

  “Mrs. Tweed,” Peter said, “I certainly want you to be happy with Tessa’s deal, but I really do think Tessa should hire an agent to represent her. This is a complicated business, and actors who are not well represented don’t get the best deals.”

  “Well, as long as I—”

  “Mother,” Tessa said, “I want you to be happy with the deal, too, but Peter is right: I’ll hire an agent, and you can express your views to him, but you cannot tell him what to do. This is leaving-the-nest time. Look at me—my wings are spread.” She flapped her long arms.

  Emma fumed a little, but agreed.

  Ben, who had been watching from behind a potted plant, returned to the table. “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Everything is all right,” Tessa said. “Peter has made me an offer, and I’ve accepted, in principle. My agent will work out the details with him. You and Mother will stay out of it.”

  Ben beamed. “I wouldn’t touch it with a fork,” he said.

  • • •

  Teddy and Charmaine lunched on the deck of a restaurant that was practically falling into the Pacific, watching the waves roll in and crash against the rocks. They took a long walk along the beach, then did some shopping in the village. Late in the afternoon, with the sun threatening to fall into the Pacific, they drove back to the Monterey airport.

  When they were approaching Los Angeles airspace, Teddy called air traffic control and requested a VFR approach to Santa Monica Airport, then he was given a vector and a transponder code. He switched on the transponder and entered the four-digit code.

  • • •

  “Igor!” the young man cried. It was nearly seven PM, and he was still watching the screen. “The airplane is back! It looks like it’s landing in Santa Monica!”

  “Okay,” Igor said. “I’m going home to pack. I’ll head to L.A. tomorrow morning.”

  Yuri Majorov’s Gulfstream landed at McCarran International in Las Vegas, and a waiting Rolls swept him to his hotel. Once in his enormous suite, he called Igor’s cell number.

  “Welcome to the United States,” Igor said upon answering. “Are you in Las Vegas?”

  “Yes. Have you found this Billy Burnett?”

  “I’ve learned where he parks his airplane,” Igor said. “At Santa Monica Airport. I’m there now. He must have hangar space, though, because his airplane is not on any ramp—I’ve checked every one. Don’t worry, though, I’ll find him.”

  “I want him in Las Vegas within forty-eight hours,” Majorov said.

  “Voluntarily or not?”

  “I’ll leave that to your judgment. Just get him here.” Majorov hung up and began to undress for the shower. As he was about to turn on the water, the phone rang and he picked up the bathroom extension. “Yes?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Majorov, this is Pete Genaro. Welcome to our inn. Is everything all right with your suite?”

  “Yes, it’s fine, thank you, Mr. Genaro.”

  “May I arrange some company for you this evening?”

  “Late this evening. I’m going to play some poker after dinner.”

  “Of course. I’ll see to it.”

  Majorov hung up and got into the shower.

  • • •

  Pete Genaro hung up in a sweat. He was accustomed to dealing with VIPs, but Majorov scared him. The man was a big stockholder in the hotel and casino and demanding in a cold, steely way. He was accustomed to having exactly what he wanted, and to deny him anything was to incur his icy wrath. He called his wrangler and arranged for the most beautiful girl in his stable to be at the poker table when Majorov tired of playing.

  • • •

  Igor had spent the entire afternoon at Santa Monica Airport. It was a small field, but still there were a lot of airplanes parked there and a lot of places for them to park. He had worked his way through the lot of them, until finally he came to the last: Cloverfield Aviation. It was small and a little seedy. He opened the door and walked in to find a lad of no more than eighteen behind the desk, reading a girlie magazine.

  “Hi, there,” Igor said.

  The boy dropped his magazine and set an airport directory on top of it. “Yessir?”

/>   “I’m looking for a friend of mine, and I think he hangars his airplane with you. His name is Billy Burnett.”

  “What kind of airplane is it?”

  “A JetPROP, like a Malibu, with a turbine engine. His tail number is N123TF.”

  “Oh, yessir, he parks here. He got in less than an hour ago.”

  “Have you got an address for him? I want to look him up while I’m in town.”

  The boy flipped through a loose-leaf notebook. “Looks like all we’ve got is a phone number,” he said. He wrote it down on a slip of paper and handed it to Igor.

  Igor looked at the number: it was the one he’d called from Mesa Grande, now disconnected. “Is this the only information you have on him?”

  “Yessir, that’s it.”

  “Do you know where he’s staying?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “Thanks very much,” Igor said, and left. He wadded up the slip of paper and threw it into a waste bin on the way out the door. The hangar door was open a couple of feet, and he walked in and looked around. The JetPROP was there, dripping water from having been washed. Igor walked around the airplane, inspecting it carefully. He stopped at an inspection panel on the right side rear of the airplane and read the placard. The emergency locator transmitter was housed there. He opened his briefcase, took out a Leatherman tool and selected the proper screwdriver blade, then unscrewed the inspection hatch and took a GPS locator from his briefcase, along with a Velcro patch, and affixed it inside the panel, but out of sight. He switched on the unit, then walked a few steps away, got out his laptop, and checked the reception. It was working fine.

  He got into his rental car and drove to his hotel on Santa Monica Beach, the one called Shutters. As he entered the front door he nearly bumped into a couple walking across the lobby toward the restaurant, a middle-aged man and a younger, blonde woman. “I’m very sorry,” he said.

  The man looked him up and down for a moment, then said, “Don’t mention it.”

  • • •

  “Can’t you stay another night?” Teddy asked as he held the restaurant door open for her. But his mind was on the man he had nearly collided with. He fit the physical description that Tom Fields had given him, and there was that trace of an accent.