“I’ve got to be getting home anyway,” Rick replied. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Dino, you want to join us for a drink?”
“Sure, why not.”
Stone and Dino walked out to the car, accompanied by Rick. Stone opened the car door for him, relieved that a driver waited. “Good night, Rick.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at two, stage four,” Rick said, then was driven away.
Stone and Dino drove the mile to the Bel-Air, abandoned the car to the valet, and walked up to the bar. Ed Eagle sat at a table with Mike Freeman.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Stone said. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“We met only once, a while back, on business,” Ed replied, “but I found him at the bar tonight, so we had dinner together.”
Stone and Dino ordered brandy. “Well, Ed, it seems certain now that your ex-wife has inserted herself into the Centurion deal.” He explained what had happened with the Jennifer Harris and Jim Long shares.
“How the hell did that happen?” Ed asked.
“I can only guess: you told me that she and the woman who now calls herself Carolyn Blaine had known each other in Santa Fe. I think Carolyn must have introduced her to Terry Prince. Maybe his Latin friends are getting cold feet, and he needed a new source of money.”
“I guess that makes a kind of weird sense,” Ed replied.
“Tell me,” Stone said, “in Barbara’s tangled felonious history, is there something she could still be nailed for?”
“Well, let’s see,” Ed said. “She got off for trying to kill me; she got pardoned in Mexico; and she didn’t get charged with trying to kill me the second time, because somebody got to the hit man before the cops could. Besides his murder, there are two others that I’m sure she arranged, but again, nobody is alive to testify against her, so she is, for all practical purposes, beyond the reach of the law. I wish my clients were as lucky.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless,” Stone said. “I had it all together, and now it’s gone. Centurion is going to become a shell of a studio and will probably get snapped up by some conglomerate that knows nothing about making movies.”
“At least Arrington will come out unscathed in the deal,” Ed said.
“Yes, but the studio that produced all the films that made Vance Calder rich, then Arrington, will be gone.”
“Companies come and go,” Mike said. “It’s the American way. Used to be a successful business could endure for a century or more; now they last about as long as restaurants.”
“I’m glad Vance Calder isn’t alive to see this,” Stone said. “He did as much as anyone alive to ensure the success of Centurion. Did you know that he made more than seventy films there, not one of them for another studio?”
“I didn’t know that,” Ed said. “It’s a remarkable record.”
“He also made nearly every one of them for a minimal fee and a percentage of the gross. Every time one of his movies is shown anywhere, Vance-or rather, Arrington-gets a nice check.”
“I guess that in a few years, young Peter will be a very rich fellow,” Mike said.
“Yes, and I’m now his trustee, so it will be up to me to help him hold it together-what’s left of it.”
“Good luck dealing with all that,” Ed said. “It’s more than enough to destroy any young man with too much, too soon.”
“I’m going to try to write the trust documents-with Woodman amp; Weld’s help-in such a way that he’ll be eased into it gradually.”
“I hope, for your sake, Stone,” Ed said, “that nothing happens to Arrington for a long time. You could end up running what’s left of Centurion for Peter.”
“Perish the thought,” Stone said.
“I wish I had something to offer that would help you tomorrow,” Ed said.
“So do I,” Mike echoed.
“At this point,” Stone said, “Nobody can do anything. We’ll just have to let avarice take its course.”