The Prince of Beverly Hills Read Free

woman onto a stretcher. He felt for the woman, but she shouldn’t have run that stop sign. His conscience, such as it was, was clear.

2

    RICK WAS WAKENED BY THE ringing telephone at nine A.M. He let it ring three times, then picked it up. “Barron,” he groaned.
    “I saw your report,” the captain’s voice said. “Is that the way it happened?”
    “That’s the way I saw it, Captain.”
    “It better be correct in all respects.”
    Rick didn’t reply to that.
    “Where is the Mercedes?”
    “I don’t know. It was gone when I got back to the scene. A Mr. Eddie Harris said he’d call you.”
    The captain hung up without another word.
    “Miserable son of a bitch,” Rick said aloud. He reached for his cigarettes before he remembered he had quit smoking some weeks before. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching. He’d had only three or four hours of sleep—he’d have had more, if the captain hadn’t called—but he felt pretty well. At twenty-nine, he could stand the strain. He showered, then fixed himself some breakfast. He retrieved the LA Times from outside his door and scanned it as he ate. There it was, on page four:

    PIANIST KILLED IN SUNSET BLVD ACCIDENT
    Somebody got it in the paper at the last minute, he figured. That way, there was no time for anybody at the paper to investigate before they went to press.
Lillian Talbot, a professional musician, was killed in a traffic accident on Sunset Boulevard early this morning. Police say Miss Talbot, who was on her way home from a party at which she had played the piano, ran a stop sign at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Camden Drive and drove into the path of an oncoming car, the resulting crash killing her instantly. The other driver was examined by a doctor and pronounced unhurt. The Beverly Hills Police Department released a statement that said, in part, “The accident was witnessed by one of our officers on patrol, and a thorough investigation indicates that Miss Talbot was at fault. A test of the other driver’s blood found no trace of alcohol, and no charges will be brought against him.
    Well, that wrapped it up neatly, Rick thought. He washed the dishes and put them away. Rick was neat by nature, and, as a result, the little apartment in West Hollywood seemed a better place than it really was. He got dressed, and in changing the contents of his pockets from the uniform to his civilian clothes, he came across Eddie Harris’s card. “Edward R. Harris, Executive Vice President,” it read. Rick picked up the phone and called the number, which turned out to be a direct line.
    “Mr. Harris’s office,” a woman’s voice said.
    “My name is Rick Barron. Mr. Harris asked me to call him this morning.”
    “Oh, yes, Mr. Barron,” she replied. “Mr. Harris would like it if you could come to see him at four o’clock this afternoon. Would that be convenient?”
    “Yes, it would.”
    “There’ll be a pass for you at the main gate. Come to the administration building. The guard will direct you.”
    “I’ll be there at four.” Rick hung up. A future for him at Centurion? It was nice to know there might be a future for him somewhere .

    RICK DRESSED IN HIS BEST SUIT, drove his Chevrolet coupe down to the Beverly Hills Hotel and went to the barbershop. He had a shave, a haircut and a manicure and, feeling fresher, had a club sandwich in the garden of the Polo Lounge. He couldn’t really afford all this anymore, in his reduced circumstances, but he felt like keeping up appearances. Word had already gotten around about his being busted, and he wanted to be seen doing the usual things. He didn’t want people feeling sorry for him. He spoke to a few people he knew, left a generous tip and went back to his car. He didn’t have anything to do until four, so he drove out to Santa Monica, to Clover Field, and parked at the tin hangar that was Barron Flying Service. He looked into the office and found only the