Free The Prince of Beverly Hills by Stuart Woods Page A

Harris with the small stuff.
    “Okay, I’ll send it over there.”
    “Thanks, Hiram.”
    “That Ford needs anything, you bring it to me. Don’t take it to no grease monkey.”
    “I’ll do that.” Rick drove over to soundstage two, where Clete was at work on his Khyber Pass horse opera. The red light over the door wasn’t on, and he went inside. The set was of an Indian Army officers’ club, and it was gorgeous, with every detail taken care of. He worked his way around the floor and found Clete sitting in a canvas chair with his name on it, reading a script.
    Clete looked up. “Hello, old chap. What’s up?”
    “I got you something to drive from the motor pool. It’s a Packard, and it’ll be parked outside your cottage when you get back.”
    “Getting tired of driving me, eh?” Clete laughed. “Can’t say that I blame you. How about some steaks at my place tonight? I could ring up Marla and Carla.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “Seven o’clock?”
    “Good.”
    “Will you pick up the girls?”
    “All right.”
    “See you then.”
    Rick drove back to his office. Jenny didn’t have any messages for him, so he sat at his desk and thought about killing Chick Stampano.
    Rick had shot and wounded one man in the line of duty, when he’d happened on a liquor store robbery on the way home from work. He hadn’t enjoyed it, and he didn’t particularly want to repeat the experience, but he was damned if he was going to let Stampano or any of his hood friends kill him.
    He closed his office door, took out the little .45 and looked it over again. It was a thing of beauty. He opened a box of Al’s hot hollowpoints and loaded three magazines, then he stuck two of them into the mag pouches of his shoulder rig and slapped the other into the gun. He worked the slide, chambering a round, then he removed the magazine and loaded a replacement. Now he had seven in the gun and twelve more rounds in the magazine pouches. That ought to be enough, he thought.
    He flipped up the safety, shoved the gun into its shoulder holster and practiced popping the thumb break and drawing the weapon. It wasn’t a very quick draw, and he spent a few minutes working on it until he had it down smooth, if not fast. It was clear that he was going to have to anticipate trouble, if he was going to get the gun clear quickly enough to do some good. He put his coat back on and opened his office door.
    “Jenny, who supplies the weapons for the studio?”
    “There’s an armory,” she said, “but I’ve never been there.” She opened her studio directory and looked it up, then got out a map of the property. “It’s way over here,” she said, pointing to the back lot.
    “Can I borrow your map?”
    “Sure, keep it. I’ve got another. You have any work for me to do?”
    “Not yet. I’ll see what I can scare up. I’m going over to the armory, if you need to reach me.” He got into his car and, following the map, drove to the back lot, where he found the armory in a long, low building. He went inside and found a man working on a dismantled rifle at a workbench.
    “Can I help you?” the man asked.
    Rick handed him a card. “I’m new here.”
    “Oh, hello, Mr. Barron,” the man said. “I’ve heard about you. I’m Mike Schwartz.” He offered his hand.
    Rick shook it. “I want to do some shooting,” he said. “Where would I best do that?”
    “Right through that door,” Schwartz said. “We’ve got a fifty-yard range. You want something to shoot?”
    “I brought my own,” Rick said, “but I could use a couple of boxes of .45 hardball.”
    “Sure thing.” Schwartz went to a large steel cabinet and unlocked it, revealing boxes of ammo. He took out four boxes and handed them to Rick, along with a set of rubber earplugs. “Live it up,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything.”
    Rick went into the range and found a young man firing a Winchester ’73. He put in the earplugs, unloaded his magazines and reloaded with the