“You’re right; I’m sorry.”

“An even dozen times,” she said. “I counted.”

“Why did you stop?”

“He stopped. It was his call.”

“Why his call?”

“Because he’s a movie star.”

“And that’s more than just a man?”

“In this town, it is. You don’t know anything about movie stars, do you?”

“No; Vance is the only one I’ve ever had a conversation with.”

“Let me tell you about movie stars.”

“Shoot.”

“There are several kinds of power in this town: the most important is the power to get a movie made. After that, there’s personal influence, wealth, beauty, sexual magnetism, and, finally, the power to tell anybody in town to go fuck himself and that person has to go fuck himself. Vance is one of the very few people in town who has every one of those powers-in spades. Not even men like Lou Regenstein and David Sturmack have every one of those.

“Movie stars are centered on themselves in a way that ordinary mortals can’t begin to grasp. Friends, wives, children-all those people come second to The Career, which means the movie star. The star can feel that way about himself without a trace of guilt or doubt, because he knows that everything depends on The Career-which friends he has, the support and protection of the wife and children. Therefore, any decision that must be made is made on that basis-‘Will this action react to my benefit? I’m not speaking of momentous decisions, I’m speaking of any decision. ‘Where shall I have dinner tonight,’ for instance, translates into, ‘Where will I be seen, be shown off to the maximum benefit for me?’”

“You’re perfectly serious?” Stone asked.

“Perfectly. And if small decisions are made this way-the relative warmth of a greeting, where to park the car, when to go to the men’s room-then you can imagine how much effort goes into a major decision, such as which movie to appear in. A movie star’s first question to himself when he’s presented with a script is, ‘How will this script advance my career?’”

“That’s not unreasonable, I suppose.”

“Of course not. Anything is reasonable that promotes the career. That’s why, when a movie star gets a script, strange things happen to it: scenes written for other actors are suddenly rewritten for the star; a single word the star likes is taken from another actor and given to him; producers and directors are hired or fired; some supporting actors get closeups, others don’t; his whole wardrobe for a film disappears into his closet. By the way, you’ve already gotten that one down pat.”

Stone laughed.

“Are you beginning to hear what I’m telling you?”

“I think so. If a movie star’s wife disappears, his first reaction is to worry about the tabloids finding out.”

“You’re a quick study, buddy.”

“And every other action he takes with regard to her disappearance is predicated on protecting himself.”

“You’ve just earned your Ph.D. in Hollywood, pal.”

15

Stone woke without a left arm. The bed was dappled by the sun, his chest was covered in long red hair, and his left arm was gone. It took him a moment to realize that Betty was lying on it. Gently, he disengaged the arm, flexing his fingers to get the blood going.

“What time is it?” she asked without moving.

Stone lifted his head and spotted a bedside clock. “Ten minutes past six.”

“Oh, God, I don’t even have time to molest you,” she moaned.

“You sure?”

She struggled out of bed, sweeping her hair out of her face. “I should be on the way to the studio in twenty minutes!” She disappeared into the bathroom, and Stone heard the shower running. He lay on his back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. He felt remarkably well, considering. This girl was awfully nice, and he liked her no-nonsense attitude about sex. He got out of bed, slipped into a pair of shorts, went down to the kitchen, and started making coffee. When she came down the stairs, dressed, he handed her a cup. “Can I make you some breakfast?”

“Ooooh,” she breathed, “every girl’s dream, and I have to go to work!” She poured her coffee into a Thermos cup. “Listen, don’t call me at any number but this one.” She scribbled it on the back of her card. “That one doesn’t ring anywhere but on my desk, and if anybody but me answers, hang up. Where are you going to be today?”

“I still have to figure that out.” He took her pen and another card. “This is my cell phone number; it’s a New York exchange, but you can still call me on it. Maybe I’ll get an L.A. number, just to make things simpler.”

“Don’t park your car in my driveway; I don’t want it noticed. Find a spot on the street; it won’t be hard.”

“Okay.”

“What do you need from me today?”

“For the moment, just assume that there’s something very wrong about Arrington’s absence, and keep an ear out for anything that might confirm that or give us any other information we can use.”

“My beeper number is on the card; if you can’t reach me in the office, use that, and I’ll get right back to you.”

“Good idea.”

She gave him a lascivious kiss and ran for the door, pausing on the front steps to toss two newspapers at him, then she was gone.

Stone toasted a muffin, had some juice and coffee, and read both theNew York Times and theL.A. Times. That ritual behind him, he went upstairs, showered and shaved, got dressed, then went into Betty’s study, sat down at her desk and began to think. Finally, he called Dino.

“Lieutenant Bacchetti.”

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Hi, buddy; are you back?”

“Nope, I’m going to be here for a while longer.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s a very long story, and you wouldn’t believe some of it.”

“Try me.”

Stone gave him a rundown on his activities since arriving in L.A.

“Very weird,” Dino said. “What was that Italian name again?”

“Ippolito?”

“Yeah, that sounds familiar. There was a guy by that name a long time ago that was with Luciano, I think.”

“Couldn’t be the same guy; maybe a relative?”

“Let me see what I can find out.”

“Okay, but before you do that, I need some local help on the ground here. You remember when we extradited the fat wiseguy from L.A. a few years back?”

“I’ll never forget the plane ride back.”

“What was the L.A. cop’s name who turned him over to us? He was something to do with an organized crime unit or something.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It was…wait a minute…ah, some white-bread name…Grant?”

“Richard Grant, that’s it.”

“Yeah, he seemed okay.”

“I’ll call him.”

“What hotel are you at? I’ll call you when I get something on Ippolito.”

“I’m at the nicest hotel you ever saw, and with the best maid service.”

“Already? You’re disgusting.”

Stone gave him the number. “If there’s no answer, don’t leave a message; call me on my pocket phone.”

“It works out there?”

“We’ll find out.”

“See you.”

Stone hung up and called LAPD headquarters. “Hello, I’m trying to reach a detective named Richard Grant; can you tell me where he’s stationed?”

“He’s here at headquarters, sir; I’ll connect you.”

The phone rang. “Detective Grant.”

“Rick? This is Stone Barrington, late of the NYPD; my partner, Dino Bacchetti, and I took a bad guy off your hands a few years ago.”

“Yeah, Stone, I remember. You said ‘late’?”

“I retired a couple of years back.”

“What’s up in the Big Apple?”

“Actually, I’m in L.A., and I wondered if you’d like to do a little moonlighting?”

“I’m afraid that sort of thing is not done these days, but you can buy me lunch.”

“Tell me where and when.”

“You remember the old Bistro Garden, on Canyon Drive?”

“Nope; I’m a stranger here.”

Grant gave him the address. “It’s called Spago in Beverly Hills now. See you there at twelve-thirty; I’ll book the table.”