The Prince of Beverly Hills Read Online Free PDF Page A

boss.”
    Cal Herman, in uniform, came toward Rick with his hand out. “You must be Rick Barron,” he said. “Glad to have you aboard.”
    “Thanks, Cal,” Rick replied, surprised that Herman was expecting him.
    “Come on, I’ll show you your office,” Harris said.
    “See you later, Cal.”
    “Sure thing, Rick. I’m available when you want to talk.”
    Harris led Rick out of the police office and across the reception room to another door. A sign painter was lettering “Director of Security” in gilt, and below it, “R. Barron.” Harris opened the door and a secretary stood up at her desk. “Rick, this is Jenny Baker. She’ll be your secretary, if that turns out to be all right with both of you.”
    “Hello, Jenny,” Rick said, shaking the girl’s hand.
    “How do you do, Mr. Barron?”
    “Rick, please.” She looked like the Central Casting all-American girl, he thought.
    Harris led him into the adjoining office. It was a quarter the size of Harris’s, but still spacious, with a handsome desk, a leather sofa and chairs, a bathroom with a shower to one side and Centurion movie posters on the walls. There was a safe in one corner. “Will this do?” Harris asked.
    “It certainly will,” Rick replied. “This is all a little overwhelming.”
    Harris went to the desk and picked up a stack of cards from a silver tray. “Put these in your pocket,” he said.
    Rick looked at the cards. “Richard Barron, Director of Security, Centurion Studios.” Below that were two phone numbers, one office and one home. “Very nice,” Rick said, “but this isn’t my home number.”
    “We’ll talk about that tonight,” Harris said. “I want you to come to dinner at my house.”
    “I’d be delighted,” Rick said.
    Harris handed him a card with the address and phone number. “Seven o’clock, black tie.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t own a tux, and it’s a little late to rent one,” Rick said.
    “Go back to wardrobe and ask for Marge. She’s waiting to fix you up.” Harris steered Rick back to the reception area, where Celia Warren, Harris’s assistant, was waiting for them. “Celia, Rick is joining us as of this moment.”
    “I’m delighted to hear it,” she said. “Here’s a check for your car, Rick.” She handed him an envelope.
    “I hope you’ve no problem with leaving the police department immediately,” Harris said.
    “None whatsoever,” Rick replied, and he meant it. He walked out to the parking lot and saw the cream-colored convertible parked in a spot, which was reserved by a neatly lettered sign with his name on it. Harris had been very confident that he would accept the job.
    He drove over to the wardrobe department. Marge was a motherly woman in her fifties, and she had a handsome tuxedo waiting for him.
    “We made this for Clete Barrow,” she said, “and you’re about his size. Try it on.”
    It fit as if it had been made for him. She found him a pleated shirt, a black tie, shoes and some cuff links and studs, too. “You’ll look very elegant,” Marge said as she showed him out.

    ON THE WAY HOME, with his studio tuxedo on the backseat of the convertible, Rick stopped at the Beverly Hills City Hall, went into the police department squad room, borrowed a typewriter and wrote out his resignation. He took it to his captain’s office, knocked once and opened the door without being invited in.
    “What do you want?” O’Connell said, glaring at him.
    “To resign, Captain,” Rick replied, handing him the letter and placing his badge and Smith & Wesson revolver on the desk. “Effective immediately.”
    O’Connell nearly smiled. “And good fucking riddance,” he said.
    Rick closed the door behind him, walked out of the building and to his new car, seeming to float. As he tucked a copy of his resignation letter into his inside pocket, he felt the envelope that Harris had handed him earlier. He opened it, looked inside and quickly counted. Apparently, Clete Barrow made five