7

Stone woke the following morning as the butler brought the breakfast cart into his bedroom. He woke Gala gently, and they had the breakfast. Stone began to read the New York Times, and Gala started on the L.A. papers.

“Uh-oh,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Last night’s incident made the papers, both the Times and the Hollywood Reporter.”

“Are the pieces accurate?”

“Entirely.”

“We can thank the Centurion press office for that.”

“The problem is, any factual account of last night’s events will humiliate Boris.”

“Fine with me.”

“Not that he doesn’t deserve the humiliation, it’s just that he will react badly.”

“He seems to react badly to everything,” Stone observed.

“Everything but unqualified praise,” she admitted.

“Well, I don’t see what I can do about that, except ignore him.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Do you have a suggestion for handling this?”

“That’s the problem—there’s no way to handle it. I mean, I don’t think that Centurion is going to reverse its decision, do you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then we’ll just have to sit it out and hope he doesn’t show his face around the hotel again.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“The L. A. Times piece refers to his being escorted out of the bar last week, after he insulted their film critic.”

“The head of security mentioned that. Did I tell you that I ordered him banned from the hotel grounds?”

“No, but what a good idea!”

“And Leo Goldman has banned him from Centurion, canceled his gate pass.”

The phone at bedside rang.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Barrington, there’s a lady on the phone from an entertainment television show, Hollywood Tonight, who wishes to speak with you.”

“All right, put her through.” There was a click. “Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes?”

“This is Helen Carr at Hollywood Tonight.”

“Good morning, Ms. Carr.”

“I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about last night’s incident at your home at the Arrington?”

“I’d rather not discuss it,” Stone said, “but the piece in the Times this morning was substantially accurate.”

“Mr. Tirov is saying that you pushed him into the swimming pool when he wasn’t looking. Is that correct?”

“It is not. Mr. Tirov found his way into the pool without my assistance or that of anyone else, and there were numerous witnesses.”

“May I quote you on that?”

“Please do, and now I’d like to finish my breakfast.”

“Of course. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” He hung up the phone. “Now Tirov is saying I pushed him into the pool.”

“He would say that.”

Stone pushed away his tray. “I’ve got to get into the shower. Dino and I are playing golf at the Bel-Air Country Club, and we’ve got a ten o’clock tee time. What are your plans for the day?”

“I believe I’ll stick close to home today. I’m sure Boris has found a way to blame me for last night, and I don’t want to run into him.”

“I don’t blame you a bit.”

—

Shortly before ten o’clock that morning, Stone and Dino stood, waiting for a foursome to tee off ahead of them at the Bel-Air Country Club, when they were approached by a man wearing a suit.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Martin Glock. I’m the chairman of the membership committee at the club.”

This didn’t sound good, but Stone extended his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Glock?”

“Very well, thank you. We’re aware that you’ve been playing here for a year or so as a guest of Leo Goldman at Centurion Studios.”

“That’s correct.” I’m about to be kicked out of here, he thought. I smell Boris Tirov.

“Well, the membership committee met earlier this morning and elected three new members—yourself, your son, Peter, and his business partner, Ben Bacchetti. You’ll be notified by mail, of course, but I wanted to take the opportunity to meet you and give you the news personally.”

Stone heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, Mr. Glock, I’m delighted to hear it. May I introduce my guest? This is Dino Bacchetti, New York’s police commissioner.”

The two men shook hands. “Welcome, Commissioner. We’d be delighted to have you at the club anytime.”

“Thank you, Mr. Glock.”

“Please call me Martin. I’m afraid I have other news that isn’t so good,” Glock said.

“Oh?” Now what?

“The committee also considered the application of Mr. Boris Tirov, and he was declined, not least because of what we all read in the papers this morning. That, of course, is entirely confidential.”

“Of course,” Stone said. “I hope Mr. Tirov won’t be given the impression that I had anything to do with his being declined.”

“Certainly not. In cases like this we never give a reason for declining. You gentlemen appear to be up for teeing off. I hope you have a pleasant round.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He teed his shot, took a couple of practice swings, and sliced his drive a good ten yards into the rough.

“Ah, your maiden drive as a new member,” Dino said, teeing his ball. He took a practice swing and drove his shot even with Stone’s but right down the center of the fairway.

They played the first nine and were making the turn when two large men made an appearance, apparently leaving their car in Stone Canyon Drive and coming through the high hedge.

“More members of the committee, come to congratulate you?” Dino asked.

“I doubt it,” Stone said, picking a club from his bag and leaning on it. “I expect them to have Russian accents. Are you armed?”

Dino took his driver from his bag. “I am now.”

“You Barrington?” the larger of the two asked. His accent was, indeed, Russian.

“Yes, I am, and this is my dear friend, the police commissioner.”

The man looked at Dino and blinked. “That don’t look like him.”

“I get that all the time,” Dino said.

“We got a message for you, Barrington,” the man said, unbuttoning his jacket, “from Boris Tirov.” He put his hand under his jacket.

“If that hand comes out with anything in it,” Stone said, “you’re going to get a message from the edge of a steel sand wedge, in your teeth.” He displayed the implement for emphasis.

“And a driver, too,” Dino said, waggling his club.

The man’s hand stopped, then came out empty. “Dis is de message from Boris—he gonna kick your ass.”

“Tell him,” Stone said, “that I wish him a continued lack of success in that effort. Oh, and you might tell him there’s news from the membership committee of this golf club—he has been rejected as a member.” Stone smiled. “We just heard.”

“He ain’t gonna like that message,” the man said.

“I hope not,” Stone replied. “Now get your ass back through that hedge and out of here.” He took a step toward the man, sand wedge at the ready.

The two men fumbled their way through the hedge and, a moment later, were heard to drive away.

“I think,” Dino said, “you’d better start arming yourself with something more threatening than a sand wedge.”