Swimming to Catalina

Heineken. Perhaps half the available lounges were occupied, a dozen of them by quite striking women.It’s Hollywood, he thought. He shucked off his robe, dove into the pool, swam a couple of laps, then walked back to his table. Moments later, his sandwich arrived, and he ate hungrily. Then he found a lounge and fell asleep in the afternoon sun.
    It was nearly six when he woke, feeling refreshed. Maybe he’d finally adjusted to the time difference, he thought. He went back to his suite, showered, and dressed in a tropical-weight blazer and gray slacks. After a moment’s debate with himself, he put on a knitted necktie.
    Stone was standing under the awning at the entrance to the hotel when, precisely at seven, a dark green Bentley swung in and stopped before him. The parking lot attendant ran around the car and opened the driver’s door. “Good evening, Mr. Calder,” he said.
    “Thanks, Jerry, but I’m just picking up a friend,” Vance Calder replied.
    Another attendant opened the door for Stone. He got in, and received a warm handshake from his host.
    “Ever been to Spago?” Calder asked.
    “No.”
    “Let’s go there, then.”

    “Sounds good. Have you heard anything from Arrington?”
    “No. We’ll talk about it over dinner.” Calder drove out of the parking lot and into Stone Canyon.
    Stone leaned back in his seat. He was on his way to Spago in a Bentley with a major movie star. He liked it.

4
    Vance Calder drove the Bentley smoothly down Sunset Boulevard, chatting amiably about the California weather and flying on a corporate jet, then turned left, went up a steep hill for a short distance, and turned right into a parking lot. Before the car stopped, it was surrounded by photographers.
    Calder took it well. “Good evening, fellows,” he said to them, waving and smiling.
    Stone followed along in his wake, marveling at his aplomb in the circumstances. The doors closed behind them, and the photographers were gone. Stone noticed two heavy-set young men enter after him.
    Calder was greeted effusively by the young woman at the desk, who hardly gave Stone a glance before escorting them to a corner table at the window. Along the way, Stone had an experience he had previously had only in the company of a beautiful woman: he was ignored by everyone in the restaurant; they were all looking at Vance Calder.

    They stopped at a few tables so that Vance could say hello to a few people—Billy Wilder, Tony Curtis, and Milton Berle. Stone shook their hands, marveling at the facts of Wilder’s youthful looks, Curtis’s age, and that Berle was alive at all. Finally they were settled in the corner, with Stone in the gunfighter’s seat, facing the room, and Vance with his back to the crowd.
    “I hope you don’t mind sitting there,” Calder said, shaking out his napkin. “My back will discourage unwelcome callers.”
    “Not at all,” Stone replied. “It must be difficult for you to go out in public like this.” Stone noticed that the two men who seemed together when they had followed him into the restaurant were now sitting in different places, one at the bar, the other at a small table.
    “One learns to handle it,” Calder said, gazing at the menu. “Fame is a two-edged sword; it gets one lots of things, like this table, but it exacts a price, the photographers. I reconciled the two sides of the blade long ago. By the way, don’t order a starter; that will be taken care of.”
    As if by magic, a waiter appeared with a small pizza decorated with smoked salmon, capers, and onions. “Compliments of Wolfgang,” the waiter said. “May I get you a drink, Mr. Calder?”
    “Stone?” Calder asked.
    “I’ll have a Beefeater’s and tonic, please.”
    “Bring me a very dry Tanqueray martini,” Calder said pleasantly. “A twist, no olive.”
    The waiter vanished, then reappeared faster than Stone had ever seen a waiter move.
    They ordered, then sipped their drinks.
    “I met Louis Regenstein on the airplane,” Stone said. “A charming man.”

    “That he is,” Calder agreed, “and one of the three smartest men I’ve ever dealt with.”
    “Who are the other two?”
    “David Sturmack and Hyman Greenbaum.”
    “I’ve heard of Greenbaum, I think; an agent, isn’t he?”
    “Was; he died nearly ten years ago.”
    “Who is…?”
    “David Sturmack? Of course, you’ve never heard of him—that would have pleased him—but along with Lou Regenstein and Lew Wasserman at MCA, he has more personal