the car, and it will be faster to clear security on your return if you’re in the vehicle you left in.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Peter said. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
“No, thank you, Peter, I’ve had that tour, and I need to speak with my office about some things. I might even get some actual work done.”
After breakfast he called Joan. “Good morning from fantasy land,” he said to her.
“Is it absolutely wonderful?” she asked.
“Absolutely wonderful. Tomorrow the guests start arriving.”
“And the Immi Gotham concert?”
“That’s the day after tomorrow.”
“I would kill to be there.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be televised later. Any messages?”
“Bill Eggers and his wife will be with you tomorrow, and Herbie Fisher wants to talk to you. That’s it.”
“Okay, can you transfer me to Herbie?”
“Hang on.” There was a click, and Herbie’s secretary answered. “Mr. Fisher’s office.”
“It’s Stone.”
“Oh, yes, he wants to talk to you.”
Herbie came onto the phone. “Hey, Stone.”
“Good morning, Herb.”
“I’ve shunted some work out of the way, so Harp and I are coming out there. I’ve booked us into the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Great, Herb. I’ll check with the manager and see if there have been any cancellations.”
“Thanks, Stone. If you can do anything about the Immi Gotham concert, I’d appreciate that, too.”
“That may be one miracle I can’t work,” Stone said, “but I’ll try. What time are you due in?”
“Midafternoon tomorrow.”
“I’ll get back to you.” Stone hung up and called the hotel’s executive director, Morton Kaplan. “Good morning, Mort.”
“Good morning, Stone. I hope everything is all right with your cottage.”
“Everything is absolutely perfect. We had the president and first lady for drinks last evening, and your staff performed beautifully. I wanted to ask a favor, perhaps an impossible one.”
“Tell me what you need.”
“I have a friend and associate at Woodman amp; Weld coming out tomorrow. He’s booked into the Beverly Hills, but if you should have a cancellation here…”
“Hold on a moment and I’ll take a look,” Kaplan said.
Stone heard the sound of a computer keyboard, then Kaplan came back.
“No cancellations, but we have some smaller rooms that are normally for the use of our guests’ air crews or secretaries, and I have one of those available.”
“Wonderful! I’m sure that will be just fine. His name is Herbert Fisher, and his companion’s name is Harp O’Connor.”
“I’ll get their names to the Secret Service for checking, but I’m sure there’ll be no problem. And if we should have a cancellation, I’ll try to improve Mr. Fisher’s accommodations.”
“One other thing: any chance of concert tickets?”
“We can put a couple more chairs in your box.”
“Perfect. Thanks so much, Mort.”
“Would you like your friends met at the airport?”
“Yes, they’re arriving at midafternoon. I’ll get you the flight number.”
“That won’t be necessary. There’ll be a little stand with the hotel’s name on it-tell him to go there, and they’ll have a car for them.”
“Wonderful!” He thanked Kaplan again, then hung up and called Herbie with the news.
“Thank you, Stone,” Herbie said. “Now Harp will think I’m a god.”
36
Peter, Hattie, Ben, and Emma walked through the hotel reception building and out under the portico, where a white Porsche Cayenne with The Arrington’s logo, a gold A on the door, waited, and they got in. Peter took the front passenger seat, and there was plenty of room for the other three in the back.
“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” the driver said. “My name is Hans.”
“Good morning, Hans,” Peter replied. “Do you know the way to Centurion Studios?”
“Frieda knows the way,” Hans replied, starting the navigation system. “Turn left at the main gate,” a gentle voice said.
“Ah, Frieda,” Peter said, patting the dash. “We are in your hands.”
Frieda guided them precisely to the studio’s front gate, where the guard stuck a pass to the inside of the windshield, then waved them through.
“We’re looking for the executive building,” Peter said, pointing at a sign.
They pulled into a parking lot, where a woman holding a cell phone waved them into a guest slot, then spoke briefly on the phone. “Mr. Goldman will be down in thirty seconds,” she said.
A stretched electric vehicle pulled into the lot and stopped as Leo Goldman, the chairman and CEO of Centurion, came out of the building. “Good morning, everybody,” he said, turning the front passenger seat around so that it faced the rear. “Hop in.”
Peter got in facing Leo. “Thank you for greeting us, Leo, but is it a good use of the CEO’s time to be a tour guide?”
“Spending time with a major stockholder is always a good use of my time,” Leo said, sticking a cigar into his mouth, but not lighting it. “Forgive me, I’m giving these up, and I haven’t smoked one for months, but chomping down on it still helps.” He turned to the driver, a studio intern. “Let’s go to New York,” he said.
“Mr. Goldman,” Hattie said, “we just came from New York.”
“Not this New York,” Leo said, laughing.
Shortly, they were driving down a composite big-city street. “This is the largest, most-used standing set on the lot,” Leo said. “We can dress it as New York, which is how you see it now, Chicago, or half a dozen European cities. Amazing what the set dressers can do with a little Styrofoam molding and some streetlamps. These are only facades, of course. In a movie, when someone walks through a door we cut to a studio shot on a sound stage.”
They turned a corner and emerged from the set, then turned down a row of huge hangarlike buildings. “These are our sound stages: there are eight of them, constantly in use for films and television shows.” They pulled to a stop before a large stucco building. “And here we have our music department. Follow me.” Goldman led them through a reception area, down a hall, and through a large steel door. They emerged into an audio control room, which had a row of comfortable chairs behind the engineers’ stations. “Hattie, you come with me, the rest of you take a seat.” He waved at the row of chairs, then led Hattie through another door and into a large room with chairs for an orchestra and a giant movie screen behind them. A man was standing on the podium, leafing through a musical manuscript.
“Good morning, John,” Goldman said. “This is your guest artist for the day, Hattie Patrick. Hattie, this is John Greenfield, the studio’s musical director.”
Greenfield, a tall man with a shaved head, turned and offered Hattie his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Hattie. Leo has told me about you. Did you get the music I sent you?”
Hattie handed him a thick brown envelope. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Greenfield.”
“Well, you’ll need it,” he said, trying to hand it back.
“That’s all right, I’ve learned it.”
Greenfield paused for a moment, then tossed the envelope onto the podium next to him. “Well, we’ll keep it here, in case we need it.” Orchestra members began to file into the room and take their places. “Hattie, we’re
