“Why not?”
“It became apparent to me early on that Oney expected me to rubber-stamp any decision he made, particularly the ones concerned with his personal compensation-stock options, bonuses, et cetera. The other directors, David Sturmack among them, were obviously in his pocket. I’m on three other boards, and I take an active part; I take my responsibilities to the shareholders seriously. I was ready to quit early on, but Oney persuaded me that I owed him something, and that I shouldn’t make him look bad by resigning. I agreed to stay on for a few months more. Then he came to me and said he wanted me to be the television spokesman for the bank. I flatly refused.”
“How did he take that?”
“Not well. I explained that I had never done a television commercial and that I never would. I’ve carefully built a persona as an actor, and I didn’t want to squander that. He said that persona was the very reason he wanted me. After all, I was connected to the bank as a customer, I had done business with it, I was on its board; it made sense for me to be a public spokesman. I refused again, and I told him I was giving him thirty days’ notice, and then I would resign from the board. He had that time to put the best face on it, and I promised him I would not make my reasons public.”
“Did he put further pressure on you?”
“Not immediately. But the following week, David Sturmack came to me and said that someone was willing to pay handsomely for my Centurion stock-double what it’s worth, I reckon. I told David that I couldn’t even consider that until I’d talked to Lou Regenstein about it.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He urged me not to reveal to Lou that I’d been approached, and especially not that he was the one who’d done the approaching. There was something very hard about it, almost threatening.”
“What did you do?”
“As soon as he left my office I called Lou and told him what had transpired. Lou was very angry about it, and I promised him I wouldn’t sell the stock. I had Betty put my shares in a new safe deposit box the same day.”
“You felt that threatened?”
“It’s hard to explain, but yes.”
“Is Centurion a very profitable studio?”
“Not wildly so, but year in and year out, it does well. The studio has always operated without much debt, but the last year or two there had been a couple of expensive failures, and Lou started to borrow from Safe Harbor, with the board’s approval. I’m on the board.”
“Why were they so anxious to get the studio, if it’s not all that profitable?”
“The real estate.”
“What real estate?”
“The land the studio sits on. That was Lou’s theory, anyway. All the stockholders and everyone on the board knew that the land was as valuable as the business itself The back lot had been sold off years ago, for a few million dollars, which was stupid. It would be worth twenty times as much now. The studio sits on the biggest piece of land remaining in Los Angeles that is still held by a single owner-more than four hundred acres. If you tried to put together that much well-located, contiguous land in L.A. by assembling it from different owners, it could cost hundreds of millions of dollars, maybe as much as a billion.”
“Why doesn’t the studio sell it, move to the sticks, and build a new studio?”
“The costs of doing that, of building from scratch, would be nearly as much as would be gained by selling the land. Anyway, all the stockholders are deeply involved in the movie business; all of them-producers, directors, studio executives-know that what we have is unique and can never be re-created. They’re all wealthy people, so they don’t need a lot of money from the sale. There’s a traditional practice, but not a hard rule, that if someone wants to sell his stock, the studio will buy it back, with the price determined by a previously agreed formula. The same if someone dies-the studio will buy back the stock from the heirs. There’s no real market for small parcels of stock outside the studio family, so it worked for everyone. Whoever was behind this wanted to gain control by assembling a block of shareholders, ignoring the buy-back tradition, then buying out everyone else.”
“I see. But then the new owners would be in the same position as the old owners, wouldn’t they? They’d have a big asset that makes money and that would cost as much to move as to stay. They wouldn’t just close down the studio, raze it, and sell the land, would they?”
“Lou thinks there’s more to it. He thinks they’re using Century City as their example.”
“The big group of office buildings?”
“Yes. Century City was built on what used to be the back lot of Twentieth Century-Fox; they sold out to developers. Lou thinks the prospective owners-let’s call them Sturmack and Ippolito, since they already own a substantial minority of the shares-don’t want to sell the land; he thinks they want to do the development themselves, and with Safe Harbor and other money behind them they could do it. It would be worth billions in the end.”
“One bank could finance all that?”
“No. But there’s something else I haven’t told you.”
“Go ahead.”
“A couple of years ago, Oney sent me to a man named Barone, who runs some sort of financial services company. Barone asked me if I’d like to make a substantial investment for an absolutely amazing return, tax- free.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yes, but I didn’t see it at the time. I gave him half a million dollars, and every month a man delivered cash payment to me. I’d give the money to Barone and he would send it abroad, for a fee, where it would be invested in a company name.”
“He’d launder the money?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”
“Sounds like loan-sharking or drugs. Nothing else could bring that kind of return on an investment.”
“It was working out to about ten percent a month,” Vance said.
“Sounds like a lot. Vance, but if Barone was loan-sharking, he’d be bringing in ten percent aweek.”
“I was stupid, I know. After a few months, I put in another million dollars.”
“They were digging you in deep, then.”
“Yes, very deep. So when I told Oney I wouldn’t be his television spokesman and that I was resigning from the Safe Harbor board and moving all my accounts, Barone came to see me.”
“I can guess what’s coming next, I think.”
“Probably. I told him I was pulling out of his investment scheme, too. He told me that I couldn’t-that if I tried, I’d be in deep trouble with the IRS, that the publicity would destroy me. I got pretty angry. I-I believe the expression is cleaned Mr. Barone’s clock-and I threw him out of my office into the street. I was about to call my lawyer when I got a call from David Sturmack. He asked me to wait twenty-four hours while he tried to sort things out to everyone’s advantage. I agreed. That was around one o’clock. Late that afternoon, Arrington was kidnapped. I got the first phone call around six.”
“Let me guess,” Stone said. “In all this, Ippolito and Sturmack can’t be directly implicated; they could deny everything, and it would be your word against theirs.”
“I realized that when I got that phone call; that’s when I decided to take matters into my own hands.”
56
Stone listened to this with a sinking heart, having the strong feeling that a bad situation was about to get worse. “What did you do?” he asked Vance Calder.
“First, I talked with Lou Regenstein, and told him I planned to fight these people. He didn’t disagree with that, because he and his studio were under attack, and he was not inclined to just fold. He suggested we confide in Billy O’Hara, who is the head of security for Centurion.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Stone said.
“Billy was very sympathetic, and I was surprised, since he is a former police officer, that he didn’t insist that I
