“Roll it,” Ciano said into a phone.

Stone stared at himself on the screen. As the lines came out he slunk lower and lower into his seat; the scene seemed to go on forever, and it was very clear to him that he was no actor. Then it was over, and the lights went up. Stone sat up straight and started looking for the door.

“Jesus, that was damn good,” Ciano said, sounding surprised.

“I wish I’d looked that good in my first movie,” Calder said. Both he and the director turned and looked at Regenstein.

“Stone, you’re hired,” the studio head said.

“Be in makeup at eleven tomorrow,” Ciano said, rising. “We start shooting at one.”

Stone, stunned, stood up and shook the men’s hands. But he had been terrible, he thought. Couldn’t these people see that? He had never been so embarrassed. These people were crazy.

Stone pulled up at the gate to Vance Calder’s house and rolled down the window. An armed, uniformed security guard approached.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Your name?”

“Barrington.”

“Go right in, Mr. Barrington.” The gate slid open.

Stone drove some distance up a winding drive, and it was not until he had crested a little hill that he saw the house. It was of white stucco, in the Spanish style, with a tiled roof A valet took charge of the car, and Stone walked through the open double doors into a broad tiled hallway that ran straight through the house. A man who looked Filipino, dressed in a white jacket, approached.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so; I know all the other guests. Will you come this way, please?”

Stone followed him into a very large living room where at least a dozen couples were chatting. He had worn a tan tropical suit and a necktie, and he was glad, because everyone he saw was, for L.A., very dressed. Vance came toward him from the other end of the room, wearing a white linen suit. Stone had always wanted such a suit, but he didn’t have the nerve to wear one in New York.

“Good evening, Stone,” Calder said, grasping his hand warmly, “and welcome to the cast ofOut of Court. ”

“Is that what the picture is called?”

“That’s right; everyone is talking about your test. Come on and meet some people.”

Stone followed Vance around the room, greeting other guests. Half of them looked or sounded familiar from the papers and television-some were actors, others were producers or directors. He spotted Betty Southard at the other end of the room, talking to another woman.

“Stone,” Vance said, “I’d particularly like you to meet my good friend David Sturmack.”

“How do you do?” Stone asked. He remembered that Vance had said that Sturmack was one of the most powerful men in L.A.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Stone,” Sturmack said. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from Vance and Lou.” He was a tall man in his mid-sixties, slim, dressed in beautifully cut but conservative clothes. He turned to an elegant blonde woman next to him who was a good twenty years younger. “This is my wife, Barbara. Barbara, this is Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, hello,” she nearly gushed. “You’re Vance’s and Arrington’s friend from New York. I read about your Caribbean case in the papers. I’m so sorry about the way it turned out.”

“Thank you,” Stone replied, “I’m glad to meet you, Barbara.”

Louis Regenstein joined the group. “Everyone’s talking about your test this afternoon, Stone,” he said.

“Oh,” Stone said, uncomfortable. Why the hell was everyone talking about it? A waiter took Stone’s order for a drink, and everyone chatted amiably for a few minutes. Stone wanted very much to get Vance alone for a moment to ask him why he wanted him in his picture, but his host was busy with his guests. Someone gently took hold of Stone’s elbow and turned him a hundred and eighty degrees. He was faced with a deeply suntanned man of forty who took his hand, squeezed it, and began shaking it, slowly, as he talked.

“Stone, I’m Fred Swims of the SBC Agency. You need an agent, and I’d like very much to be the man.”

“An agent?” Stone asked, nonplussed.

“I saw your test, and I understand why everyone is so excited about it. It’s the best test, bar none, I’ve ever seen.”

“Excuse me, but I’m baffled. It’s only been what, four hours, since we did that thing.”

“Good news travels fast in this town,” Swims said. “Let me tell you a little about us: we’re made up of a group of younger agents who left CAA and ICM to form our own shop, and we’ve got a very hot list of clients. I’d like very much to make you one of them.”

“Mr. Swims…”

“Fred.”

“Fred, I’m not an actor, really I’m not. I’m a lawyer, and I don’t even live out here.”

“You will soon, Stone, trust me. Can I ask-I hope I’m not prying-what is your real name, the one you were born with?”

“The one I’m still using.”

“Are you serious? That’s amazing! I couldn’t have come up with a better one myself, and I’mvery good at bankable names. You know what Vance’s name was, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Herbert Willis.” He held up three fingers, Boy Scout-style. “I swear to God.”

“That’s fascinating,” Stone said, trying not to offend the man.

Swims stopped shaking his hand, took him by the arm, and steered him a few feet away from anyone else. “I’ve got to tell you what a test like this and a role like this can mean. We’re talking the biggest bucks here, and I’m not kidding.”

Stone laughed. “Lou Regenstein tells me I’m too old to be a star.”

“God forbid I should contradict Lou, but the mature leading man isin right now-look at Harrison Ford-Christ, look at Clint Eastwood! The man is in his late sixties! And you’re what, thirty-eight?”

“I’m forty-two.”

Swims leaned forward and spoke conspiratorially. “Promise me that number will never pass your lips until you’re fifty,” he said. “That number will be between you and me; you’re thirty…well, in your late…in yourearly late thirties.”

“I promise,” Stone said gravely.

Swims slipped a card into Stone’s jacket pocket. “I want you to call me tomorrow morning, early, and we’ll do lunch and talk about what the future holds for you. Believe me, it’s very bright, but I don’t want to impose on my host’s good nature by talking business in his house.” He gave a Boy Scout salute and wandered off in pursuit of a waiter.

Stone was finally able to find Betty Southard, who was still talking with the only other unaccompanied woman in the room.

“Hello,” Betty said warmly. “Stone, this is Arlene Michaels of theHollywood Reporter.”

“So you’re the newactor in town,” the woman said, shaking hands. “I’ve heard about your test.”

Stone shook his head. “I think that test is going to turn out to be a great embarrassment,” he said.

“My dear, whyever would it be embarrassing? I saw Fred Swims buttonhole you. He’s tops, you know; you couldn’t do better for an agent. Your dreams are about to come true.”

“I’m afraid my dreams don’t run in that direction,” Stone said. “I’m a lawyer, and I like to confine my acting to the courtroom.”

“Well,” Betty said, “thatis where you’ll be doing your acting. They’re working overtime tonight to build the set; the scene wasn’t scheduled for another three weeks, but I guess Lou Regenstein really wanted to get you into that part while you’re here.”

Stone was surprised. Regenstein had told him that the scene had already been scheduled for the next day. “I’m baffled by the whole experience,” Stone said.

Arlene Michaels suddenly produced a notebook. “It’s two r’s, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re a New York lawyer?”

“Right again.”

“You used to live with Arrington, didn’t you?”

“I live in my own house,” he replied. “Arrington and I are good friends.”

“Well, ‘good friends’ can meananything in this town,” she said, scribbling away. “This your first movie part?”