My Gun Has Bullets (18 page)

"I had to compare my bullet with one from Darren Clarke," Charlie said, suddenly feeling on the defensive and angry about it. Why should he have to defend himself? He was bringing a murderer to justice and letting his brother-in-law take all the glory.

"And, as long as you were there, you went on a robbery call," Lou said. "That makes you
a felonious
crazy lying fuck."

Lou LeDoux started laughing. "And you expect me to arrest Esther Radcliffe based on that?"

"It's the truth," Charlie said desperately.

"Doesn't matter, it's a joke." Lou was still laughing. "Even if there was an incompetent D.A. who'd take it to court, and a brain-dead judge who'd hear the case, the bullet would be thrown out as inadmissible, now that you've tampered with the evidence. And as far as your accusations about Esther Radcliffe go, who's gonna corroborate your story? You? You're the least credible witness possible. So, who's the jury gonna believe? A sweet old lady loved by millions or you, a felonious crazy lying fuck?"

"She's guilty, Lou."

"Whoop-dee-doo," he said.

Charlie pocketed the bullet, feeling like a fool. Lou was right, he'd botched it. The whole case depended on a jury believing him, believing that Esther Radcliffe shot him in the stomach because she was late for a sale at Neiman Marcus.

Of course, that's not what he told the police then. No, he said he didn't remember anything. He couldn't possibly identify his attacker. But now, he goes and kills someone, and his memory miraculously returns.

Whoa, it's all coming back to me now. I know who shot me, it was Miss Agatha. And guess what, she killed this guy, too.

"You're right, Lou. But if this were television, it wouldn't be a problem," Charlie said. "The audience would buy it
."

Lou studied his fuck-up brother-in-law, and took pity on him. He tossed Charlie a bone.

"You had some fun, made some money, and you're staying out of jail," Lou said. "It could be a lot worse."

Charlie was thinking about Esther Radcliffe passing out cookies while, somewhere in Los Angeles, Darren Clarke's family was grieving. He couldn't ignore what she had done, or let her get away with it just because he made some mistakes.

"Zoe loved your show, taped every single episode," Lou said, getting Charlie's attention.

"Really?" Charlie was surprised and more than a bit touched. Charlie and his sister had fallen out of touch since he left home, escaped really, to go to the police academy. For a while she blamed him for leaving her alone; then when she got away, she replaced him with a cop of her own. They saw each other once or twice a year, but the closeness they had as children had become a distance that widened with each passing year.

"I think she believes you really are Derek Thorne," Lou said. "Then again, she thinks Lucy and Ricky Ricardo were a real couple."

"They were, Lou."

Lou LeDoux ignored the remark and fished in his jacket pocket for a card. He handed it to Charlie. "I got a friend, works for this outfit that handles mall security. He's always got a job for an ex-cop."

"That include ex-TV cops?" Charlie tossed the card back to LeDoux. "I appreciate the thought, Lou, but I'm not ready to give up yet."

"Haven't you been listening? You're never gonna nail her for murder."

"No, probably not," Charlie said. "But I
will
bring her down. She's a killer, and if she gets away with this, eventually she's going to hurt someone else."

Suddenly, the image of Sabrina Bishop, in her tight leather outfit, flitted across his psyche. The poor girl was doomed. He had to stop Esther before she did anything to Sabrina.

"I don't want to hear it." Lou abruptly slipped on his jacket and got up. "I'm forced to be your brother-in-law, I don't have to be an accomplice."

"You have nothing to worry about," Charlie said. "I won't be breaking the law."

Esther Radcliffe had a secret, something so embarrassing she was willing to pay someone $50,000 to keep it quiet. Charlie was going to find out what that secret was.

"If it's anything like your brilliant moves so far, I'm sure I'll be hearing about it." Lou headed for the door, pausing for a moment before stepping outside. "Try to remember, Charlie, this is reality now."

Charlie watched his brother-in-law walk away and thought it was probably a good time for a commercial break.

# # #

Jack Blacke and Bobby Whyte were two irreverent cops who tackled crime with humor and rugged good looks. They were the Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid of the LAPD, burning up the streets in their Mustang convertible, knocking bad guys senseless with a dizzying display of fast fists and even faster one-liners. And whether they were dodging bullets or
bons mots
, they always found time to seduce the beautiful women they inevitably encountered in their action-packed, carefree lives of heroic derring-do.

The on-screen chemistry and incredible pecs of the actors who played the two cops, Clive Martindale and Marc Thompson, accounted for what little appeal
Blacke and Whyte
had in its first thirteen episodes against
Frankencop
and
My Gun Has Bullets.
To capitalize on it, the network was going to send the two of them to Jamaica where, as
The Two Dicks,
they could banter and investigate shirtless and in shorts.

Perhaps as practice, the two dicks were bantering and investigating one another, naked in Clive Martindale's redwood hot tub, surrounded by the tall trees, complete darkness, and reassuring isolation of Topanga Canyon.

The same elements were working against them and in Delbert Skaggs's favor as he casually let himself in the front door of Martindale's rustic A-frame and quietly shut the door behind him. Plastic bags over his shoes and rubber gloves on his hands, he looked more comical than deadly, proving the old adage that looks could be deceiving.

As he strolled through the house, checking the rooms for other occupants, his mind was not on the two lovers frolicking in the burbling hot tub outside. They were going to be easy. So easy, in fact, he didn't bother to bring any tools of the trade—he'd just take 'em on the fly.

No, his mind was on the pleasures of delegating. It was a new experience for him, and he liked it. Because, in order to delegate, you had to have someone to delegate
to,
and that meant you had to have some kind of authority. He had never had authority before. Even if it was only over a moron like Eddie Planet, it was still a heady feeling for him.

For most of his career, Delbert had been a freelancer, never an executive. And in his experience, executives tended to get out of touch, so Delbert decided to delegate the easy stuff and keep his hand in by handling the tough assignments himself. Not that killing Martindale and Thompson would take much effort. But once an executive in his line of work lost his edge, or worse yet got soft, he became vulnerable, and didn't realize it until a guy like Delbert was slitting his throat.

Which was why he had let Eddie handle Boo Boo, and why Delbert decided to do the Two Dicks himself. Although Boo Boo was strategically the more important of the jobs, Delbert hated killing animals and, besides, if Eddie screwed it up, he could always take care of it personally later. And then reward himself by crushing Eddie's skull.

Satisfied that the house was empty, Delbert returned to the living room and glanced out at the deck. The Two Dicks were sipping champagne and nuzzling one another, ignoring the dangers of consuming alcoholic beverages in a Jacuzzi. Then again, they'd be dead long before the alcohol could pose any threat. Delbert would see to that.

He glanced around the room, with its high-beamed ceiling and hardwood floor. It was furnished like a Tahoe cabin, all woodsy and warm, with animal heads on the walls, wicker furniture, and afghans folded on the couches for those rare times when the temperature in L.A. dropped chillingly below 80.

That's when he heard the snap, crackle, and pop of an insect being electrocuted by a bug light. He looked outside and saw the bug light, artfully designed to look like an English coach lantern, hanging from a nail that had been hammered into a rafter a few feet away from the Jacuzzi. The blue fluorescent bulb cast a romantic glow over the Two Dicks, and lured insects into an electric grid that killed them cleanly and efficiently.

Delbert supposed it would work just as well on series stars. He studied the light more carefully. A long extension cord ran from the bug light along the rafter and then dropped to the floor, where it was plugged into an outdoor electrical outlet. All in all, pretty unsafe, especially if a professional hitman was around.

He opened the sliding glass doors without bothering to be quiet. The two men whirled around in surprise. But before they could say or do anything besides splash, Delbert reached up, carefully grabbed the bug light by its plastic base, and lobbed it into the hot tub.

He turned his back to look for a chair or stepladder, so he only heard the screams, the sizzle, and the splashing and missed the visual effects of his improvisation. Had he seen it, he would have admired the illusion of boiling water created by the combination of churning bubbles, smoke, and writhing bodies.

Delbert carefully lifted up a picnic table bench and set it down under the rafter, where the bug light had dangled. He found the nail the bug light had hung from and, using his hand, bent it downward to the point where the light fixture could have slid right off.

It was conceivable that bad hammering and the weight of the light fixture could have bent the nail, and caused the ill-placed bug light to slide light into the swirling water. A disaster waiting to happen.

When the police found the champagne, the semen, and the Two Dead Dicks in the hot tub, they wouldn't be thinking about murder. They'd be thinking what a couple of idiots Martindale and Thompson were. The accidental deaths would be the capper to a sordid scandal that would become Hollywood history.

Delbert liked the idea he was making history. This was only the beginning. He left, imagining vengeful bugs flying over the dead bodies, laughing to themselves.

T
he next day, Charlie went to a newsstand and rummaged through the racks, looking for detective magazines and mercenary rags, snagging everything from
True Detective
and
Guns and Ammo
to
Soldier of Fortune
and
Covert Operations.
He didn't pay much attention to the newspaper headlines about the sordid, accidental deaths of the Two Dicks. His mind was on his mission. He took the magazines home and flipped through the classified sections in each of them until he found all the equipment he was looking for. He placed the orders, gladly paying extra for overnight delivery.

The demise of the Two Dicks was the furthest thing from Boyd Hartnell's mind. He lay strapped in to what must once have been a dental chair, because he doubted anyone made special seats for undergoing experimental hair technologies. As Dr. Desi slowly worked his magic, Boyd gritted his teeth in pain. At least Boyd had the pleasure of looking at Thor, pink and naked, shivering in the corner. Let's see if Sabrina finds you so cute now, Boyd thought.

Daddy Crofoot read the Hollywood trade papers while Mindy, a blackjack dealer, rubbed his pecker between her breasts. Judging from the headlines, he knew he had made the right decision sending Delbert Skaggs to Los Angeles. Delbert had always been a fine producer, that Delbert should excel in the same capacity in the television business didn't surprise Crofoot at all. The ratings for
Frankencop
were up, the competition was taking a beating, and Crofoot was beginning to think about expansion. He put down the
Hollywood Reporter
long enough to have his second orgasm of the day, and gave Delbert a call to congratulate him.

Sabrina Bishop read about the "bug-light Jacuzzi deaths" of Clive Martindale and Marc Thompson and wondered what Hollywood was coming to. It was an ugly business, and if it weren't for the incredible money, she'd find something else to do. She doubted anything paid as well, with the possible exception of drug dealing. Both involved entertaining the masses—the only real distinction was that making movies and TV shows was legal. There was nothing kind, gentle, or pleasant about the business, at least not that she had seen. Except for maybe Charlie Willis, the first nice guy she'd met since coming out here, and look what the business was doing to him. She went to the closet and pulled out his shirt, and surprised herself by putting it on. She was even more surprised when she realized how safe it made her feel.

Eddie Planet read the article in the bathroom, and from where he was sitting, he knew exactly where Hollywood was going. Right into his lap. At this rate,
Frankencop
would be a top-ten hit by the February sweeps, and he could parlay the success into a spin-off, maybe even a couple of new series. Just imagining what fate Delbert Skaggs had in mind for
Miss Agatha,
and the extra share points that would give his show, made his bowels sing.

Flint Westwood didn't like to read. He preferred to look at pictures. And when he saw the evening news, he remembered a hot-tub scene he had done in
Buck Naked in the 25th Century
where he fucked the Maiden of Mars while she gave the Titan of Saturn a blowjob. It was a fond memory, and it somehow made the horrible tragedy that befell Clive and Marc seem less ugly.

Don DeBono heard the news and, although the tragedy had struck a competing network, sought solace among the
TV Guides
he'd saved since he was a boy. With his nose running from the dust, he flipped through the dog-eared pages and relived better days ... when the Cartwrights ruled the Ponderosa, Kookie didn't lend his comb, and rugged TV detectives never killed anyone on the set or turned up parboiled in Jacuzzis in another man's arms.