My Gun Has Bullets (19 page)

Every television star with a secret was startled by the news. Better to die than to live with the humiliation of their true selves being revealed and eclipsing their fictional personas.

Only one celebrity thought it was better to get even. And her only regret was that the senile idiot Itchy Matthews had inadvertently given Charlie Willis the gun that was meant for his guest star. Now Charlie was alive to ask her for
another
$50,000.

Esther's only consolation was that it was the last mistake Itchy ever made. And it was going to be Charlie's last, too.

A
nger was the first emotion Boo Boo felt whenever the sedation began to wear off. That's how Boo Boo knew he was returning to normal, because anger was the only emotion he knew. He was angry with the fleas on his body. He was angry with his silver food dish for being empty. He was angry that his shit and pee didn't smell stronger. He was angry at everything.

But what made him angriest was Lyle Spreen, his master, who he thought must be a dog, too. Spreen's butt smelled a lot like his own, he had fleas, he tasted like dog and was also angry most of the time. Boo Boo liked that. They were brothers. What he didn't like was that Spreen shot him with a dart every day and made the anger go away. Then everything became a blur of white lights, chubby children, raucous laughter, and hand signs from Spreen which, if obeyed, would result in getting a treat to eat. His anger dulled, he was overwhelmed with a sickening sense of complacency. He'd do anything, because it didn't matter—nothing did when he was that bored and disoriented, except maybe the mild excitement of getting a cookie.

Sometimes the heat of the lights and the intoxicating smell of sweaty human flesh would break through his narcotic haze and bring the anger back. And with it, the hunger. Then he really got a treat. A nice mouthful of human flesh. Yes, that was good.

That was the best.

He licked his balls and, in the comfort of his air-conditioned, carpeted doghouse, decided he wanted some right now. Boo Boo got up, shook, broke the electric beam that opened the sliding glass doors of his Tudor home, and walked outside. He paused to take in the view from his redwood deck.

Just beyond the cyclone fence that enclosed his quarter-acre domain, were the Pinnacle soundstages and office tower and, beyond them, the western street, the jungle, the Brooklyn neighborhood, and the studio tour.

And lots of tasty people.

Boo Boo had a genuine fire hydrant to pee on, a waterfall to soothe him, a fish pond to lie beside, a grassy knoll to roll down, even the shade of a $150,000 oak tree, hauled to the studio by truck and lowered into place by a crane, for him to relax under. But none of it pleased him. It pissed him off.

He wanted to be out there.

Where the food was.

Sure, twice a day someone came to feed him steak, and he appreciated that. But they all wore layers of protective padded clothing that tasted very bad. He knew, because he tried to bite them often. It was an insult. And it made him angrier.

But Boo Boo was a patient, persistent dog. He knew, someday, someone would open the gate and not have the dart gun or protective clothing. Oh, what a day that would be.

Maybe it would be today.

He lay down on the deck, licked his balls some more, and waited. Furiously.

Charlie sat in his Camaro across the street from Esther Radcliffe's favorite Rodeo Drive hair salon, waiting for her to come out with her new do.

She emerged looking as bad as when she'd entered, though her purse was probably lighter by a couple hundred bucks, a small price to pay for the pleasure of being told how beautiful she was for three straight hours.

Three hours that Charlie had spent with his bladder bursting. She clearly had no idea how hard it was to surreptitiously jam a Porto-potty shaped like a Dustbuster into his crotch and take a piss while parked on a busy street. There were at least two tourists Charlie knew of that wouldn't think Beverly Hills was quite so glamorous anymore.

He plugged a lot of quarters into the meter and prayed throughout the afternoon that none of the police officers he used to work with would recognize him. Thankfully, none of them did. But he was certain the Swedish couple would never forget him. It was during that time he became a strong supporter of the movement to have Paris style, sidewalk pay toilets installed in Los Angeles.

He had started following Esther five days ago, which, as luck would have it, was right at the start of a killer heat wave. The air was thick, heavy, and 102 degrees by ten a.m. every day, meaning each breath was like sucking on a hot exhaust pipe. Charlie's back was damp and itchy with sweat, soaking through his shirt and gluing him to the hot vinyl seats.

It was like being a patrolman all over again. Only now, for the first time, he felt that life wasn't walking all over him. Even though he was just sitting in a parked car, watching Esther, he felt he was in charge.

Things had always happened
to
him. Rarely had he
made
things happen. Maybe a little Derek Thorne was rubbing off on him, and he decided it was a good thing. Maybe he, too, could become an active action hero like the character he portrayed. A take-charge guy, rather than a take-shit jerk. Right now, though, he'd settle for just salvaging what was left of his life. And making Esther pay.

The valet brought Esther's Rolls up to the curb and she got inside. When Charlie leaned forward, his back peeled off the seat like a big strip of masking tape. He started the car and slipped into traffic behind her.

He stayed a few car lengths away, but he was certain she wouldn't notice him if he was right on her bumper. She was completely self-absorbed—this much he had learned the first day he ever met her. Another thing he'd learned was that, when she wasn't shooting cops in the stomach, she was pretty boring. Most of her days were spent on the set, with a few forays to local restaurants and department stores. So far, nothing interesting had happened.

He had a high-speed camera and a telephoto lens under the seat, just in case. He also had night-vision goggles somewhere under the fast-food wrappers on the passenger side, a shotgun mike in the backseat, and a tiny listening device stashed in the glove compartment, all ordered from mercenary magazines and probably illegal. But there had been little to look at, and absolutely nothing worth eavesdropping on.

As far as he knew, if she had a lover, he, she, or it had to be out of town, or kept chained up in the basement of her house, far away from the sunlight.

It was a possibility.

He made a mental note to stop by the county assessor's office, check out the blueprints, and see if her house had a basement.

Whatever her secret, whatever her failing, he knew patience was the key to uncovering it. Eventually, he would stumble onto something. Esther was too big a psychopath not to do something Charlie could capitalize on. He only hoped he would recognize the opportunity when he saw it.

Charlie followed Esther down the Wilshire Corridor, a ribbon of asphalt winding through a canyon of vacant, high-rise, million-dollar condos. Built in the delirium of leveraged buyouts and junk bonds, it was a mile-long section of Wilshire Boulevard that now stood as a testament to the financial folly of the 1980s.

Esther turned left at Glendon, and into the parking structure of a mirrored-glass monolith. The building, which seemed to Charlie like a leftover prop from the prehistoric sequence of
2001,
towered over Westwood Village, a square-mile business district nestled comfortably between UCLA to the north, Wilshire Boulevard to the south, Brentwood to the west, and Beverly Hills to the east.

He stayed well behind Esther, following her down the corkscrew driveway six floors to the lowest, subterranean level of the parking structure. Charlie parked on the fifth level, grabbed his camera, and then crept on foot along the driveway to the bottom floor. He hid in the shadows as she got out of her car, her face obscured by sunglasses the size of a Chevy windshield and inspired by Liberace's candelabra. She might avoid recognition, but she wouldn't avoid being noticed.

Esther took the elevator, so Charlie was forced to jog up the stairs, stopping at each level to see if she emerged. It was a good thing he did, because instead of exiting into the lobby, she emerged at the first level, strode across the parking structure, and slipped out the back door into a residential street.

He followed her down Malcolm Avenue, a quiet, moneyed neighborhood of small, half-million-dollar, Spanish-style homes with perfectly manicured lawns. A European car was parked in every driveway, and street signs were so burdened with arcane restrictions they required two poles to get their indecipherable messages across.

Charlie saw her walk up to one house as if she owned it—and when she went through the front door with a key, he thought she might. But then he saw the black Porsche in the driveway and knew he'd discovered something big.

Flint Westwood's career was almost cut short the day he was born. His penis was so thick and long the doctor mistook it at first for the umbilical cord. The astonished doctor covered his mistake by performing an on-the-spot circumcision and no one was the wiser.

Of course, in those days Flint was just Huey Krupp, a well-hung baby from Brooklyn. But he was also the well-hung nephew of mobster Sonny Crofoot, who named his newborn son Daddy, his way of making sure
his
son started off life better than his father.

Huey knew before he could speak that he had something that set him apart from everyone else. He saw it in the way people looked at him whenever he was nude. Their eyes would widen, first in surprise, and then in embarrassment. At first this frightened him, but as time went on, he grew to like the special attention he got. No one else seemed to deserve those wonderful, shocked glances. He knew then that he must be special.

But as he got older, the other kids teased him mercilessly, treating him as if his unusually pronounced organ was some kind of hideous deformity.

Here comes Huey Dong.

Hey, Horse Dong, how's it hangin?

Huey can run the three-legged race all by himself.

Mr. Ed is hung like a Huey.

It didn't help that Huey's intellectual wattage was far from electrifying. Thankfully, what Huey lacked in intellect, his cousin Daddy more than made up for in cunning. Daddy started charging a nickel for a peek at Huey's most unique feature, pocketing three cents for his efforts, and giving Huey the other two.

And whenever Huey performed for an audience, an amazing thing happened—his already enormous feature grew even bigger, which made it even more of an audience draw.

What had once been an object of shame for Huey became a source of tremendous pride, profit and, as he soon discovered, intense pleasure. And Daddy honed some of his business techniques. He beat up anyone, to the point of permanent disability, who dared threaten or insult Huey—because when Huey was down, so was his great gift, and so was the paying attendance at the peep show in Sonny Crofoot's basement.

Thus began a relationship between the two cousins that would continue into adulthood, as Daddy took his mob profits from drug dealing, grand theft, bookmaking, bone-breaking and arson-for-hire and bankrolled Huey's porno film career. Of course, Daddy took his customary sixty percent cut.

The first thing Daddy did was change Huey's name to something classy that also hinted at his wondrous endowment. Flint Westwood was born, first as a stand-in erection for lesser-gifted actors and later as a leading man himself.

But during all those years, one thing had never changed. Flint had to know he had an audience, or he literally couldn't rise to the occasion, whether for fun or profit.

Which was why now, as Flint lay on his back, his latest lusty conquest riding his livelihood like a pogo stick, three video cameras silently whirred behind the minors that lined the walls of his round bedroom.

The mirrors served a dual purpose. With them, he was always certain he could look out from his rotating bed and see at least one member of the audience enjoying the show—himself. And he could imagine that the cameras, hidden behind the mirrors, were the eyes for millions of adoring fans.

The woman atop him writhed and moaned, riding the fine edge between pleasure and pain. She wasn't the most beautiful woman he had ever screwed, but she was one of the most enthusiastic, and certainly the richest.

She was surfing on that rolling, building wave of pleasure, anticipating the mighty crash, the pounding against the shore, and the slow, tantalizing retreat back into the tranquil sea. The occasional jolt of pain she felt was an exciting riptide just below the turbulent surface of her ecstasy.

Although the beach was in sight, and the wave continued to grow in intensity, the shore never seemed to get any closer. The frustration was becoming a pain of its own, and not one she enjoyed. She needed that extra gust of wind to carry her forward.

That's when she imagined a fusillade of bullets pounding into Charlie Willis, jerking him across her psyche until he was blown apart into billions of bloody smithereens.

That was enough.

Esther Radcliffe shrieked, climaxing so hard and so loud Flint wondered if he'd inadvertently killed her. But luck was on his side tonight—the tragic event in Spokane was not repeating itself, which was good, because he had long since gotten rid of his chain saw.

O
tto and Burt moved through the quiet, empty streets of Manhattan, across the dusty plains of the Old West, and finally past the shadow of soundstage 15 to Boo Boo's compound.

Otto was armed with bolt cutters and a syringe filled with sleeping pills dissolved in water. Burt carried an extra-large, swimming-pool leaf-net on an extendable pole in one hand, and a gunny sack in the other.