My Gun Has Bullets (22 page)

The unexpected loss of the powerhouse
Boo Boo's Dilemma
hits UBC at a particularly vulnerable moment. The web is still smarting from the abrupt cancellation of
My Gun Has Bullets,
due to the accidental shooting of actor Darren Clarke during filming. And the web recently shuffled its winning primetime skeds on Thursday and Sunday evenings. The loss of Boo Boo is expected to cripple the Thursday slate, and is sure to bring down the net's overall weekly averages.

Pundits predict the likely winners will be DBC's sitcoms
Adopted Family
and
My Wife Next Door
at
8
P.M., taking the charge from UBC's
Energizer Bunny
at 8:30. Meanwhile UBC's sitcoms
Broad Squad
and
The Anson Williams Show,
even without the benefit of the
Boo Boo
lead-in, are likely to beat DBC's lackluster
Young Hudson Hawk
and MBC's aging
Dedicated Doctors,
if only by a slim margin.

The big slugfest will be 10 p.m., where the surprisingly strong Frankencop,
renewed for the full season and benefiting from the loss of the
Two Dicks
(due to the tragic death of its stars), will go up against the venerable
Miss Agatha.

The Esther Radcliffe whodunit has been winning the slot in its initial outings, but with numbers far below those it was garnering on Sundays. Whether that can continue with the loss of audience flow from
Boo Boo
remains to be seen.

lndustry insiders believe
Miss Agatha's
competitiveness against the high-concept actioner
Frankencop
will depend on the drawing power of Sabrina Bishop with men 18-45. Bishop, who won popularity in direct-to-video soft-core thrillers, has a large following among men and younger viewers, the demographic groups seen as the core audience of
Frankencop.

Although UBC has yet to officially announce its plans, insiders report prexy Don DeBono will play out the remaining
Boo Boo
episodes in the
8
p.m. slot, followed by specials .
..

Charlie had turned his master bathroom into a makeshift darkroom and was now carefully developing the photos he took on his surveillance.

McGarrett lay curled up on the bathmat, sound asleep, his muffled barks and twitching legs showing that he had a far more active dream life than the one he led awake.

Charlie almost envied him. He pulled an eight-by-ten of Flint Westwood out of the chemicals in his sink, carefully stepped over his dog, and hung the picture up to dry in his shower, right next to several photos of Esther Radcliffe.

By themselves, the grainy photos didn't say much, but what they hinted at was tantalizing. Esther was convinced Charlie was blackmailing her, so convinced she tried to kill him, and yet her costly tormentor was actually the guy she'd spent six hours with yesterday afternoon.

And Charlie didn't think they spent the time playing checkers.

On the radio, propped on the top of the toilet bowl, KNX 1070 continued to report on the disappearance of Boo Boo, a dog kids who couldn't count or read a grocery list nevertheless knew was a reincarnated Catskills comic living with a typical American family. Bob Tur, in Air 1070, flew his chopper in circles over the Valley, improbably hoping to catch a peek of the elusive superstar pooch from the sky.

If Charlie didn't know better, he'd think Esther was behind the disappearance. But there was no logical reason for Esther to kill the dog. Unless, perhaps, it had pissed on her Rolls, dumped a load outside her trailer, and had the audacity to bark at her. Those were all very real possibilities. He didn't put anything past Esther.

Charlie slipped the photographs and the negatives into a large manila envelope, which he carried with him into the bedroom. He put the envelope on his bureau and picked up a tiny transmitter that was about the size and shape of a coin.

The device could fit easily in a telephone handset and was powered by the phone itself. The bug could pick up anything spoken in its immediate vicinity. This technological wonder sent everything it heard, to be captured for posterity and extortion, on a small, voice-activated tape recorder that could be hidden anywhere within thirty feet.

Charlie admired the devices for a moment, thankful for the amazing stocking stuffers one could find in the classified pages of a mercenary magazine. He slipped the bug and recorder into his jacket pockets, along with a pocket screwdriver, wire cutter, and some black electrical tape.

Tonight he planned to put this charming little bug to work uncovering, once and for all, Esther's dirty secret. Then all he had to do was figure out how to use whatever it was he found out against her in the worst way possible.

He might not be able to get her for murder, but if he worked hard enough, he might be able to kill her career.

In another bathroom, ten miles east and thirty-two stories up, Boyd Hartnell knew he was ready. He looked at himself in the mirror, and a Greek god stared back at him.

It was unreal. He never imagined, in his wildest dreams, that he could have a head of hair that lush, that smooth, that abundant. It high-lighted his sharp features, hinting at the strength of his spirit, the raw masculinity simmering beneath his sophisticated, urbane exterior.

Dr. Desi had outdone himself. Hell, he had probably made medical history. Boyd would be immortalized, not only in the souls of every red-blooded woman, but in medical textbooks throughout the world.

Boyd took a deep breath—and discovered even he wasn't immune to the powerful male pheromones his manly body exuded, a natural nerve gas. If it made
him
giddy, he could only imagine the power it would exert over others.

Now he had it all. The body. The money. The power. And finally, ultimately, the hair.

He carefully wrapped his golden locks back in the turban. What woman could resist him? More importantly, how could Sabrina?

Tonight Sabrina Bishop could not deny him. Tonight he would cast his manly spell over her, set her free of her inhibitions, and make her his, and his alone. She would want him, as she wanted no other man.

Boyd emerged from his private bathroom and strode across the office to his desk, where he had already packed his change of clothes in a Pinnacle Studios duffel bag.

His phone was ringing, and his calendar was scribbled full of appointments, but he didn't care. Some things in life transcended business. He had a pressing appointment with destiny.

Pinnacle Studios would still be here tomorrow, after he conquered his dream. Then Boyd would take the studio with him on his personal journey of rediscovery, making Pinnacle bigger and stronger as he himself grew in power and influence.

He grabbed his bag, slipped out the back door of his office and then, when he was certain no one was in the hall, crossed the corridor to the stairwell and slowly began his long descent.

With the all-important November ratings sweeps coming, the producers of
Johnny Wildlife
were resorting to stunt casting to draw in the Viewers.

Bob Barker, Tippi Hedron, and Doris Day—all animal lovers and big draws with the Geritol demographic—were out in the Pinnacle Studios forest, ready to do their cameos in return for a generous donation to an animal rights charity.

When Deborah Yelty, thirty-five-year-old former network programming exec turned cocaine freak, originally conceived
Johnny Wildlife,
she sold it as a heat-seeking missile aimed right at the female, eighteen-to-thirty-five-year-old demographic. And she knew what women wanted—strong, professional men who are also sensitive and cuddly. So she made him an ex-Texas Ranger turned frontier veterinarian. What could be more strong, professional, and sensitive than a veterinarian with his shirt off hugging lots of adorable animals to his sweaty, iron pecs? Even so, to hedge her bets she cast Reed Roland, the twenty-five-year-old heartthrob from the soap
All Our Tomorrows.

Before the series was even in production, she was checking on the availability of Michael Bolton, Fabio, and Clint Black for November sweeps. The thought of Bob Barker would have sent her into gales of laughter.

But here he was, in the makeup trailer, in spurs and a cowboy hat, having fake trail dust carefully applied to his tanned face.

Turned out
Johnny Wildlife was
a draw for women. Unfortunately, most of them were grandmothers. Deborah couldn't figure it out. But ratings were ratings, and although the demographic wasn't the most desirable one, she was determined to exploit whatever audience she had to the fullest.

So it goes in television. Which was one reason why Deborah Yelty was snorting up her royalties and would, five years hence, have her cancerous nose amputated. But for now, her nose was intact as she marched across the set, a cellular phone and a pager clipped to the belt of her pleated slacks like guns in a holster. She was looking for Reed Roland. who refused to do the scene in which the intrepid Dr. Wildlife is forced to shoot a rabid dog.

"The dog is too cute," he told her when she found him in his canvas chair. "Furry, lovable, the kind of dog every family wants to have."

"That's the idea," she said.

"lt's a bad idea, Deb," be yelled. "I'm not gonna shoot the family dog."

''You don't understand, Reed. We want people to see Little Bobby's dog as their own. That way, when you shoot him, sixty million people are going to break into tears."

"And hate
me,"
Reed said. "Can't you make him ugly and mean? He's a rabid dog, for Christ's sake, can't I shoot him in self-defence?"

She wanted to slap him across the face and tell him to get his tight ass in front of the camera. What she said instead was, "We'd lose sympathy for the dog."

"Fuck the dog, Deb," he declared angrily. "The audience is supposed to sympathize with
me.
And they won't if I blow away an adorable furball. I want this dog to be a frothing, snarling beast."

"Didn't you ever see
Old Yeller?"

"The guy who shot
Old Yeller
didn't have to come back next week."

If she couldn't reason with Reed, she'd just have to trick him. He could shoot whatever dog he wanted now—she'd replace it with another one in editing. When he saw how it worked on the air, he'd pretend they'd never had this discussion.

"You're right, Reed," Deborah said. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"You
weren't
thinking, that was the problem."

Deborah told an A.D. to ask the animal wrangler to find the ugliest dog he had, and to put some froth on his mouth. Satisfied at the power he wielded, Reed headed for the barn to do the scene. To his surprise, when he got there, the cute dog had already been replaced with the ugliest dog he had ever seen.

"Now that's a dog I can kill,'" he said to the director. "Nobody is gonna hate me for putting that sack of shit out of its misery."

Fact was, nobody knew what had happened to the dog that was there before, or where this one had come from. But their star was back, they were one shot away from lunch, and that was all that mattered.

"Are we ready to do this scene or what?" Reed asked.

Everyone got into position. The soundman balanced the boom mike just above Reed's head. The makeup lady dabbed a little fake sweat on Reed's face. And the dog drooled in big, thick rivulets, staring at Reed and growling.

Deborah knew the moment she saw the dog it could never stay in the show. Reed was right, the audience would be rooting for him to kill it, which would undermine the emotional integrity of the whole story.

She also wondered how the animal wrangler had switched dogs so quickly. Maybe the guy had been around long enough to know that when a star throws a tantrum, the star usually gets what he wants.

The prop man checked out the gun to make sure it was loaded with blanks—you couldn't be too careful after what happened on
My Gun Has Bullets—
and handed it to Reed.

The director called for quiet on the set, and then yelled "Action!"

Dr. Wildlife approached the frightened, drooling animal slowly.

"Hello, Trigger. It's me, Doc Wildlife."

The dog growled, foam glistening on his sharp, bared fangs.

"I reckon you don't recognize me. Well, if there's any part of you still left behind all that hate, I want you to know that Little Bobby loves you, and wishes more than anything he could have you back." Dr. Wildlife stopped, wiping a tear from his cheek.

"But we both know that ain't gonna happen. Rabies done took you long ago, Trigger. The best thing I can do for you now is put you out of your misery."

Dr. Wildlife took the gun out of his holster and aimed it at the dog, who suddenly lunged at him, tore the doctor's gun hand off at the wrist, and scurried away.

Reed staggered back, gripping his arm, spraying blood out or his wrist as if it were a hose. Three crew members tackled him to the ground, while everybody else ran off in terror, including Deborah, who dashed clear across the lot and out the gate, never to return. Her car had to be towed off the lot four weeks later.

In all the pandemonium, Boo Boo disappeared unrecognized into the forest, his jaws closed tight on the amputated hand, which still gripped the useless gun.

S
everal hours had passed since a "rabid coyote" apparently strayed from the wilds of the Hollywood Hills onto the Pinnacle Studios lot and attacked Reed Roland, making off with his hand, a prop gun and, as it was later reported, a $10,000 Rolex.

Animal control officers and forest rangers were scouring the mountains behind the studio, looking for the beast and his gory prize. Studio executives scrambled to control the bad publicity, which lately was hemorrhaging from the studio faster than the blood from Reed Roland's severed limb.