My Gun Has Bullets (23 page)

It didn't help that in the midst of this great crisis, Boyd Hartnell was nowhere to be found. He was unreachable at home, in his car, even at Dr. Desi's. In his absence, writer/producer Jackson Burley filled the void, if only because he happened to be in Boyd's outer office, waiting for a meeting with him, when the crisis occurred.

Jackson was on the cellular with Chad Everett's agent before Reed Roland had even been carried off the lot.

Otherwise, it was business as usual on the unlucky Pinnacle Studios lot.

In Soundstage 3, Frankencop was getting emotional vibes from his pilfered pancreas, which was salvaged from another cop's corpse. In this particular episode, Frankencop felt compelled to help the organ donor's widow (Morgan Fairchild) and her young son fend off an evil land developer trying to grab the family's ranch. Flint felt he was really getting the chance to stretch as an actor, particularly since this was the first time his prick's motivation was to help someone.

In Soundstage 2, Adrian Zmed was making his triumphant return to series television in the pilot
Chippendale Cop,
police officer by day, male stripper by night. The studio flacks felt it would be a cinch to promote.
The only thing he doesn't take off is his badge.

And in Soundstage 10, on a "very special episode" of
Miss Agatha,
Patty Duke was guest-starring as Ellen Neller, a blind, deaf woman who witnesses a murder. Esther was so upset at being upstaged by Patty Duke that she was fighting back by stealing as many of Sabrina's lines as she possibly could.

Sabrina watched helplessly as what had been her major scene was reduced to a single line. After each rehearsal, Esther would run over to the script supervisor, take a pen, and cross out entire chunks of Sabrina's dialogue.

"Your character would
never
say that, dear," Esther said, or "Honey, you just
know
that was meant to come out of Agatha's mouth."

Sabrina put in a desperate call to the writers, who said it didn't matter to them who said what as long as the pages got shot and the residual checks kept coming in. They had stopped caring about what they wrote for the show several years and hundreds of thousands of dollars ago.

So now Sabrina was relegated to nodding her head in agreement at the every brilliant deduction Miss Agatha came up with. Sabrina wasn't surprised to find out which line of hers remained untouched.

"Miss Agatha," Alexis Cole, Agatha's ninja-kicking, leather-clad niece said, "you're brilliant."

"Nonsense," Agatha replied. "Anyone can solve a murder if they pay attention to the details. Now come along, we mustn't be late for tea."

Sabrina was mad, and she was frustrated, and she was tired, but she had to admit it was better than those days spent shivering topless in front of the camera, waiting for her "nipple close-up."

She also had the added, personal satisfaction of knowing she was a big star around The Pool, the center of the universe at her grandmother's Palm Springs retirement villa.

She emerged from the soundstage to find that it was still dark. It was dark when she arrived at five a.m., and it was dark now when she was leaving. Somewhere, she was sure, a day of sunlight had passed, but she'd missed it again.

Sabrina trudged to her trailer, looking forward to peeling off her leather and slipping into a baggy, comfy pair of sweats and going home. When she opened the door, she was thinking about how good a hot bath would feel, so she was totally unprepared for what she saw after she turned on the light. Not that anything could have prepared her.

Boyd Hartnell sat on the edge of her bed, naked under a silk bathrobe, his head overwhelmed by a grotesque mane of golden retriever hair styled into an enormous, flowing pompadour that made him look like a canine Elvis.

The scream was barely out of Sabrina's mouth when Boyd lunged at her, tackling her to the floor and smothering her face with his lush, bouffant head of dog hair.

"Feel it, smell it, lose yourself in it," he whispered. "I'm yours."

''I don't want you," she said, choking on a mouthful of hair.

"You don't have to deny yourself any longer." He pinned her shoulders to the floor. "Give in to your wildest desires."

"Let me go." She tried to crawl out from under him, knowing she could kick the shit out of him if she could just get to her feet.

"Run your fingers through my silken hair," he said. "Revel in its softness."

Suddenly, someone yanked Boyd off of her and tossed him through the open doorway onto the pavement outside, slamming the trailer door shut in his face. She reached out to the stranger in front of her, who lifted her to her feet and clapped her hard on the back until she finished coughing the hair out of her windpipe.

Only after she caught her breath did she get a good look at her rescuer—lantern-jawed, tall, and dressed in Polo.

This was the second time Flint Westwood's prick had been motivated to help someone.

"I've never seen a dog like that before," Flint said.

"It wasn't an ordinary dog," Sabrina coughed. "It was a studio executive."

Flint nodded, as if he understood what she had just said, which he didn't. What he understood very clearly was that she had tremendous breasts, and began to rethink what had motivated him to action. He was getting tired of Esther's saggy, withered bags, even if he was getting $50,000 a pop to fondle them.

"It's a long story," she explained, thanking him and introducing herself. He reciprocated, and she was surprised to learn that he was the star of a TV series.

"Don't take this personally, Flint, but I've never heard of you," she said. "I've been so busy that I haven't had a chance, or really the desire, to watch any television."

Flint was elated. If she didn't know who he was, she had no reason to be suspicious of him and she certainly didn't know he was fucking Esther.

Sabrina coughed some more. "I can't seem to get his hair out of my throat."

It occurred to her then that the hair she was coughing up was important evidence in the sexual harassment suit she'd be filing tomorrow morning. Sabrina resolved not to settle for anything less than a million and a pilot deal.

"You need a drink," he said. "C'mon, I'll give you a ride home. We can stop someplace on the way."

Right now, a stiff drink sounded like a great idea. And she could use a little protection from Dogboy, though she was confident that once on her feet she had the advantage and could kick Boyd's ass. Still, she gladly accepted Flint's offer, and let him escort her to his Porsche.

Boyd cowered unseen in the shadows, tears streaming down his cheeks, and watched Flint Westwood drive away with his dream. He couldn't figure out how things had gone so horribly, terribly, nightmarishly wrong, how she could possibly have resisted the mix of manliness, power, and the ultimate head of hair.

What was the point of it all—of success, money, perfect hair—if a man couldn't have the woman he loved? Boyd staggered to his car, shaking with shame and disappointment. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for such a monumental rejection. He was not sure if he could go on living knowing he'd be denied the true love he deserved.

He was reaching for his keys when the wind blew through his hair, sending his scent wafting into the night, carrying it across the lot and into the brush, where it was inhaled and savored by one who could truly appreciate it.

Boo Boo, his hunger for human flesh satisfied, suddenly froze, discovering a new hunger long suppressed by drugs. This new hunger was overpowering, undeniable. He spit out a piece of Reed Roland's pinkie and darted toward this new and wondrous smell.

Boyd pulled his car keys out of his pocket, but his hand was shaking so much he dropped them. He was reaching down to pick them up when Boo Boo saw him for the first time.

And what a mightily attractive sight it was. Boo Boo couldn't control himself. He sprang gleefully through the air, colliding with Boyd's ass and knocking him headfirst into the door of his Mercedes. As thick as Boyd's pompadour was, it wasn't enough to cushion the skull-cracking blow.

Boyd thudded unconscious onto the pavement, blissfully unaware as lustful Boo Boo dragged him back to his cave, deep in the Pinnacle Studios jungle, for a night of endless passion, doggie style.

T
he drug Flint slipped into Sabrina's drink knocked her out faster than a right hook. Flint knew this because he had used both techniques on women in the past when his inimitable charm failed him. Which was most of the time.

Not that women didn't yearn for a gander at his power tool, just that they usually weren't the women he wanted. And they usually weren't rich enough to pay for him not to care.

"She just can't hold her liquor," he said to nobody in particular, tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her out of the bar and back to his car.

It only took him twenty minutes to get back home, which he figured gave him more than enough time to do the deed and return Sabrina to her trailer before she knew what hit her.

And when she did find out, she'd be wide awake and on her way to the bank to make a sizable withdrawal. He still charged women for a look at his prick, whether they remembered seeing it or not, but the prices had gone up considerably with inflation.

Charlie Willis was asleep in his car across the street when Flint arrived, so at first he wasn't even aware there was someone with Flint. It was only as the garage door was closing that he caught a glimpse of Flint, and what looked like Sabrina Bishop over Flint's shoulder.

Then the garage door closed, and Charlie was left wondering if what he'd seen was real or the remnants of a very strange dream. Just to be sure, one way or the other, Charlie got out of his car and dashed over to the house for a closer look.

He slipped carefully through the kitchen door, the same one he'd broken into a few hours ago to install the listening device in Flint's phone. He'd felt vaguely guilty about breaking the law he'd sworn to uphold, but not so guilty that he denied himself a little tour of the place. He had seen nothing out of the ordinary, except for the circular bed in a mirror-lined round room.

Which was why he knew the sounds of movement he heard were coming from there, and why he was particularly worried. Somehow, he just couldn't imagine Sabrina spinning around on the bed with Flint, even if she did make love in a dental chair in
Torrid Embrace.
Then again, he told himself, she might not be here at all.

Charlie crept cautiously down the hall, disturbed by the sounds of heavy breathing, buttons popping, fabric ripping, and zippers unzipping. He was nearing the half-open, bedroom door when he heard the electric hum of the bed beginning to rotate.

He flattened his back against the wall and using the tip of his shoe, carefully nudged the door open and peered inside.

Sabrina Bishop was sprawled half conscious across the spinning bed, her shirt ripped open, Flint Westwood standing over her, struggling with her bra.

"Halt," Charlie said.

Flint whirled around, startled, as Charlie charged into him, knocking him backward into the mirrored wall. The two men crashed through the glass into a tiny room containing a professional video camera and shelves of boxed cassettes.

Charlie scrambled to his feet and, momentarily distracted by his discovery, gave Flint the opportunity to grab a wooden stool and throw it at him. Charlie ducked, and the stool sailed over his head and across the bedroom, smashing into the opposite side of the glass wall, revealing yet another camera and a video printer for producing still photos.

Enraged, Charlie turned and decked Flint with a powerhouse right hook that sent Frankencop tumbling into the shelves of cassettes, taking them down with him to the floor, where he slumped unconscious amid the hundreds of his video interludes.

Charlie was about to read Flint his rights when two things stopped him. One, the realization he wasn't a cop and two, the videocassettes. Charlie picked up a box and read the sticker.

Esther / Nov. 17.

A trickle of blood rolled down from his forehead and obscured his vision. He wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, and noticed that it, too, was pretty cut up.

He stuck a couple of cassettes in his torn shirt, climbed out of the little room and checked on Sabrina. She was still unconscious, tossing her head ever so slightly from side to side.

Charlie picked her up in his arms and carried her away.

# # #

Once again, Eddie Planet stood in Daddy Crofoot's suite at the Mirage, looking ten stories below at the fiery eruption of the fake volcano.

Same view, different Eddie.

He didn't fly up here coach on some rinky-dink, overbooked airline filled with sweaty, overweight pensioners with slot machine fever. This time, Eddie and Delbert Skaggs flew up to Las Vegas in Daddy Crofoot's private jet. And Eddie wasn't here this evening to beg for financing, his bowels tied in knots. He was here to be congratulated.

Frankencop
was already guaranteed to play out the season and, with the way ratings were climbing, it had the potential to run for several years. If it did, it would make Eddie Planet rich, and Daddy Crofoot even richer. Throw in merchandising dollars and possible series spin-offs, and the profit potential was enormous.

In three years, Eddie figured he could conceivably walk away from
Frankencop
with $50 million in his pocket. If he played his cards right. And thanks to Delbert Skaggs, Eddie had learned a whole new way of playing the game.

Eddie glanced over at Delbert, who sat in a leather chair, his back ramrod straight, staring into space ahead of him as if watching a movie.

No doubt Delbert was seeing the future. And as Eddie glanced back into the synthetic pyre below, so was he. Eddie was already thinking about putting to work for himself the lessons he'd learned with a little help from Otto and Burt.