My Gun Has Bullets (24 page)

Eddie foresaw a time when there'd be only one showrunner on
Frankencop—and
it wouldn't be Delbert Skaggs. If Otto and Burt could get rid of a dog, how much harder could a person be?

Oddly enough, Delbert's thoughts were on the same wavelength. He'd mastered the television game—no, he'd
re-created
it—and although Eddie had unexpectedly served him well, the pathetic little worm was outliving his usefulness.

Sure, Eddie had the pitch, but in the television future Delbert envisioned, the pitch wouldn't be necessary. In Delbert's mind, pitching was synonymous with pleading and Pinstripe Productions wouldn't pitch, or plead, to anyone.

The networks ruled by power and fear, qualities Delbert, or anyone who toiled in organized crime, understood. The networks had the power to buy shows, to turn a poor, struggling producer into a rich and influential one. The networks also had the power to take it all away, to kill shows and careers in an instant.

It was no different from the way the mob did business. Except the networks, those clowns, were soft. None of 'em had any real muscle. The only power they had was what the cowardly producers
gave
them. All that money just sitting there for the taking, and no one understood how easy it was to get it.

Until now.

First, Delbert planned to eliminate the competition, and then, anyone at the network who dared influence the fate of
Frankencop.
No network would ever cancel a Pinstripe Productions' series. Delbert would personally cancel anyone who tried. The series would end when Daddy Crofoot decided it would.

"Hello, gentlemen," Daddy Crofoot said as he emerged from behind the double doors of the master suite, looking happy and refreshed in his white terrycloth robe.

Eddie turned just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of three naked women in the bed before Daddy Crofoot closed the doors behind him.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting," Crofoot said. "Delbert, looks like Los Angeles agrees with you."

"If it didn't, I'd have to kill it," Delbert said with a grin, rising to greet Crofoot, who pulled him into a hug.

"That's what I like about you," Crofoot said, clapping Delbert on the back. "Where others see an obstacle, you see an opportunity. I just hope you never think of me as an obstacle."

"Never, Daddy," Delbert said, knowing neither he nor Crofoot believed it for a second.

Crofoot moved past Delbert and strode over to Eddie, who flashed his biggest smile.

"Daddy, you look great," Eddie said, and then, at a loss for words, but feeling an uncontrollable urge to fill the silence, added, "Have you lost a few pounds or something?"

Crofoot shook Eddie's hand, gave him a perfunctory smile, and turned his chair back on him to face Delbert, who settled back into his chair.

"I want to tell you both how pleased I am with the progress you've made in Los Angeles. The ratings are up, and the competition is ..." Crofoot searched for the right words. "How shall I say it?"

"Getting killed," Eddie said, without thinking, and instantly regretted it. But Crofoot didn't seem insulted. In fact, quite the opposite.

"Yes, exactly," Crofoot replied, turning around and offering him a quick, approving smile.

"I'm glad you're pleased, Daddy," Delbert said, his elbows resting on the arm-rests and making a steeple out of his fingers. That was probably as close as he ever got to a place of worship. "But we're just getting started."

"Yeah," Eddie said. "Morrie Lustig called me and personally invited me into pitch some projects. Even lobbed an idea of his own over the plate. I think I can knock it out of the park."

Delbert Skaggs and Daddy Crofoot just stared at him. Eddie suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"But if you've got some concepts you'd like to kick around, hey I'm open to fresh ideas," Eddie said.

"We aren't going to the network to peddle any more series," Daddy Crofoot said.
"They
will be coming to
us."

Now itwas Eddie's turn to stare. Who did these guys think they were? Did they honestly think that just because
Frankencop
was getting some decent numbers, the networks would be crawling to them for shows?

"What are you gonna do," Eddie asked. "Kill 'em if they don't?"

"That's the idea," Delbert said coolly.

Daddy Crofoot slowly approached Eddie, who backed against the cold glass. For a moment, he thought Daddy was going to push him out the window into the volcano below. Crofoot slipped his arm around Eddie's shoulder and pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear.

"You know what I think, Eddie? I think you shouldn't be worrying about what to pitch," Crofoot said. "You should be worrying about the three hundred thousand an episode I'm losing."

"Daddy, you'll get it all back in syndication," Eddie said. "Forget about it"

"I can forget about a lot of things," Crofoot said. "Money isn't one of them. Let me explain something to you. My friends, like Delbert here, they make me money, earning my respect and admiration. My enemies, they cost me money, and disappear from my life completely. I want you to be my friend, Eddie."

"I want to be your friend," Eddie said, his throat suddenly so dry he could barely speak.

"Good." Crofoot led him toward the master suite. "Give it some thought. In the meantime, I know three beautiful ladies who can help you clear your head."

Crofoot opened the double doors for Eddie, revealing the three naked, voluptuous women, who beckoned to Eddie like hungry succubi. To Eddie, their heads could just as well have been covered with writhing, hissing snakes. He stumbled inside, like a man in a trance, the doors closing gently behind him as he fell onto the bed and into their arms.

"When can I kill him?" Delbert asked when Crofoot returned.

"Soon," Crofoot promised. "There may still be some things about this business we don't know."

"I'm concerned about
Miss Agatha,"
Delbert began. "It was a success on Sundays, and now it has been—"

That's when the phone rang. Crofoot let it ring a second time before he picked up the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Where's Skaggs?" Flint shrieked, clearly in a panic on the other end of the line. "I've been looking all over the fucking planet for him."

"Calm down, Flint. He's right here with me. Now what's the problem?"

"Charlie Willis."

And as Crofoot listened to Flint tell his story, his face turned hard and cold, devoid of all humanity. It was an expression Delbert Skaggs recognized, because he had seen it before on his own face, on those rare occasions he'd happened to see his reflection before killing someone.

T
he first thing Sabrina noticed was his smell, then it was the feel of his shirt against her skin. Above all, it was the feeling that she was safe.

She lay there, her eyes closed, his shirt hugged to her body, and tried to piece together the images that flitted across her psyche. There was Boyd Hartnell, transformed into a hideous dogman, flying at her. There was Flint Westwood, lifting her toward him.

She remembered jukebox music, the taste of white wine, the odor of cigarette smoke, and the world spinning. Then everything dissolved into a kaleidoscope of images, her own reflection, Flint Westwood's leer, shards of broken glass. Somehow, she knew that something awful had happened, and that Charlie had saved her.

And now, her eyes closed, she could feel Charlie Willis near, his shirt around her, and it soothed her. She didn't know where she was, or what had happened, and yet she felt secure.

So when she opened her eyes, she was not surprised to see Charlie Willis in the darkness, sitting in a chair, watching her. So was McGarrett, who lifted his shaggy head from Charlie's feet to get a good look at her, then shuffled out of the room.

"Are you all right?" Charlie asked softly.

She held out her hand to him and whispered. "Hold me."

He didn't move. He seemed reluctant to take her hand. "Don't you want to know what happened?"

"Later," she said, gently wiggling her fingers, beckoning him to take her hand.

Charlie leaned forward, took her hand, and let himself be pulled to the bed, where he carefully slid beside her. She curled up against him, wrapping a leg around his waist, reaching her arm across his chest, nuzzling her face against his neck.

Charlie lay there, uncomfortable at first, every muscle in his body tense, but as she drifted off to sleep against him, he felt himself relax. lt had been a long time since he had held anybody. It had been a long time since anybody had held
him.

It felt good.

Ever since Esther Radcliffe had shot him, life seemed unreal. Fact and fiction blended into an absurd pseudo-reality that swept him up like a hurricane and spun him across the city. At times, he wondered whether he was, in fact, truly conscious or still lying in a hospital bed, confusing a bizarre, drug-induced dream with reality.

But now, being held, he suddenly felt grounded, as if certain for the first time since being shot that he was himself, and that while the world might be tilted on its axis, his balance, at least, was restored.

Charlie stroked her hair and realized as he, too, fell asleep, that he hadn't rescued her. She had rescued him.

# # #

Charlie didn't remember waking up, only the taste of her lips on his, the feel of her body atop his own. His heart was already pounding, his skin already damp with sweat, his body already hungry for her touch. He was caught up in it without ever knowing when it began.

And then she pulled him into her, squeezing him tight, thrusting herself against him, her face twisted with the ache of desire. He leaned up, taking her breast in his mouth, devouring it. She moved against him hard and quick, pumping her pelvis against his, her hands holding his head tight to her bosom, her breaths coming deep and fast.

He gripped her buttocks with his hands, forcing her to move even faster, and tugged on her stiff nipple with his lips, sucking it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. She let out a cry, and suddenly she came, jerking against him, her eyes squeezed tight, her lower lip quivering, every muscle and tendon in her neck jutting out, taut as piano wire.

Charlie felt his own orgasm burst free, his face pressed against her soft flesh, his hands digging deep into her ass, holding her against him.

And when it was over, he slowly fell back against the mattress, bringing her down with him. They lay there together, breathing hard, until their hearts stopped pounding, their bodies cooled, and they fell asleep again, safe in each other's arms.

# # #

Muck Thing's swamp looked even more ominous at night than it ever did on television.

It was here that Shayne Collier, idealistic young scientist, was conducting his controversial genetic experiments. But fate took sides against him. A bolt of lightning hit his laboratory during a critical stage in his experiment. In the cataclysmic explosion, the doctor was transformed into a sickening amalgamation of man, plant, earth, and beast.

Now Shayne Collier is Muck Thing, a towering half-insane pillar of slime who, as Peter Graves intoned during the opening titles each week,
is in a constant, bloody battle with himself for control of his soul.

No one could ever be sure whose side he was on, and whom he would kill, friend or foe. Right now, as Otto and Burt trudged through the mud in this distant corner of Pinnacle Studios, they hoped it wouldn't be them.

If it were daylight, they'd know where the mechanical version of Muck Thing was buried in the slime. But now, sloshing around after Boo Boo, they were afraid they might accidentally bump into it and the crocodile it wrestled hourly to the glee of tram-loads of tourists.

But if they didn't find Boo Boo before someone else did, their fate would be much worse. Eddie would never hire them again, and
Sunn of a Gunn
would remain a dream, surely never to be realized.

So here they lurked, hunting for a dog, an activity they ordinarily would have enjoyed. But a hobby stops being fun when it becomes work.

Otto and Burt were armed with crossbows, steel-tipped arrows, and a gunny sack for stowing Boo Boo's remains. This time they were taking no prisoners, an attitude best expressed by the way they were dressed—army camouflage gear, red headbands, and aviator shades.

It didn't matter that it was pitch black out. They looked bad, so they were bad. Dudes to be reckoned with.

Otto and Burt marched from the swamp and onto the bucolic grounds of the stately Windsor Manor, made famous in
Windswept Love,
Pinnacle Pictures' forty-year-old rip-off of
Gone With the Wind.

Dozens of times each day, Atlanta and the Windsor Manor burned to the ground in a pyrotechnical extravaganza, thrilling tourists out of the nausea inflicted by riding the tram through
Inspector Infinity's
Spinning Wheels of Time.

That's when Otto heard the tinkle of liquid. He naturally assumed it was Burt wetting himself. His daredevil buddy had been incontinent ever since a misguided stunt for Lee Horsley's
Dead Beat
involving a motorcycle, a moose, and the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders went horribly awry.

But it wasn't Burt uncontrollably relieving himself that Otto heard. It was Boo Boo, leaving his mark on one of the Windsor Manor's portico pillars, a few short yards away.

Startled, Otto fired his crossbow in the dog's general direction. Although the arrow missed Boo Boo by a good ten feet, the little mutt got the sentiment. He bolted into the Windsor house.

Otto and Burt rushed after him, dashing across the tram tracks and storming into the house. They reacted so quickly, probably neither one of them gave any thought as to how, exactly, the Windsor Manor erupted into flames for each passing tram. If they had thought about it, perhaps they might have noticed the tiny sensors on either side of the tram track, and the beam of light which, when broken, activated the flames.