My Gun Has Bullets (26 page)

"Shut up and listen," Sabrina snapped.

"Believe it or not," Charlie said, "we're going to do you a big favor."

Sabrina opened a drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. "Flint wanted to do to me what he was doing to you."

"You should be so lucky," Esther said to Sabrina, then motioned to Charlie, "but you sure as hell aren't if you're fucking
him."

"I'm not the one who's getting fucked," Sabrina said, spilling open the envelope on the table beside Esther. Out tumbled Charlie's photos of Esther making the drop in Playa Del Rey, and Flint picking up the money.

Esther slowly sorted through the pictures, her face reddening with each new shot.

"Flint Westwood was the one blackmailing you, Esther, not me," Charlie said. "You killed a man for nothing."

Esther stared at the pictures, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. It meant confronting the unthinkable notion that it wasn't her that Flint Westwood found attractive, it was her bank balance. And even more repulsive than that was the realization that if Charlie Willis wasn't blackmailing her now, he soon would be.

"I haven't killed anybody," Esther said evenly.
"Yet."
She pushed the pictures away. "Are these the only pictures you have?"

Charlie smiled. "If you mean, have I seen you riding Flint's pogo stick? Yeah, I have."

Sabrina shot Charlie a scolding look, a glance that Esther didn't miss.

"So, you little bitch," Esther sneered, turning her chair to face Sabrina. "When do I get your bill?"

"We don't want your money," Sabrina said. "We aren't blackmailers."

''Then why are you telling me this?"

Charlie spun Esther's chair around to face him and leaned forward on her arm-rests until his face was an inch from hers, forcing her to rear back. ''To give you a chance to do the right thing. You can either turn yourself in to the police, and take responsibility for the death you caused, or I can give all the photos and videos I have to the press and let them figure it out."

Esther glared at Charlie, her face screwed up in a scowl of hatred. "And you don't call that blackmail?"

''Think of us as your conscience," Charlie replied, straightening up. "If you have one, of course."

"Can I go now, or do you intend to beat me, too?"

"I already have," Charlie said.

Esther stood, pushed Charlie aside, and squeezed past Sabrina to the door. ''This isn't over. I'll see you both grovelling at my feet, I promise you."

"You have two days to get your personal affairs in order," Charlie replied.

Esther shoved open the door and slammed it shut behind her. Sabrina let out a deep breath and turned to Charlie. "Now what?"

"She's probably going to kill Flint Westwood," he said. ''Then us."

"What do we do?"

"My brother-in-Iaw's a cop. I'll have him keep an eye on Flint." Charlie took Sabrina in his arms and gently pulled her close to him. "And I'll keep an eye on you."

She squeezed him even closer and whispered in his ear. "I want more of you on me than that."

# # #

What saved McGarrett's life was his keen sense of apathy. He simply lay on the kitchen floor, watching with vague curiosity as Delbert Skaggs picked the lock on the back door and slipped into the house.

Had McGarrett jumped and barked and snarled like other dogs, Delbert would have had to use the silenced gun in his hand. But it turned out well for both of them. McGarrett got to live, and Delbert didn't have to kill him, something he would have hated to do.

Instead, Delbert petted McGarrett with his gloved hand and proceeded through the house looking for Flint's videos. He didn't have to look far. Charlie had shrewdly hidden them on top of the VCR.

Delbert set down his gun and his briefcase and picked up the universal remote. He turned on the TV and the VCR, and hit Play. McGarrett ambled in and watched Esther having sex his way, then he returned to the kitchen, his mild curiosity satisfied. So was Delbert's. He switched off the VCR and left the tapes where they were—he'd take them on his way out.

When Delbert first heard about Flint's predicament, he was afraid it would complicate his strategy for dominating network television. But then, after giving it some thought, Delbert realized Flint's problem was actually a stroke of luck. Even Daddy Crofoot appreciated it once Delbert explained his plan to him.

Delbert picked up the briefcase and headed for Charlie's bedroom, where he opened the closet and looked for a suitcase or a tote bag. Delbert found a blue gym bag labelled
LAPD
and, attracted to the irony, stuffed it with the $50,000 in his briefcase, which he'd taken from Flint, who'd taken it from Esther.

That done, all that was left was finding Charlie's gun.

# # #

Robokillers, giant mechanical monsters from another world, stomped through the city, smashing buildings, crushing cars, and firing flame-streaking missiles from the massive cannons mounted on either side of their gleaming steel heads.

Below them, a small band of resistance fighters mounted a brave, if ill-equipped, defence against the towering invaders. They battled the otherworldly death machines with bazookas, land mines, and rebel tanks, jury-rigged cannons mounted on iron-plated jeeps.

It was here, amid the blackened girders of smoldering skyscrapers, that the last great battle for humanity would be fought. And a thousand tourists sat impatiently on metal bleachers, their Polaroids and camcorders aimed and ready, waiting for it to start.

No one was more expectant than Joel Metzger who, at thirty-three, still lived at home and slept in uniforms from
Star Trek, V, SeaQuest,
and
Logan's Run
that his mom made for him. On weekdays, he worked at a comic book store. Every weekend and holiday, however, his butt was planted right here.

The
Global Armageddon
action show was a pyrotechnical extravaganza based on the hugely successful movie of the same name. The one that changed Joel's life. Before the movie, Joel had been a Spacey, a diehard
Space:
1999 devotee who found himself constantly embroiled in the heated world of fan bigotry. In the world of fandom, Spaceys were a reviled minority, downtrodden by the ranks of Trekkies and followers of The Force. Spaceys just didn't get the respect they and
Space:
1999, rightfully deserved in the science fiction community.

Tired of fighting against the narrow-mindedness of fandom, Joel sought respite in the opening day of the latest science fiction epic. Little did he know, standing outside the Mann Valley West on that fateful Friday evening three years ago, that the movie he was about to see would change his life forever.
Global Armageddon
wasn't just a movie, it was a rich, fascinating culture full of complexities and significance.

It was also a merchandising phenomenon for Pinnacle Studios, who depended on a steady stream of income from lunch boxes, hats, records, toys, T-shirts, canteens, videocassettes, candy bars and, of course, the
Global Armageddon
attraction at the tour, to finance lots of other, less successful movies.

Four times each day a dozen stuntmen reenacted a fiery battle between three towering Robokillers and the resistance. The entire fifteen-minute show consisted of the stuntmen taking spectacular falls, getting hurled through the air by explosives, and steering the rebel tanks over the rubble-strewn landscape, while all around them bombs exploded and buildings toppled, and Robokillers marched, shooting missiles.

Joel knew every move by heart, had analyzed the motivation of each character, scrutinized the battle strategy of both sides, and written a lengthy paper on the subject that was printed in the prestigious
Global Armageddon
fanzine. He'd sent copies of his treatise to the Pinnacle Pictures board of directors, offering himself as a consultant and proposing a complete redesign of the show based on his findings. Surprisingly, they had yet to respond.

Perhaps what eluded Joel was that a change in the program would cost millions even if, in the mythical world of
Global Armageddon,
it might give the resistance fighters a greater edge. All the staged action, from the hulking Robokillers knocking over buildings to an out-of-control jeep bursting into flame, unfolded according to an automated and precisely timed computer program activated by remote control. The show was, in essence, an updated version of a player piano, only instead of playing a ditty, it decimated a make-believe city.

The Robokillers and vehicles were on tracks, the buildings crumbled on cue, and each missile moved along a predestined course on barely visible filaments. Nothing was left to chance. It was all operated by remote radio control by the day's toothsome master of ceremonies, usually a wannabe actor hoping to break into the business by working on the tour.

Joel was one of the few who aspired to be just a
Global Armageddon
host, nothing more. No one cared about the characters, understood the enemy, or saw the show more than he did. But most of all, he dreamed of holding the remote control that brought the world of
Global Armageddon
to life. In fact, he could be happy if that was all he achieved in his life.

Sadly, this was as close to
Global Armageddon
as he was ever going to get. Because while the Robokillers marched through the city, a far more terrifying, and unbilled, studio attraction prowled beneath the bleachers.

Boo Boo was hungry.

It wasn't enough that
he
was hungry, he had a mate to feed now, too, back in his cave, deep in the backlot jungle. Boo Boo's drooling, moaning, prostrate lover, with her deep mane of golden hair, was everything Boo Boo had ever dreamed of. Life was good these days, spent mating, sleeping, barking, and hunting for food.

He brought his lover back half-eaten hamburgers, stale fries, anything he could scavenge. That was fine for mere sustenance. But what he craved, and his lover deserved, was the delicacy dangling above him right now—a big, juicy ass.

Which, unfortunately, happened to belong to Joel Metzger, who was about to experience his own personal Armageddon, thanks in large part to the fact that he'd sat in the same spot every time, week after week, show after show, for years. The bleacher beneath him had imperceptibly begun to sag under the stress of his excited bouncing and jumping, day in and day out.

At the exact moment when one of the Robokillers shot a missile seemingly into the audience, and hundreds screamed in surprise, Boo Boo leapt up and sank his fangs into Joel's butt.

Joel's scream was drowned out by those around him. When the bench broke, and he was pulled down under the bleachers, those who noticed thought it was part of the show.

He landed on the back of his head, snapping his neck and dying instantly, which was probably fortunate, because a moment later Boo Boo was tearing his flesh off in thick, bloody chunks.

Meanwhile, everyone in the bleachers above was too spellbound by the destruction in front of them to notice the carnage occurring under their feet.

In fact, Joel wouldn't be missed until three days later, when his mother returned from a slot machine tournament in Tahoe to find, to her horror, his
Deep Space Nine
bed sheets unwrinkled and the new box of Rice Krispies she'd left for him unopened, the free
Global Armageddon
action figure still buried inside.

F
lint Westwood was glad when Esther called him on the set and invited him to her house that evening. He figured it would give him a chance to do a quick appraisal of her personal property and see if maybe a price hike was in order. Besides, after the harrowing day he'd had, he was in the mood for some penile adulation.

So he left the set in his Porsche and sped along Mulholland Drive to her Beverly Hills estate, which was hidden behind a high stone wall and tall trees.

Esther's house resembled a French villa in Provence and, in fact, almost was. She'd bought a three-hundred-year-old stone mansion and had it dismantled and shipped to Beverly Hills to be reconstructed. Unfortunately, no one could decipher the dismantlers' French scrawls and crude drawings. And even if they could, the county's building codes and seismic regulations prevented her from rebuilding the house anyway.

So Esther's house became a
replica
of a French villa, while the
actual
French villa became the wall that surrounded Esther's property, the only imported wall in Beverly Hills.

Flint Westwood had no appreciation of French architecture or imported stones, but he understood what the folly must have cost her. And if she could still live well after that, then she had money to spare. To spare on him, that is.

If she had any servants, he figured she'd given them the night off, because she buzzed him through the gate herself. And she was there to meet him at the door, in a clinging silk robe, a crooked, lusty grin on her face.

Esther didn't say hello, didn't ask him why he was all bruised and cut, and didn't offer to give him a tour. She just grabbed him by the crotch and led him up the grand spiral staircase to her bedroom, which was dominated by a hand-carved four-poster bed and a crystal chandelier. She didn't want talk, she wanted action. Fine with him. He could peruse her belongings afterward.

She pushed him back on the bed, pulled off his pants, and began working his member into greatness without even taking out her dentures. Obviously, she worshiped his hard body. The way he figured it, the old bag was lucky to have him at twice the price, even if she knew it was him she was paying, which she didn't. And wouldn't. Daddy Crofoot would see to that. His endowment was worth as much to Daddy as it was to Flint.

Closing his eyes, imagining Sabrina Bishop writhing on top of him, he could almost forget it was Esther lapping up his awesome enormity and her ardent appreciation began to feel pretty good. He felt the blood surging downward, awakening the slumbering behemoth between his legs, making it rise in all its majesty.