My Gun Has Bullets (30 page)

"Why not?" Otto asked.

"It boggles my mind, too," Eddie replied. "I've tried to convince him, but he just refuses to accept it. Frankly, I think it's jealousy, that he didn't discover you and your immense talent himself."

"Can't we do the show without him?" Burt asked.

"Unfortunately, no." Eddie sighed heavily and refilled his drink. "I'm under exclusive contract to Pinstripe Productions, and if he doesn't go for the idea, it's dead. It's a shame, because I know the networks would flip for this."

There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the occasional snap of Burt popping one of his blisters. Eddie pondered his drink. Otto stared at the television, the opening titles of
Sunn of a Gunn
playing out in his mind on the blank screen.

Otto and Burt in tuxes, flanked by babes. Otto and Burt leaping out of an airplane, holding babes. Otto and Burt in their Bentley, babes in the back. Otto and Burt in a gunfight, protecting babes.

Then the picture abruptly vanished, as if someone had pulled the plug on the TV.

Otto looked up from the TV at Eddie.

"So, if Delbert Skaggs, for some reason, weren't around," Otto asked, "then Pinstripe Productions would do the show?"

"In a flash," replied Eddie, pleased that Otto had made the intellectual leap himself. Now all he needed was a little push. "I just don't see how that's gonna happen."

Burt shared a glance with Otto and smiled. "The same way it happened to Boo Boo."

"Hey, there's an idea," Eddie said, as if it were the first time it had occurred to him.

Otto smiled back at his friend. "Great minds think alike."

The two burnt stuntmen clinked their martini glasses together in a toast to their future, something Eddie would have to make sure they never had.

# # #

Charlie spent the early evening handcuffed to a chair outside the holding cells, waiting for his bail to be processed and his release to come through.

He told Ratliff the same story he gave to Emil Grubb, and was careful to keep Sabrina out of it entirely. Charlie still wanted a chance to clean up the mess himself, and figured he could always tell Ratliff all the dirty details if things got desperate enough. Though Charlie had a hard time imagining things getting any worse than they already were.

It was Ratliff's idea to wait until nightfall to get out of jail. Ratliff thought it would make it easier to slip past the throng of reporters, who spent most of the day crowded outside the building, angling for the opportunity to corner Charlie Willis, suspected murderer of a television icon.

Which was why Charlie was surprised the tiny television set on the guard's desk wasn't blaring out news about his arrest for the heinous crime. Instead, the UBC network announcer told viewers to stay tuned for
an astonishing, live special!
...

Suddenly there was Sabrina Bishop, standing in the center of what looked like a high-tech command center, surrounded by computer terminals, television screens, and smart-looking people either talking on headsets or typing away at keyboards. She was dressed in a sharp, efficient Ellen Tracy suit, grim-faced and serious. On her lapel was an official looking ID badge with her photo on it.

"Hello, America. I'm Sabrina Bishop. Tonight, we join a nationwide manhunt. We'll track the clues and follow the leads. We'll interview the witnesses, re-enact their experiences and, with your help, we'll try to answer the painful question tormenting us all." She stared solemnly into the camera.
"Where's Boo Boo?"

Those three words, in carved-granite letters, hurled into the camera, prompting a thunderous musical refrain, reminiscent of the
Dragnet
march.

An announcer's voiced intoned, "Everything you are about to see is true, up-to-the-instant facts in the search for Boo Boo as it unfolds,
live
from our Command Center with your host, Sabrina Bishop."

The theme played and the credits rolled over pictures of adorable Boo Boo, culled from his series. Charlie glanced at the guard, who was riveted to the screen.

Someone yelled from the holding cells, "Can you turn it up?"

It was a request from the alleged barbecue murderer. Earlier that day, he'd been arrested, standing over an outdoor barbecue, gently brushing hickory smoke sauce on the remains of his neighbor, whom he'd killed and chopped into bite-size pieces.

The guard silently obliged, cranking up the volume. Despite the gulf that separated law officer from criminal offender, the two men shared a common love deeper than the divisions that divided them.

Boo Boo.

Charlie looked over his shoulder and saw, to his surprise, that all the inmates were quiet, straining to catch a glimpse of the tiny screen. They actually gave a damn about a sitcom dog, almost as if the pooch were their own.

And that's when he came to a stunning realization: you don't have to be an actor in a TV show to confuse reality with television. Nobody can tell the difference.
Everybody
thinks these characters are real.

When he was growing up, he sought refuge on television, identifying with Reed and Malloy on
Adam-12,
and longing for the orderliness of their world. It affected his entire life.

Meanwhile, how many people felt like members of the Cartwright family? Or felt closer to Rob and Laura Petrie than they did to their own neighbors? How many people sent Rhoda Morgenstern a wedding present? Cried when Lucy Ricardo gave birth? Mourned when Henry Blake was killed? How had it affected their lives?

The enormity of television's power hit him for the first time. It was so strong it could even evoke sympathy from a psychopathic killer for a fictional dog. They actually
believed
that Lorne Greene was Ben Cartwright, James Garner was
Jim
Rockford, and Esther Radcliffe was Miss Agatha, and that they had a close, personal relationship with each of them.

"Sabrina will find Boo Boo," a suspected drug pusher opined, as if reading Charlie's mind. "She worked with Miss Agatha."

The BBQ murderer nodded in agreement.

Now Charlie understood something else. Don DeBono wasn't just exploiting the popularity of Boo Boo, but
Miss Agatha
as well. Everything about television was a manipulation of viewers' sympathies. The one thing he didn't understand was what Sabrina was doing hosting the show.

Where's Boo Boo?
returned with an establishing shot of a Wal-Mart store. The camera pushed in on the store, while Sabrina narrated. "Yesterday, in Sacramento, California, Gladys Aufderbeck went to this store for toothpaste. What she got was a brush with destiny."

And there was Gladys, thirty-two years old going on ninety, recreating her magic moment, heading down an aisle, pushing her rickety cart. Now it was Gladys's voice narrating the action. "I was in aisle seven, where the toothpaste used to be, but apparently they moved it to aisle eight some time ago. As I rounded the corner, I got the surprise of my life."

She stiffly and self-consciously re-enacted her look of surprise. The camera whip-panned down the aisle for a glimpse of what looked like a small dog, then cut to an extreme close-up of Boo Boo from an episode of
Boo Boo's Dilemma.
"It was Boo Boo," Gladys narrated. "Right there in Wal-Mart. The dog saw me and ran away."

The action cut back to the Command Center, where Sabrina now sat with Gladys at one of the computer consoles. "I was terrified," Gladys confided to Sabrina. "I was afraid whoever stole Boo Boo would come after me."

Sabrina gave Gladys a reassuring squeeze and a glance full of concern, then turned to the camera.

"Our team of investigators is in Sacramento at this moment, looking for clues," Sabrina said. "If you saw Boo Boo, call the nine hundred number on your screen. Each call costs $2.50 a minute, a portion of which will be used to continue our nationwide search for Boo Boo. In a moment, we'll visit a New Jersey front yard where Boo Boo may have left his mark only hours after his disappearance ..."

Charlie didn't get the chance to see the famous soiled shrub, because Ratliff arrived with his release papers. The guard reluctantly tore himself away from
Where's Boo Boo?
to unlock Charlie's cuffs.

Ratliff quickly led Charlie through the jail house, self-assuredly taking him through back corridors and secluded stairwells as if he'd designed the building himself. Finally, they emerged in an alley behind the building, where Charlie found a rented Chevy Lumina waiting for him.

Ratliff gave him a firm handshake and handed him the keys. "Stay away from the press. If they happen to find you, don't say a word and, whatever you do, don't hit any of them."

"I haven't heard the news," Charlie said. "What are they saying about me?"

"You don't want to know," Ratliff replied. "But we've leaked the section of the police report regarding your motive. When the truth comes out about Esther, and what she did to you, this is gonna look like justifiable homicide."

"I didn't do it."

"Whatever." Ratliff waved the thought aside. "If I do my job right, by the time this is over, your TVQ will be higher than ever."

"Of course, I may be on death row at the time."

"But think of the TV movie and publishing action we can get," he replied. "It could be enough to finance your appeals."

"What a reassuring thought." Charlie walked around the car to the driver's side.

"We always look at the bright side." Ratliff gave Charlie the thumbs-up. "I want to see you in my office the day after tomorrow. We have to start preparing your defence."

Charlie nodded and got in the car. Ratliff suddenly remembered something. As Charlie pulled out, Ratliff yelled after him.

"Don't forget my T-shirt!"

Charlie waved to him to show he'd heard, and steered the car onto a side street to avoid the reporters out front. He knew where he had to begin if he was going to find out the truth. With Flint Westwood.

It took him twenty minutes to get to Flint's place. He parked across the street and studied the house. There were no lights on, and Flint's car wasn't out front. Not that Charlie worried about running into Flint, but he wanted to know more before forcing an encounter.

Charlie got out of the car, crossed the street, and went straight for Flint's fuse box. He carefully lifted the panel to reveal the tiny tape recorder that he'd attached to the wiring several days ago. The miniature tape contained all the messages that had been sent from the voice-activated bug he'd planted in Flint's phone.

He pocketed the recorder, got in his car, and drove off, listening to the tape as he headed down Wilshire Boulevard toward Santa Monica, for lack of a better place.

There were several calls to Pinnacle Studios and to the set of
Frankencop
looking for either Eddie Planet or Delbert Skaggs. Charlie was familiar with Eddie Planet but had never heard of Delbert Skaggs, who, he gathered from the calls, was also a producer on the show.

The desperation in Flint's voice increased with each failure to reach Eddie or Delbert. Flint called their cars, their homes, and finally placed a call to the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas, where he asked for Daddy Crofoot's suite.

Charlie pulled over at Bundy and clicked off the recorder so he could think where he had heard Crofoot's name before. It must have been ten years ago. There had been a shooting outside of a Beverly Hills restaurant, and he was assigned to traffic control. A bunch of guys had opened fire on the diners, gunning down a group of insurance salesmen they'd mistaken for an East Coast mobster and his cronies. The mobster they were after was Daddy Crofoot. The suspected shooters were later found floating in the Los Angeles River with their throats slit.

Why would Flint Westwood be calling a mobster?

Charlie switched on the recorder again and eased the Lumina back into traffic. Flint's call was put through to Crofoot's suite and someone, presumably Crofoot, answered.

"Yes?"

"Where's Skaggs?" Flint demanded desperately. "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." Flint replied. "He's an ex-cop."

"I know who he is,
"
Crofoot said.

That remark surprised Charlie, until he remembered the media attention the
My Gun Has Bullets
shooting attracted.

"Is it safe to talk on this line?"

"If it wasn't, we wouldn't be talking."

"Right," Flint said. "Okay, here's the thing, Willis broke into my place, knocked me around, and found my home entertainment system."

"What do you mean, your 'home entertainment system'?"

There was a moment of silence on the line. "You know what I need to get it up. I had a babe with me, I was taking pictures, and he stormed in, kicked the shit out of me and took my film."

"Delbert, there's an extension by the couch, get in on this," Crofoot said.

There was a click, and then a new voice entered the conversation. Charlie presumed it was Delbert Skaggs, who asked to be filled in on the details. Crofoot quickly summarized things for him.

"So you were filming your fuck with hidden cameras?" Delbert asked.

"Yeah."

"Who was the woman you were with?"

"Sabrina Bishop," Flint said. "She's on Miss Agatha."

"Willis took the film of Flint doing her," Crofoot said. "So what?"

Flint cleared his throat. "Actually, he stole the film of me and someone else."

"Who?" Delbert asked.

Flint hesitated for a moment. "Esther Radcliffe."

Crofoot exploded, yelling into the phone. "Why the hell were you fucking that withered old bag?"

"For fifty grand a pop," Flint said.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Crofoot yelled. "Do you realize the position you've placed the show in?"