My Gun Has Bullets (7 page)

"Thank you, Miss Radcliffe," Sabrina said. "I'll do that." Sabrina was bringing the glass to her full red lips when Boyd came up with a solution.

"Well, we'd better run along, the producers are expecting us." He stepped forward as if to set his glass down. Instead, he purposely stumbled, falling forward into Sabrina and spilling his drink, and her own, all over her T-shirt.

Sabrina shrieked as the cold tea touched her skin. The wet cotton became almost translucent, clinging to her breasts like Saran Wrap, her large, round nipples drawing into tight, sharp points.

The view wasn't lost on Boyd or Esther. He wanted to pull her wet shirt off and dry her breasts with his tongue. Esther discovered a body even she had to admit was better than her own. "Oh, Christ." Boyd reached for a towel, but Esther grabbed it first. "I'm terribly sorry." Meaning that he didn't get to the towel first. That he didn't have a chance to use it as a cheap excuse to fondle Sabrina's fantastic breasts. That he wasn't born with a wondrous mane of hair.

"No, don't apologize," Sabrina said. "Miss Radcliffe was right, the tea's very refreshing."

Sabrina laughed again, like a gleeful child, not an ounce of scorn or anger in her. Boyd and Esther had an epiphany just then. Boyd knew he had to have her. And Esther knew Sabrina had to die.

# # #

Andre Blauson didn't struggle through Le Cordon Bleu to end up slinging burgers at a movie studio commissary and preparing steaks for Boo Boo, the sitcom dog. Then again, he never foresaw a glut of first-class chefs and a dearth of high-class restaurants to employ them.

The good old eighties were over. Extravagant excess was harder and harder to find. With Reagan gone, Milken in a halfway house, and leveraged buyouts bankrupting America, there were fewer and fewer people who could pay $26 for a dinner salad and $50 for a hamburger. Where trendy French bistros and Italian trattorias once dotted Melrose and Ventura, Burger Kings and El Pollo Locos had taken their places.

So now Andre worked at Pinnacle Studios, merging his culinary creativity with assembly-line food service. And, of course, preparing special meals for the exacting tastes of individual stars. Like the steak tartare for Boo Boo, a particularly finicky eater with a nasty temper.

But rather than feel humbled by his unfortunate position, Andre considered what he was doing a shrewd political move. The people he served here were, ultimately, the people who would make or break a fine restaurant. If he could ever launch another one. Here, he had a captive audience comprised of the rich, the famous, the influential, and, including Boo Boo, the canine. The elite of Los Angeles social life. By dressing up their hamburgers and calling them
Hachis de Boeuf Dijonnais au Saint Amour,
he was making invaluable connections. An investment in the future. Besides, it gave him the opportunity to ogle some of America's most attractive women.

Which is what he was doing right now.

Sabrina Bishop stood before him in only her vest and jeans, a script under her bare arm, her nose crinkled in thought as she surveyed his luncheon offerings. Without a T-shirt, her tan skin and deep cleavage tantalizingly revealed by the plunging lines of the vest, she was positively intoxicating.

"How may I serve you,
mademoiselle?"
he asked her cleavage.

She smiled and surprised him with:
"Mes seins voudraient seulement de la salade verte avec des crevettes, si'l vous plait."
Which meant her breasts would like a shrimp salad, please.

Red-faced, Andre turned to prepare her meal.

"If you don't want them noticed, you ought to wear some underwear," said a voice beside her. She turned to see Charlie Willis holding a tray.

"You speak French?" she asked.

"No, but I've seen a lot of dirty French movies," Charlie replied. "Want to hear what else I learned?"

Andre unceremoniously dropped her salad plate on her tray with a curt
"Merci."
When he got his own restaurant again, there was one starlet who wasn't going to get a good table, unless she wanted to be seated in the bathroom.

"It was an accident," she mumbled to Charlie. "Boyd Hartnell splashed a glass of iced tea on my shirt."

"I know Mophead, and I guarantee you it was no accident," Charlie said.

She headed for the cash register, Charlie a step or two behind her. But before she reached the machine she turned to face him, a tinge of anger in her cheeks. "But what would be wrong if I was proud of my body and wanted to show it? Does that justify someone talking to my breasts instead of to me?"

Charlie thought about it for a moment. "Yeah."

Despite herself, Sabrina smiled and glanced down at her outfit. So did he. "I suppose you're right." She looked up again and shrugged. "I didn't think anybody would notice. I mean, the lot is fun of shows, full of actors. There are people dressed like hookers, Vikings, bums, hideous monsters. What's one woman without a shirt?"

"An eyeful," Charlie said.

When they reached the register, Charlie pulled out his wallet. "Allow me, ma'am."

Ma'am?
" It seemed to her he didn't even notice he said it. If it didn't sound so genuine, so natural, she wouldn't have found it charming. She would have thought he was a putz. "You don't have to do that."

"It's my way of welcoming you to Pinnacle Studios." Charlie pulled out a few dollars and handed them to the cashier. "Or as the French say,
bienvenue.
"

He held out his hand. "Charlie Willis."

She shook it. "Glad to meet you, Charlie." Her skin was unbelievably soft, yet her handshake was surprisingly firm. "I'm Sabrina Bishop."

"You
are
new here, aren't you?"

"My first day." She picked up her tray and sought out a table. Charlie followed, amused and attracted. There was something childlike about her and yet, at the same time, tough and experienced. It was a heady combination, especially combined with that body, her casual sexiness. No need for makeup or special effects to make
her
look good.

"Let me guess," he said. "D girl."

She whirled around, shocked, but before she could cut his head off, he said, "D
girl,
not D
cup.
I knew I shouldn't have said it. I'm kind of new around here, too. Fact is, I just learned the word today myself. It's slang for development executive who happens to be a pretty woman. I saw the script under your arm and took a guess."

"You're forgiven." She sat down at a table by the window. "I just joined the cast of
Miss Agatha."

Charlie nearly dropped his tray, which would have sent a
Hachis de Boeuf Dijonnais
flying into her bosom, but he recovered just in time. He took a seat across from her as she set her script down on the table. The episode was titled
Agatha's Niece.

''You must have a death wish." Charlie glanced at the script.

''That's what everybody keeps telling me," Sabrina said. "I don't get it. She's such a sweet lady. I think people are simply terrified by a successful woman."

Charlie picked up his hamburger. "She's a lunatic. Believe me, I know."

"Of course you do," she said good-naturedly. "You're a man."

Charlie was about to take a bite, but suddenly lost his appetite. He set the burger down and looked at Sabrina. The oath he once took to protect and to serve didn't lapse because he'd turned in his badge. At least, it didn't feel as if it had. He couldn't let Sabrina walk blindly into danger. So he reached down and began untucking his shirt.

Sabrina, curious, raised an eyebrow. "You always undress before you eat?"

"I wasn't always an actor."

"I didn't know you were an actor."

"I'm the star of
My Gun Has Bullets,"
he said. "But for fifteen years, I was a uniformed police officer in Beverly Hills."

That explains the
ma'am,
she thought. "So you took acting classes at night, did some equity waiver in your spare time, and it finally paid off?"

"No, I just did my job, went home at night, got up the next morning, and did my job again." Charlie pulled off his shirt and handed it to Sabrina. "Here, the shirt off my back."

Sabrina laughed. Charlie's actions were attracting looks from all over the commissary. "I can't."

"You wouldn't be the first woman to take it," Charlie said, his chest bared. "You can put it on later. Truth is, it belongs to the studio anyway. Which brings me to my point."

"This noble act of chivalry wasn't the point?"

Charlie stood up so she could see his stomach. He pointed to the scar. "This is how I became an actor."

She glanced at his body, her eyes pausing on the scar, and then she shrugged. "Don't take this personally, those are nice pecs, but you're not Arnold Schwarzenegger. I'm not even sure you're Don Adams."

She wanted to let more than her eyes wander his body, but she wasn't going to let
him
know that. Sabrina had writhed around with so many perfect bodies on screen, she found imperfection far more attractive. The fact he wasn't hard-bodied, and that he had a scar, only made him more desirable. That, and his surprising chivalry.

Charlie sat down, leaned toward her, and spoke in a low voice. "Esther Radcliffe shot me."

Sabrina just looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"I was on patrol, I pulled her over and she shot me," Charlie said. "They gave me
My Gun Has Bullets
in exchange for forgetting it ever happened."

Sabrina couldn't believe a person could stoop so low, to slander someone with such a ridiculous story. She couldn't begin to figure out what his motive might be, but she knew she had misjudged him. He was as bad as the others. She gathered up her things.

"I was beginning to think you were a nice guy," Sabrina said, getting up. "Thanks for setting me straight."

For once, he had told the truth about his gunshot wound and the woman wasn't buying it. And she
had
to believe him. Her life could depend on it. Charlie grabbed her by the wrist.

"Listen to me, Esther Radcliffe isn't going to share the screen with anyone, particularly not someone as beautiful as you," Charlie said. "Your life could be in grave danger."

She yanked her hand free and laughed at him. "Do you have any idea how stupid you sound? I can't believe you're that threatened by a successful old lady. It's pathetic."

And with that, she turned her back on him and stormed off. It wasn't until she was halfway to her trailer that she realized she still had his shirt.

Charlie remained in the commissary, shirtless and stunned, wondering where he went wrong.

"Actresses ..." he muttered to himself, then took a big bite out of his
Hachis de Boeuf
and tried to imagine what Esther Radcliffe would do next.

T
he Wallengren kitchen was known and beloved around the world. It was where the average problems of an average family were solved with equal doses of laughter and understanding—and the wacky hijinks of an acerbic stand-up comic reincarnated as an acerbic mutt.

The dog's name was Boo Boo, and it wasn't easy being a loud, smart-ass, fifty-year-old, cigar-chomping vaudeville comedian trapped in an extremely expressive, four-legged furball. We know this, because all of us could hear Boo Boo's thoughts, and they were absolutely hilarious.

That, as millions of people knew, was
Boo Boo's Dilemma.

The real Boo Boo, unknown to the network executives, managers, producers, and publicists assembled on the set that afternoon, was almost as smart as the character he played.

He was certainly meaner.

He liked filet mignon for dinner in a silver dish. He liked being followed around by a staff pooper scooper. He liked his air-conditioned doghouse in a private compound on the Pinnacle Studios lot. And what he liked most of all, was human flesh. Particularly baby fat.

There lay the source of the many "creative differences" behind the constant turnover in Wallengren family members. Right now, for instance, Boo Boo wanted to take a big chomp out of Don DeBono's butt.

The only thing restraining Boo Boo was his owner, Lyle Spreen, and the little tranquilizer gun he carried in his pocket. Lyle carried the gun because he knew Boo Boo as well as he knew himself. Like Boo Boo, Lyle was the result of generations of inbreeding. He, too, could fill up with so much hate he'd burst into an orgy of violence. It was like relieving a full bladder. Boo Boo could snap anytime, anywhere. Lyle was more predictable. He only unleashed his hatred doing two things—fucking and negotiating, which were, he thought, more or less the same.

"Boo Boo is very unhappy," Lyle said.

Don DeBono hated this white trash monkey. There was enough hair on Lyle's knuckles to make Boyd Hartnell a toupee. "Too much seasoning on his steaks?"

DeBono had tried to get rid of the two of them a couple of episodes into the first season—unfortunately, there wasn't a dog on earth that looked as ugly as Boo Boo. Now, every season, it was the same thing—Lyle and his pooch wanting more money. More control. More power. It was like dealing with Roseanne, only she rarely dumped a big smelly load at the annual affiliates' meeting.

"He wasn't told the
Rappy Scrappy
episode last season was a backdoor pilot." Lyle petted the dog on his deformed little head. His hair looked like greasy straw.

"Really?" DeBono glanced again at the miserable hairbag. Big mats of hair hung from his face, soaked in the rivers of drool that spilled out of his mouth. "Guess he missed the meeting. Must have been the day he mauled the director. In all the excitement, we must have forgotten to mention it to him."

With
Rappy Scrappy,
DeBono proved he learned from his mistakes. The rap-singing cat who lived with a wacky Jewish family looked like any other damn cat, so no one was going to hold DeBono up for caviar catnip or a feline producing credit come renewal time.