My Gun Has Bullets Read online

  "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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The 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.

  "Boo Boo feels betrayed," Lyle said, reminded once again how fucking stupid his agent had been not to negotiate a royalty for spinoffs. Which is why he accidentally let Boo Boo loose in the man's office. Which is why Lefty Leftcowitz was now known as Stumpy.

  Today, Stumpy stood a good five yards away from Boo Boo, right near the soundstage door, observing the negotiation, scratching the dry nub where his left hand used to be. He told everybody he lost his hand pulling a fork out of the disposal—because if Boo Boo went, so did the $5O,OOO-an-episode packaging fee that supported his pissant little "boutique" agency. It had always been a small agency; it became pissant after Boo Boo finished lifting his leg on every wall, potted plant, and agent in the place.

  "You exploited his fame and good name to create Rappy Scrappy," Lyle said to DeBono. "In fact, he resents not being consulted on the entire Thursday schedule. Whatever programs are put on after him reflect on his reputation as an entertainer."

  "Oh, let's cut the bullshit." DeBono leaned back in his canvas director's chair. "He's a fucking dog. How much money do you want?"

  Lyle loosened his grip ever so slightly on Boo Boo's leash. Boo Boo felt the leash slacken, but he didn't show it. His eyes were glued on DeBono's gut. Lyle dropped all pretence of businesslike decorum.

  "The dog gels twenty-five grand an episode, and I get thirty," Lyle grinned. "For my producing services. And nothing goes on Thursday nights unless I approve it first. I got to be sure it's compatible programming. So you can throw in a series commitment, too. I got a trained ferret that's a lot of laughs."

  Stumpy spoke up meekly from his corner of the stage. "Boo Boo also wants twenty-five percent of a hundred percent of the net profits against eight percent of a hundred percent of the adjusted gross profits. For each subsequent season, Boo Boo will vest himself for an additional five percent of a hundred percent of the net against—"

  "Shut up, Stumpy." DeBono's glare never wavered from Lyle. "You expect me to give you a million bucks a year?"

  "And you can lick my dog's butt for the privilege." Lyle leaned forward, close enough for DeBono to admire the look and smell of his raging gingivitis. "Because if we walk, your network goes from number one to negative integers."

  "Negative integers. " DeBono smiled. "You've been watching Sesame Street again. Let me tell you something Big Bird might have missed. This business is about relationships. Boo Boo's Dilemma won't always be number one. Three, four years from now, it'll be gone. And what will you do then?"

  "I'll have Boo Boo stuffed with thousand dollar bills." Lyle laughed, purposely letting go of the leash. Boo Boo scrambled toward DeBono, his nails scratching on the floor as he worked up the momentum for his leap.

  Stumpy bolted. All the suits scrambled, except DeBono, who calmly watched as the drooling beast lunged for him. Just as the dog was about to reach him, DeBono pulled out a dart gun and fired.

  Lyle lurched forward, falling out of his seat to catch his meal ticket before it hit the ground. DeBono stood up and looked down at Lyle and his spasmodic pet.

  "You're right—the show is very important to us, and we'll pay the million bucks," DeBono said. "But when talent is that important, we take out insurance. Sometimes the insurance ends up being worth more than the talent. Think about it."

  DeBono left, his lieutenants filing out with him, leaving Lyle alone with Boo Boo in his arms. In Boo Boo's narcotic haze, he looked at Lyle and saw DeBono, so he sank his teeth into the nearest flesh he could find, taking a big, delicious bite out of the hand that fed him. />
  # # #

  Eddie Planet swallowed a handful of Maalox tablets and faced the Angel of Death, who was wearing a sharply tailored beige suit and stood in front of the schedule board as if he owned it.

  The white plastic board was a map of primetime, divided by network, the nights broken down into half-hour blocks between eight and eleven p.m. The board was covered with magnetized plastic strips representing the various series. Whenever a show was cancelled or moved, Eddie would have someone rearrange the board. Midseason replacement shows, waiting on the shelf at the network, were stuck on the edge of the board, waiting to be placed on the schedule.

  Every producer had a board like this one, mostly as decoration and to look "plugged in" to the industry. Eddie even had one at home, just to cover himself. Of course, he hadn't updated that one since Saddlesore was on the air.

  When Eddie Planet sauntered into his bungalow office at ten a.m., Delbert Skaggs was already there, standing in front of the board as if he were watching a movie. Eddie's secretary, and occasional mistress, said Delbert had been there since six o'clock. That alone worried Eddie. No producer in his right mind arrived on the lot that early. The unspoken rule was to arrive just in time to make reservations for lunch.

  So Eddie ducked into the bathroom, emptied a handful of Maaloxes into his sweaty palm, and prepared to meet his new co-executive producer.

  Eddie was about to offer his hand to Delbert, but saw to his horror that his palm was streaked blue with antacid. Unlike M&M's, Maalox isn't guaranteed to "melt in your mouth, not in your hand," so Eddie was forced to wipe antacid off on his slacks as he approached Delbert.

  "Welcome to Hollywood, Mr. Skaggs, I'm Eddie Planet." Delbert turned around and looked at Eddie as if he were a misbehaving pet, prompting Eddie to quickly check his palm again before shaking hands with his new colleague. "It's a pleasure having you on the Frankencop team. Have you settled in to your office all right?" Eddie had arranged for him to have the tiny one across the hall. He punted the supervising producers, a shaggy writing team splitting one measly salary, to a trailer across from the Pinnacle Studios tour "Land of Muck," home of the mutant superhero Muck Thing.

  Delbert looked at Eddie with the dead, flat eyes of a shark. "This is my office."

  Eddie covered fast. "Right. That's what I meant. Are you settling in here all right?" Now Eddie was really panicked. This was a corner office. He'd always had a corner office. How could he be expected to work in a room with only one window?

  "Yes, very well. I've been looking at this board," Delbert said. "Explain it to me."

  But Eddie's mind was still on more important matters. If he had the tiny office, that meant he'd be sharing a bathroom with the office staff. Well, that was unacceptable. He'd slap an EXECUTIVE BATHROOM sign on there if he had to write it on the door himself with a Magic Marker. They could walk to the commissary to piss from now on.

  "It's the primetime schedule." Eddie was thinking it was imperative that a phone be installed in the bathroom. That could take a day or two. Until then, he'd have to bring his cellular with him. Damn, he'd need to charge up some extra batteries.

  "I know that," Delbert said, trying to be patient. Because if he lost his patience, he could slit Eddie's throat with a paper clip. "Tell me who the players are and what they want. Tell me their strengths and their weaknesses. Don't leave out a thing, no matter how insignificant you might think it is."

  Delbert had wanted Eddie Planet removed before he got there. But Daddy Crofoot felt they needed him, at least for a while. Eddie Planet was their legitimate front and a tour guide to the business. Delbert could accept that. But he got Crofoot's personal assurance that once Eddie Planet was no longer useful, he could be discarded in whatever manner Delbert wanted.

  Delbert could think of a few right now.

  Eddie had no way of knowing how much his life depended on what he said next. Perhaps something in Delbert's dead eyes gave him a hint. Because suddenly Eddie was aware that his armpits were drenched. He approached the board, trying hard to force out the image of the cramped office he'd be inhabiting, and focus instead on the schedule in front of him.

  "Boo Boo's Dilemma is the most watched show on television," Eddie said. "Everything that goes up against it is dead meat. UBC is virtually unbeatable the whole night. Thursday put the network on top."

  Eddie proceeded to quote, almost verbatim, the Daily Variety article he had read on the toilet only days before, leaving out, of course, the bleak future they predicted for Frankencop. "They're vulnerable at ten p.m., where I firmly believe our show will eventually kick the shit out of My Gun Has Bullets."

  "Eventually?" Delbert said.

  "I meant definitely," Eddie replied quickly. "Without a doubt. I'm just not one to toot my own horn." The remark reminded Eddie that if he used his cellular in the bathroom, he'd be left without one in his car. He liked to have one in his car even when he wasn't in it. If he didn't, what was the point of having a car phone answering service?

  "Continue," Delbert said, his eyes locked on the board.

  "UBC fights for time periods the rest of the week, winning more than it loses, but the only other night it really owns is Sunday," Eddie explained. "But Miss Agatha is getting tired and Red Highway is attracting the kids. Most of UBC's hits across the board are a few years old, they got maybe a season or two left in 'em. Don DeBono's gotta find some new hits, or they're gonna fall to third place as fast as they climbed to first."

  Delbert had stalked Don DeBono. He knew where he lived. What he ate. Who he fucked. He could take him out anytime.

  "DBC has no fucking idea what it's doing. They are dead last and willing to try anything. I hear they've got David Soul lined up for Citizen Kane: The Series." Eddie continued: "MBC's a strong second on most nights, but their longest-running series, that piece of shit Dedicated Doctors, is dead on Thursday. Johnny Wildlife is big with the Michael Landon crowd, so maybe it's got a shot if Morrie Lustig, the putz who runs MBC, moves it to another night. And they've got us, which, if you ask me, is their secret weapon and their next big, breakout hit."

  Delbert turned to Eddie. "What do you propose we do?"

  "Like I told Daddy, it's really out of our hands," Eddie said. "There are a million variables—time slot, audience flow, counter-programming. We've got no control over any of it. It's all up to the networks."

  "Daddy Crofoot isn't going to like that," Delbert said.

  "Hey, that's the business," Eddie said. "If he didn't like the rules, he shouldn't be playing the game."

  Delbert let it all soak in for a full minute, staring at the board. It was insanity. The producers were taking all the risks, but the networks were making all the decisions. They were spending millions of dollars, and for what? They had absolutely no control over their own fate. What kind of business was that? Why couldn't television be run like any other business? Or even like his business?

  And then it hit him.

  Who said it had to be done their way?

  Up until that instant, he had been staring at a plastic board covered in titles. But now it was coming to life for him. He saw it for what it was. He saw the possibilities. The potential. The millions to be made.

  This wasn't a primetime schedule. Those weren't television networks. And those little magnetic blocks weren't series.

  This was a city. The networks were mob families, all scrambling for a piece of the drug trade. Or the numbers business. Or the protection racket. It didn't matter what the pot of gold was, they all wanted a handful. And the television series—they were the lieutenants, the soldiers, the runners, the small-time hoods.

  It was aIso clear. He knew exactly what he had to do. How to make Frankencop or any other series a hit.

  Yes, this was what he had been waiting for—no, preparing for—all his life.

  He whirled around and grabbed Eddie Planet by the shoulders, causing the poor man to yelp in surprise and terror.

  "You fools," Delbert laughed. "You stupid, fucking
fools."

  "What?" Eddie blubbered.

  Delbert shook the buffoon. "It's so easy!"

  "It is?" Eddie feIt his bowels seize up.

  "A child could do this." Delbert pushed Eddie aside and faced the board again, relishing what was to come. He started rearranging series on the board, moving them across the schedule, rearranging the networks into a new configuration.

  "Yes, yes, it must go like this." Delbert was swept up, carried along by something bigger than the two of them. A man possessed by divine inspiration. He had found his calling.

  Eddie staggered backward, transfixed by what he saw. It was Beethoven conducting his first symphony, Einstein scrawling E = mc2 across the blackboard and opening up the universe. It was Moses parting the Red Sea.

  Delbert stopped for an instant, admiring his creation. "Yes, that's the way it should be. That's the way it will be."

  He turned to Eddie for confirmation. Eddie's head bobbed enthusiastically, like one of those dashboard doggies. Delbert then turned back to the board, juggling the magnetized pieces around once again. "Then it will be like this," he said.

  Eddie's back hit the wall. He watched in awe as the network schedules were turned upside down, as the laws of primetime physics were rewritten, as Frankencop went from a struggling show into an overnight hit.

  There was no question about it. Eddie Planet was in the presence of a genius.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The My Gun Has Bullets crew was on the backlot, which was doubling for downtown Los Angeles. While the director of photography oversaw the lighting of the abandoned warehouse set, the crew was hanging around the craft services table, killing time and accumulating calories.

  The craft services table was a perk devised eons ago to keep everyone on the set. An industry rule, carved in stone somewhere, mandated that there had to be an endless spread of crackers, candy, cheese, nuts, ice cream, chips, dip, sandwiches, fruit, cookies, and brownies available at all times, along with iceboxes of soft drinks, juice, and milk to wash them down.