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by Lee Goldberg

  It would be a short segment.

  McGarrett had been wandering around the house, whining and mewing, ever since John Tesh showed up. The dog had always preferred Leeza Gibbons. Charlie had been hiding in the dark, stealing glances outside through the slats of his Levolor blinds for a week.

  Throughout the night and well into the morning, he watched the reporters jockeying for position. Hard Copy duked it out with A Current Affair for the opportunity to report from his driveway. A cheeky correspondent for Inside Edition tried to rise above it all by straddling the fire hydrant, only to topple into the overgrown grass and McGarrett's droppings. Nightline went the classy route—they rented the house across the street, and planted Ted Koppel inside, right smack in front of the living room window, where the press scrambling in Charlie's yard became an exciting backdrop for a special report on "The First Victim of Television Violence."

  His window had become a television screen. Nothing he saw through it seemed real. He'd killed a man, and there was a horde of reporters out front vilifying him to a nation. And yet, it was so sudden, so hard to comprehend, so big, that somehow Charlie couldn't help feeling it was all make-believe, and no matter how complicated and bleak it seemed, it would end happily with all the loose ends tied up.

  That's the way it had always been on Adam-12. No matter how much disorder and mayhem there was in his life growing up, no matter how cruel the men were his mother married, no matter how loud his sister sobbed, no matter how powerless he felt, he could always find order on television. There, if nowhere else, he could control his environment. He could be certain good would prevail over evil, and everything would, eventually, make perfect sense.

  As much as he wanted it to be that way in real life, it wasn't. He'd certainly found that out in his twelve years on the Beverly Hills police force. Which was one reason why, when given the chance, he gave up on reality and took a day job in the land of make-believe. Where Charlie Willis became Detective Lieutenant Derek Thorne, man of action, a hero capable of bringing justice to a world beset with danger, solving the most perplexing, complicated and impossible mysteries, reducing them to simple problems with one simple solution.

  My Gun Has Bullets.

  It couldn't be any clearer, or more orderly, than that.

  But at the end of the day, Charlie had to return to reality, which had become, since Connie left him, as empty and joyless as the Ikea showroom he had unconsciously recreated in his home. His place in Reseda had become little more than a rest stop on his commute between real life and reel life.

  Charlie picked up the acrylic paperweight and stared at the bullet, his ticket from L.A. to Oz, that Iay suspended inside it. He remembered Alice, the extra he'd brought home from the set. He remembered her holding it in front of her eyes, staring at it as if it had magical powers, desperately wanting to be transported with it to the make-believe land Charlie inhabited. What fantasy had he seduced her with? Something about getting shot while single-handedly taking down some robbers.

  At the time, he wondered where that voice had come from, why it had been so easy to spin such elaborate lies ... the fiction she so desperately, and so willingly, wanted to hear. Alice had wanted to sleep with Derek Thorne, not Charlie Willis, and who could blame her? So he gave her what she wanted. Charlie slipped into the role so easily, and so comfortably, that maybe he believed fiction had become reality.

  But it hadn't.

  Derek Thorne would have remained rock hard all night, sending Alice into an orgasmic delirium. He certainly wouldn't have come while she was slipping on the condom. Charlie had shrugged the experience off, which wasn't hard to do, because the next day he smashed a cocaine ring, found a kidney for an ailing orphan, and seduced an international hit-woman, all before lunch.

  Charlie had no real life, so he settled into the fictional one. Was it any wonder none of this seemed real?

  It was certainly real for actor Darren Clarke. A TV villain to viewers. A commission to his agent. A loving son to his adoring parents. A sincere and caring lover to his girlfriend. A nobody to Boyd Hartnell. And now, a corpse, thanks to Charlie Willis, cop turned actor, actor turned killer.

  Charlie rolled the paperweight in his fingers, the smooth acrylic soft to the touch, belying the harshness of the bullet it encased. He felt powerless, alone, empty. His life was spiralling out of control and he was only an observer.

  Suddenly, Charlie felt like sneaking out the back door, screeching away in his Camaro, and reinventing himself somewhere else. Instead, he peeked out the window again.

  John Tesh was wrapping up his report, making a smooth segue from Charlie Willis to an inside look at the new $75-million-movie Titanic.

  Charlie let the blinds flap shut and, for the first time, began to feel the first sparks of anger.

  Derek Thorne wouldn't be hiding in the dark, stealing peeks at the enemy outside, feeling sorry for himself and plotting his escape. No, Derek Thorne would holster up his massive gun, stomp outside, and look the camera right in its single, naked eye.

  "I don't know who set me up, but I got a message for you," he'd say. "My gun has bullets and I'm coming for you."

  Derek Thorne wouldn't have let Connie walk out, either. He would have thrown her ass out, through the plate glass window. And Atilano? Pow, right in the kisser.

  Take charge, that was Derek Thorne's way. And if people didn't listen, he'd let his gun do the talking. But this was real life, and Charlie Willis wasn't Derek Thorne.

  That's when a thought occurred to Charlie, hitting him with the life-changing, explosive force of Esther Radcliffe's bullet. Alice thought he was Derek, didn't she? Or at least she was willing to believe he was. And if she could believe it, why the hell couldn't he.

  If anyone was Derek Thorne, it was Charlie Willis. He spent most of his waking hours in the role, why not the rest? If Derek Thorne could kick ass, why couldn't he?

  None of this was Charlie's fault. Somebody else put a bullet in his prop gun. Somebody else made a killer out of him. Somebody else had to pay.

  Charlie hurled the paperweight against the wall. It shattered apart, nearly nailing the dog, who yelped and scampered to safety behind the couch. Charlie scooped up the bullet, stuffed it into his pocket, then glared at McGarrett.

  "Stop whining," he snarled, "or l'll blow you away."

  The dog didn't seemed convinced, but Charlie wasn't going to let McGarrett shake his new-found confidence. He marched to the closet, found his police-issue shoulder holster and gun, and strapped them on.

  He felt better already.

  # # #

  A toothy mannequin from one of the local TV stations was in the middle of a live report from Charlie's front porch when Charlie threw open the door, grabbed the microphone from the startled newsman's hand, and aimed his gun right into the camera.

  "I don't know who set me up, but I got a message for you," Charlie said. "My gun has bullets and I'm coming for you."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Eddie Planet was having at least two revelations as he nuzzled his wife's saline-filled breasts, the rip-roaring theme from Saddlesore blaring from the speakers on either side of the bed. One revelation was that Delbert Skaggs was going to revolutionize the television industry and Eddie would be a major player in the new world order. And, realizing this, Eddie had his second revelation—that he didn't have to coax his reluctant pecker into action with old TV themes from his past hits anymore. That was the revelation he was enjoying most at this moment. And Shari, too, who had thought his hormones had died with his career. Hers certainly had.

  But now his schmeckle stood at attention, as if to say, "I'm attached to Eddie Planet and proud of it," rather than shrinking into obscurity in the darkness of his crotch as it had for so many years.

  Shari was astonished by her husband's sudden, obsessive interest in sex. He'd paw her whenever she passed, and when he wasn't able to catch her, she had a sneaking suspicion he was actually jerking off alone.

  She wasn't sure what had
come over him, but she was happy. His ardor was rekindling her own, which she had previously channeled into shopping, spending Eddie further into debt and, in turn, further into impotence.

  But something had changed.

  Eddie could tell her what it was, but she'd never understand. She wouldn't comprehend the awe—no, the euphoria—hefelt watching Delbert Skaggs at work on the primetime schedule. It was nothing short of a religious conversion. This was the Coming of the Lord. Delbert wasn't the Angel of Death. He was the Son of God.

  The God of Television. The malevolent power behind jiggle shows, Gary Coleman, and infomercials. The inexplicable force that made The Flying Nun a hit and yet denied stardom to Mark Shera.

  Delbert Skaggs showed Eddie the light, and Eddie was an eager disciple. Almost immediately, Eddie's bowels began to move with the regularity of a Swiss timepiece. He resolved to follow his leader's wisdom, the most profound kernel of which was delivered from the mount by Daddy Crofoot himself.

  Thou shalt have at least three orgasms a day. If there's no one around, thou shalt use thy hand.

  Huddled in his executive bathroom, his pants around his knees, whipping his schlong into reluctant service, he knew Frankencop would be saved.

  See, Eddie had faith.

  If there was any doubt, the God of Television had given Eddie a sign. Charlie Willis gunned down his guest star. My Gun Has Bullets was scrapped, leaving UBCvulnerable and giving Frankencop the time period. Instantly, Frankencop went from struggling second at ten p.m. Thursday to number one. Eddie Planet was a player again.

  Which, in itself, was a certified miracle. Courtesy, no doubt, of Delbert Skaggs or Daddy Crofoot. It didn't matter. He just knew the results. He didn't really want to know who was responsible.

  When Shari came home from her astrology appointment, Eddie was lying in wait, his erection straining his polyester pants to the breaking point.

  Now her DKNY outfit lay in shreds at the foot of their chrome four poster bed, which was moving to the relentless stampede of SaddIesore, Eddie a bucking bronco beneath Shari, who straddled his groin like a saddle, riding him furiously toward her orgasm. She twisted and jerked, shrieking in time with each whip crack and Frankie Laine yee-haw, clutching Eddie's hairy shoulders for dear life until whammo, she climaxed so hard Eddie feared she might pinch off his dick. But his fear passed in a microsecond, as his own orgasm hurled him face forward into the cleavage of sweaty, saltwater sacks, bending his nose so out of shape it bled.

  When it was over, she curled up against him, resting her head on one of Eddie's saggy pecs, staring down at his weary tool, throbbing as if it were panting for breath.

  After sex, some people light a cigarette. Others quote poetry. Some go on a sugar binge. Eddie reached down for the remote and flicked on the TV.

  Charlie Willis suddenly appeared. He looked Eddie in the eye, aimed his gun at him, and said, "My gun has bullets and I'm coming for you."

  Eddie's newfound faith evaporated almost as quickly as his erection. He switched off the TV, abruptly twisted out of bed and, clutching his cramping stomach, rushed for the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes later, he stumbled out with leaden legs, his toes tingling as the blood slowly dribbled back into his lower body, the distinct impression of the toilet seat ringing his butt. He headed for the phone, dragging one lame, completely numb leg behind him and, although it was after midnight, called the office.

  It was the only number he had for Delbert Skaggs, and somehow he wasn't surprised when the Son of God himself answered the phone. No hello, no howdy, not even a questioning "Yes?" Just the sound of breathing greeted Eddie on the line.

  "Mr. Skaggs?" Eddie asked tentatively, wondering what the hell Delbert was doing there. Maybe the Son of God didn't sleep. Maybe he wasn't even human.

  "Yes, Eddie," Delbert replied, sitting in total darkness, lit only by the glow of four muted television sets. Charlie Willis was on all of them, in one form or another.

  "What a day, eh? One minute you're scrambling for anything to get a bump in the ratings. You're ready to drop twenty-five grand on stunt casting, hoping Scott Baio or Tim Conway can steal one measly share point from the dumb-ass show that's kicking your butt and what happens? Some idiot actor shoots his guest star and solves all your problems for you," Eddie said, his way of throwing chum in shark-infested waters. "I love this business, don't you? You never know what's in the script."

  "It's a fortunate turn of events." Delbert knew what Eddie was getting at, but like Crofoot, he delighted in letting Eddie squirm. There was something about Eddie's personality that encouraged it. Everybody probably enjoyed it, his wife, busboys, panhandlers. Eventually, he'd watch Eddie squirm in an entirely different way, the kind that only happens when your life is gushing out of your neck. "But our troubles are far from over."

  Eddie was relieved Delbert hadfinally gotten the point. For a Godlike deity, he could be awfully dense. "You think Charlie Willis is serious about what he's saying? I mean, I'm protected, aren't I?" His legs were still asleep, but as they slowly awakened, they felt like they were covered with ants.

  "Charlie Willis is not our problem," Delbert said. "Boo Boo is."

  Boo Boo? Charlie Willis was gunning for them and Delbert was worried about a TV dog? Perhaps Delbert didn't grasp the seriousness of the situation. "This guy is pissed and if he finds whoever loaded his prop gun with live ammo, he's gonna kill 'em."

  "Let him," Delbert said, astonishing Eddie. "It means we can be certain My Gun Has Bullets will never return to the schedule. And while that's definitely an advantage, we are vulnerable as long as Boo Boo's Dilemma is still on the air."

  The man was clearly fearless, Eddie decided. Or completely insane.

  "Audience flow is like water, Eddie," Delbert explained. "You turn off the spigot, and the water stops flowing."

  "Uh-huh," Eddie said slowly, realization seeping into his foggy mind like the circulation returning to his legs. Suddenly, the tingling feeling was gone, replaced by a wave of warmth that brought his legs back to life.

  "I want to divert the flow of water," Delbert said, wondering if his choice of metaphor had been too complex for Eddie to grasp. A shoelace could confuse Eddie Planet. Then again, in Delbert's hands, a shoelace could also kill him.

  "You want to cancel Boo Boo?" Eddie whispered incredulously.

  "No," Delbert said. "I want to kill Boo Boo."

  Eddie's circulation was back, so his legs should have been strong. And yet they suddenly buckled beneath him. He grabbed the counter for support.

  Kill Boo Boo?

  Without Boo Boo, UBC's Thursday schedule would crumble and, with it, their control of primetime. It would be open season, each network scrambling for domination of the airwaves.

  Kill Boo Boo?

  Delbert was proposing nothing less than a revolution in primetime strategic thinking. First the advertisers controlled television, and a series stayed on as long as the advertiser was willing to pay the bill. Then the networks got smart, bought the shows themselves, and sold advertising off in chunks, the price tag based on the ratings. As long as Eddie had been in the business, networks controlled their own destinies. They decided when a show was renewed, cancelled or moved.

  What Delbert proposed was taking the power away from them and putting it in the hands of the producers. Why let your rival make all the decisions? You want to cancel a competing show, you do it yourself. Why fight for ratings with stunt casting, high concepts, and big-name stars, when bullets are so much cheaper? When you could just ...

  Kill Boo Boo.

  Good God, it was incredible. Simplyincredible. And Eddie Planet wanted to be a part of it. Eddie wanted to become a made man. He tried to speak, but squeaked instead.

  Slowly, he forced himself to stand up straight, to summon his voice and take the first, bold step into his future.

  "I know just the guys for the job," Eddie said.

  Boyd Hartnell's house was a lot like the hair on his head. The one-story g
lass box had a tenuous hold on Mulholland Drive that defied gravity and was frightening to lookat. And, like his hair, it was destined to fall.

  The house balanced over the edge of the cliff on four stilts. The perpetually cracked driveway and splintering front porch were the only parts of the house that touched flat ground. The property values of the canyon cottages in the house's shadow plunged with each new shiver along the San Fernando Valley fault. But Boyd wasn't worried. The world could rattle and roll, but the house, like the man who inhabited it, would stand tall.

  He was a strong believer in the symbolism of power. His office commanded a view of the valley and the entire studio. He wanted people to know that, at his whim, he could cast his awesome glance upon them and, in that instant, decide their fate. When they were summoned to see him, he wanted them to feel as if they were ascending into the heavens for an audience with the almighty.

  And so it went at home. Even at rest, he towered over everything he saw. There was no higher point for a home in Los Angeles; he had looked into it. While other men cowered in vast estates in Bel Air, he rose above them. Don DeBono might run the network, but Boyd Hartnell could piss on his roof. He knew, because he had.

  Boyd Hartnell was a powerful man. Sabrina Bishop had to know that from the moment she met him. Her stardom was his to make, or break.

  When he came to her on the set this evening, she had to have been giddy with surprise, bowled over that he deigned to spend his dinner with her. He swept her away to an intimate meal at an absurdly expensive bistro, where the price of a glass of bottled water rivalled that of a fine wine. But he wanted her to know money was of no consequence to him. He was above such concerns. He was a star-maker, and he wanted her to know that, for the moment, he had cast his eye upon her and everything else was a distraction.

  Now, as he prepared drinks for them both, he could see her standing on his deck, her back to him, taking in his extraordinary view. She said she needed air.