by Lee Goldberg
Of course she needed air. She had to be dizzy with the desire to please him, to stand out amid the glittering lights, the uncountable masses of people below, that clamored for his attention. To be in his home, to be so close to the center of everything, had to be intoxicating for her. He envied her the experience.
Boyd couldn't read her thoughts, but he knew what she must be thinking—that she couldn't believe she was actually here.
He had that right.
Sabrina couldn't believe she was standing on the deck, which jutted from the house, which jutted from the cliff, which meant she was just compounding the risk of toppling to her doom.
But the way she figured it, she'd been pushing her luck all night, first when she accepted Boyd's invitation to talk, then his invitation to dinner, then his invitation of a drink. Going on the deck couldn't make things much worse. It certainly put some distance between her and Boyd, a scrub brush in a suit.
I live right by the studio, he'd said. We'll have a couple drinks, talk a couple concepts, and I'll bring you back. And like an idiot, she'd said that sounded great. She was regretting her decision, and thinking of excuses to leave, when Thor, Boyd's buoyant golden retriever, came bounding out onto the deck, shaking every timber.
Sabrina gripped the wooden rail in terror, as if holding on to it would somehow protect her when the whole damn thing went plunging down into the dark canyon. What the hell was she doing here?
Of course, she couldn't say no to dinner. It was good politics. He was, after all, the president of the studio. And if she wanted her own series, he could give it to her. Unfortunately, that wasn't all he wanted to give to her. She'd caught him staring at her several times during the evening. She'd seen the look before. Men had been looking at her like that since puberty, when her breasts took over her body.
The panting dog danced around her, eager for some attention, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. He nudged her with his head, prodding her fora little affection. It was irresistible. Boyd could learn something from his dog—at least the animal was clear, honest, and straightforward about what it wanted. It wasn't until she was running her hands through the dog's unbelievably smooth, clean hair, that she realized she had been gripping the wood so tight there were splinters in her palm.
She went back inside. The dog chased after her, hungry for more attention, then obediently sat at her side when she stopped to look at the photographs on Boyd's wall.
Each one was a picture of Boyd with his arm around another celebrity. Boyd with Dean Martin. Boyd with Sharon Stone. Boyd with Annie Potts. Boyd with Corbin Bernsen. There must have been fifty of them.
"I'm looking forward to adding a picture of us to the wall," said Boyd, walking out from behind the wet bar with her Bacardi and diet Coke.
It was a stupid drink, she knew, but it fooled her into thinking she was sticking to her diet. She turned around to take the drink from him, and was stunned to see that he'd slipped into a red silk smoking jacket.
She took the drink and tried not to stare at his hideous jacket. There must have been a garage sale at the Playboy mansion. Five minutes, she figured, was all it would take to finish her drink and call a taxi.
"Is that like having my star on the Hollywood walk of fame?"
"It just means you're one of my special friends," he replied.
Truth be known, he had lots of photos of her. Stacked neatly in the drawer of his nightstand. Right beside the bed.
He covered the thought by flashing a loopy, casually lascivious grin that was supposed to pass for sophistication. But to Sabrina, he looked Iike a man whose hemorrhoids had just flared up.
"So you had all these pictures taken?" she asked, turning her back to him and studying the pictures. She had a hard time believing any of them were his friends, much less his "special friends." They all looked like they were being goosed by a guy with a dead animal on his head. And the ones that were signed "With love" all seemed to have been written in the same handwriting.
"No, most of them are candid shots, taken of my friends at charity events and premieres, and I just got caught in the flash. They kept sending me the pictures, so I started to stick them on the wall as a courtesy. Got to be a tradition, after a while."
He had a photographer on retainer, of course, just to take candid pictures of him with stars, many of whom no longer ventured out in public for fear Boyd Hartnell would be there, ready to slip his arm around their waists for a photo. But after a while, even Boyd began to believe his lie was the truth.
"Now, whenever I go out, they kind of make a point of shoving me in front of a camera," he laughed.
The dog nudged Sabrina's arm with his cold nose, so she absently reached out and started petting him. It startled Boyd so much he grabbed the couch for support.
"But you said you looked forward to putting my picture on the wall," she said, combing the dog's fur through her fingers. ''That sounds premeditated to me."
The sight of her running her hands through Thor's lush, golden mane sent a shiver through Boyd's body that started at his groin and rippled all the way up through each expensive strand of hair on his head. He tried to summon the breath to speak.
"I just meant"—he sucked in more air—"that I hope we'll become good enough friends that we'll have the occasion to be out together and have our photo taken."
"And that I'll send it to you," she said, idly smoothing the dog's hair, "signed 'With love, your good friend Sabrina.' "
It was flirtation. It had to be. She was doing to the dog what she wanted to do to him.
"Yes," he moaned, quietly setting down his drink and dropping silently to his knees beside the dog.
Sabrina was staring at a picture of Boyd with Candice Bergen, trying to discern if her autograph was, indeed, identical to Roseanne Arnold's, when her hand slipped from the dog's soft hair to what felt like a paintbrush dipped in bacon grease.
Disgusted, she yanked her hand away, and was horrified to see Boyd at her feet, his eyes closed in ecstasy. She dropped her drink and backed away, but not quickly enough. He lunged at her, wanting more.
She sidestepped him, grabbed him by the back of his smoking jacket, and flung him into the couch as if he were just another ninja assassin. He slammed into the couch with such force it tipped over with him, covering him with cushions.
The dog, thinking it was a game, jumped up on her, wanting to be tossed around, too. She gently pushed the dog away and glared down at Boyd, pinned under the couch.
"If you want to talk to me again," she said, "do it through my agent."
She walked out and began her long walk down to Ventura Boulevard, the look in her eyes so fierce, no one would have dared assault her.
Boyd lay under the cushions, embarrassed and aroused at the same time. He didn't blame Sabrina, it wasn't her fault.
He glared from under the pillows at Thor, who sat beside him, panting happily, blissfully unaware of the fate Boyd had in store for him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Charlie Willis could think of only one person who would want to hurt him, and she was passing out home-baked cookies to the crew on a silver platter, a big, warm smile on her face.
She glided through the drawing room set, offering cookies to the gaffers adjusting the lights, the dolly grip moving the camera into first position, the sound guy figuring out where to dangle his boom, and the prop masters as they made sure every doodad was in the right place.
If Esther Radcliffe were auditioning for the part of Betty Crocker, she would have won it, hands down. Of course, it was only a coincidence that a reporter from Esquire was on the set that day, a woman who greedily snagged four cookies for herself. The star-struck journalist said she was taking a couple of extras for Annie Leibovitz, who was on the backlot, preparing for Esther's afternoon photo shoot. But judging by the reporter's body, Charlie figured the onlyplace Leibovitz would see those cookies were on the reporter's hips.
Charlie tried to envision how the world-famous photographer would choose to i
mmortalize Esther's charm. Sitting in a Rolls, a smoking gun in her hand, would be his suggestion. Somehow, he doubted Annie would be that perceptive. Esther would probably end up on the cover dressed only in cookie dough.
He caught Esther's eye, and she nearly spilled her cookies, and probably her lunch, on the gaffer. Charlie held the gaze for a long moment, then slipped behind the three-walled drawing room set and headed for the soundstage exit. He knew she'd come after him soon enough.
He paused at the heavy door to slip on a pair of sunglasses, but before he got the chance he was hit by a burst of blinding glare as someone walked into the soundstage.
"You're the last person I expected to see on the lot," the person said softly, with genuine surprise.
It took a long two seconds before Charlie's eyes adjusted enough for him to see that the voice belonged to Sabrina Bishop, whose skin-tight black leather wasn't helping him distinguish her from the darkness. But he wanted to.
"Especially after what happened," she added, as if she needed to. "Shit. That wasn't what I meant to say. What I meant to say was, I'm very sorry."
"So am I," Charlie said, then surprised himself by adding, "But not as sorry as the person responsible for it is going to be."
Sabrina crinkled her brow, confused. "I thought it was an accident."
"A loaded gun is never an accident."
Who says shit like that? Certainly not me, Charlie thought. And yet he just had. It was happening again. Just like it had before. It was as if he had a split personality, Derek Thorne on one side, Charlie Willis on the other. Only this time, he wasn't saying it to seduce someone. He was just being honest. But he never would have spoken like that before. Then again, before, he had never killed anyone.
"You sound like a man investigating a murder," she said, a tentative smile playing on her lips. He figured what he had said was too silly even for her to take seriously.
"I am."
"Isn't it a little late to be getting into character?"
Charlie shrugged. "I figure it's about time."
Now that he could see clearly, he noticed just how tight her leather jumpsuit was. "How's Miss Agatha treating you?" he asked.
"She hasn't taken a shot at me yet," Sabrina said. "If that's what you mean."
"She will," he said. "Watch your back."
He slipped on his sunglasses and stepped outside. Sabrina trailed after him. "You're really serious, aren't you."
Charlie stopped and turned around slowly. She was squinting at him either because she couldn't make sense out of him or the sun was right in her eyes.
"Is that why you're here? You think she had something to do with what happened?"
"Yeah, I do," he replied.
Sabrina shook her head. "I must be missing something. We're talking about Esther Radcliffe, right? The lady who bakes cookies for the crew? The lady who knitted me an afghan?"
"The lady who shot me in the stomach."
"You're unbelievable," she said. But there was no edge in her voice. He could almost swear she said it with affection.
"I'm not asking you to believe me, Miss Bishop. In fact, I don't care whether you do or not." He met her eyes and smiled. "It's just that I like you, and I would hate to see you get hurt."
And with that, he walked away. Sabrina stared after him, a bit dumbfounded. She couldn't figure this guy out. One minute he was talking tough, like some TV character, and the next, so sweet and polite she could melt.
Miss Bishop.
In a business where absolute strangers and casual acquaintances hug and kiss each other with false sincerity and feigned affection, genuine courtesy was something she was not used to. It was almost, well, gallant. And she liked it. He was a sharp contrast to most of the men she met in the business. The image of Boyd Hartnell sitting at her feet, offering his head for petting, came immediately and sickeningly to mind.
It was only after Charlie disappeared behind the soundstage that she realized she'd forgotten to give him back his shirt.
She would just have to run into him again.
Sabrina was still standing there when Esther marched out, unconsciously banging her silver tray against her hip. "Where is he?"
"You mean Charlie?" she asked.
"Yes, dear, Charlie Willis." Esther forced a smile. "I wouldn't want him to leave before I had a chance to express my deepest sympathies to him."
For an instant, Sabrina thought she was staring at the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Just as quickly, it passed.
"He went off toward the dressing rooms", Sabrina mumbled. "You could probably catch him if you hurry."
Esther hurried off. Sabrina watched her go. Esther might have been able to hide the fury from showing in her face, but as she marched away, hunched over like a prizefighter heading into the ring, her body betrayed her.
And in that moment, Sabrina felt that first cold shiver of realization. Suddenly, Charlie's story didn't seem so unbelievable after all.
Charlie was waiting for Esther in her bus. He was admiring one of her Warhols, his feet up on an antique maple table, sipping Evian from a Baccarat crystal goblet, when she came in.
"No cookies for me?" he said, the first words he'd spoken to her since that fateful day in Coldwater Canyon.
She pulled the door shut behind her and frisbeed the silver platter at him. He shifted slightly to one side, and the tray whizzed past him into the mahogany-paneled wall. It didn't even make a scratch.
"You've got too much from me already," she hissed.
"Bullets are cheap," he replied, swinging his legs off the table and leaning over to pick up the silver platter.
She yanked open a drawer and fished out a pack of Marlboros and a Bic. "You know what I'm talking about." She lit up and blew smoke at him. "You're nothing but a greedy goddamn leech. You took one look at me and saw your meal ticket."
"That's right, I saw you speeding and thought, Hey, if I give her a ticket maybe she'll shoot me and if I don't bleed to death on the street, maybe I can get my own TV series," he replied. "Maybe if I'm real lucky, I thought, they'll dig the bullet out of my gut and I can get an attractive paperweight out of the deal, too."
He set the tray down on the table and met her gaze.
She blew some more smoke at him, her eyes blazing with hatred. "You provoked me, and got what you deserved. You obviously didn't learn anything from the experience."
"So you loaded my prop gun with live ammo to teach me another lesson," he said. "Only this time, you killed a man."
It was her turn to smile. "If it was me, it would've been the day player holding the loaded gun, not you. And you know why."
"Because I didn't die when you shot me."
There was a tentative knock at the door. "The director is ready whenever you are, Miss Radcliffe," a nervous A.D. called from out side.
"I'm on my way, darling," she chirped pleasantly toward the door, then she turned on Charlie, all the rage back in her face.
"Stop playing coy, you're not an actor and never will be." She snubbed out her fresh cigarette on the tray, leaning close enough to him that he was inhaling the smoke that curled out of her nostrils. She looked like a gray-haired bull, ready to charge.
"You'll get your fifty grand," she snarled, "but if you try to take me for another penny, I promise you the next bullet that comes your way won't miss."
She abruptly turned to the door, fumbled with the brass knob, then slammed her body against it in fury. She forced open the door and stormed out, leaving Charlie behind in her smoky dressing room, trying to figure out what she'd meant.
# # #
The squadroom set of My Gun Has Bullets, known to cast and crew as the "cop shop," was dark and empty, which only added to its authenticity.
Without the artificial brightness of movie lights and the reality of a film crew, Charlie almost felt as if he were walking through a downtown precinct that had been suddenly, inexplicably abandoned in the midst of a busy day.
Signs of life were everywhere as Ch
arlie wandered around the squad room. The desks were cluttered with bulging files, family photos, and personal mementos. Dirty, unwashed cups cluttered the table by the stained coffee machine. Half-eaten doughnuts were scattered around the room. Mug shots, APBs, and WANTED posters adorned the bureaucratic gray of the walls.
But the official-looking files were stuffed with script pages and fake police reports; fashion models and would-be actors posed for the family photos; and the personal mementos on everyone's desks were scavenged from the prop warehouse. The stains on the cups and the coffee machine were painted on. Dozens of real doughnuts could be bought for the cost of just one of the plastic pastries around the room.
Charlie had learned very quickly that movie magic was all in the details, the little things that barely register consciously, but that tell the viewer that what he sees is real enough to believe, even if it isn't. Jackson Burley, the producer of the show, once went into a rage over a toilet. In the story, the assassin was hiding his gun in the toilet tank. But it was the drain pipe from the toilet going straight into the wall that got the art director kicked off the show and banned at Pinnacle Studios.
The average schlub watching the show doesn't know a lot of things, Burley told Charlie. He doesn't know what dials and gauges are on the space shuttle's dashboard, so you can put as many blinking lights and switches on it as you want. He doesn't know how much $25 million weighs, so you can have your hero carry that in a satchel, even though it would never fit and would weigh about five hundred pounds. But just about everyone knows what a toilet looks like—and they know that the drain pipe goes straight into the floor.
It's one of the details that will pull the viewers out, Burley explained, and once they are out, you can't get 'em to believe the sky is blue. And if viewers can't suspend their disbelief, they can't enjoy the show and will tear apart the entire story, if they bother to continue watching at all.
Charlie thought about that as he strode into Derek Thorne's office, which had a commanding view of downtown Los Angeles, the painted backdrop perpetually sunny and smog-free. Charlie settled into the chair behind the desk and surveyed the room.