by Lee Goldberg
That morning, as Charlie watched Esther Radcliffe sucking Flint Westwood's outrageously large dick, he was struck by a few things. One, he now was confident he knew Esther's secret, and two, he knew why she was willing to kill the person she thought was behind it. What he couldn't figure out was why she hadn't realized it was Flint from the start.
She had to have been blinded by her own vanity, lust, and her hatred for Charlie Willis to have overlooked the obvious. Then again, perhaps not all the photographs were taken from the videos Flint filmed in his bedroom. Quite possibly, he had photographed other clandestine meetings, and had blackmailed her with those as well.
Now that Charlie knew Esther's dark secret, and what lengths Flint would go to secure new victims, he wasn't sure quite how to handle his discovery.
Perhaps there was a way to take care of them both, and keep his hands clean at the same time. While he was thinking about that, he heard footsteps coming from the bedroom. He quickly flicked off the set and turned to see Sabrina Bishop standing in the hall, naked under one of his shirts, which hung down to her knees.
She looked comfortable, as if she had been living in the house and wearing his clothes for years.
"Somehow, I keep ending up with your shirts," she said, smiling.
"You can have 'em all," Charlie replied, moving aside so she could sit next to him on the couch.
She sat down, kissed him lightly on the lips, and motioned toward the TV. "What were you watching?"
"A very special episode of Miss Agatha." He handed her the cassette box. "With special guest star Flint Westwood."
''The jerk who drugged my drink," she said, glancing at the box.
"Flint is blackmailing Esther with this stuff," he said, "and I think you were next on his list."
"Who'd give a damn if I was screwing Flint Westwood? Anybody can go down to Blockbuster, rent Torrid Embrace, and watch me give Andrew Stevens a blowjob." She shook her head. "I would have used the tape to nail the sonofabitch for raping me, which didn't happen, thanks to you."
"No thanks necessary," he replied, stopping himself before he said Just doing my job, ma'am.
Something suddenly occurred to Sabrina. She looked at Charlie, confusion on her face. "I don't want to sound inconsiderate, but what were you doing there?"
Charlie got up and smiled. "Fair question. Tell you what, you sit down at the table, and help yourself to some coffee. I'll explain everything while I make us some breakfast."
So she sat at the dining room table, scratching McGarrett behind the ears and sipping fresh brewed coffee, while Charlie told her the story from the kitchen. He repeated what he had already told her about Esther shooting him, and continued through the bugging of Flint's phone.
Sabrina listened intently, asking only a few questions, which surprised Charlie who, based on their past experiences, expected at least a little incredulity.
"What are you going to do next?" she asked.
Charlie emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates and some silverware. "I don't know. I was hoping you might have some suggestions."
He went back into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a platter of what looked like scrambled eggs, which he set down in the center of the table.
"It took you all that time to make scrambled eggs?" she asked.
"These aren't just scrambled eggs." Charlie proudly served her a big helping. "This is one of my mother's favorite recipes. Something she whipped together when we didn't have any money. She called it Dangerous Eggs."
"What's in them?"
"Whatever's left in the fridge."
She looked dubiously at the plate in front of her. ''That could taste awful."
''That's why we call 'em Dangerous Eggs."
She glanced at Charlie and cautiously took a bite. She chewed it for a moment, her face lighting up with surprise. "Hey, it's not bad."
Charlie scooped a healthy forkful into his mouth and nodded with agreement. "Yeah, it's pretty good." He shot her a smile. ''The pastrami doesn't overpower the macaroni and cheese the way I thought it would."
She shot him a playfully nasty look, and then they ate in silence. Sabrina plowing through three helpings of eggs and half a pot of coffee while Charlie watched, amused.
"What's so funny?" she asked. "It so happens I'm always hungry whenever I'm attacked by a dogman, drugged by a blackmailer, and rescued by a TV cop."
"Ex-TV cop," he replied, turning to McGarrett, who sat beside the table, drooling. He set the platter down in front of the dog, who devoured the remains, sliding the plate along the floor as he ate.
"Dangerous Eggs are his favorite dish," Charlie said.
"I'm afraid to ask why." Sabrina got up slowly from the table and started to wander around the room.
Charlie stayed where he was, content to watch her, to wait for what she had to say.
''This was inevitable."
"You mean getting kidnapped by Flint Westwood, or regretting that you ate my breakfast?"
"I mean us getting together."
She spoke with her back to him, like a bad TV show. Charlie knew, because he had starred in one. He had protested to the director that people never did that and, lo and behold, here was someone doing it. If he ever got back into series television, which was doubtful, he'd remember that.
"You and I are a lot alike," she said. "We're both new to television, we're both alone, and we've both been used by Pinnacle Studios. You're also the only sincere person I've met in this business."
"I sold out everything I believed in for fifteen thousand dollars an episode," Charlie said. "I don't feel so sincere."
''That's the other thing we have in common," she replied. "I sold out everything I believed in for fifty thousand, a Corvette, and direct-to-video stardom.
"So what you're saying is that we deserve each other."
"What I'm saying is that it's time we both acted on what we believe in," she said. "You believe Esther framed you for murder because she thought it was you who was blackmailing her. Me, I believe in you. So I guess that means you should kick her ass and I should help you."
Charlie got up from the table, walked over to her, and took her in his arms. "This isn't television. You can get hurt."
''Then I guess you'll just have to protect me," she said, pulling him lose and giving him a kiss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hartnell Missing, Burley Temping
While police investigate the baffling disappearance of Pinnacle Pictures Television topper Boyd Hartnell, veteran producer Jackson Burley will temporarily take command of the troubled studio.
"It's not often a creative type like myself gets to see what life is like in the executive suite," Burley said. "I have a great deal of respect for Boyd Hartnell, and until his return, I look forward to helping Pinnacle recover from its recent troubles."
The Pinnacle lot has been besieged lately with a string of tragedies, from the accidental shooting death of an actor on My Gun Has Bullets, to the disappearance of Boo Boo and the maiming of Johnny Wildlife's Reed Roland by a wild animal.
Burley brings with him a track record of series success, and has put several new projects into active development, including the return of Don Knotts to TV in Matt Jacob, based on the books about a down-on-his-luck, substance-abusing P.I.
Burley also revealed that James Arness will trade in his spurs for Soft Shoe, a sitcom pilot about a retired song-and-dance man who moves in with his gay son, a Broadway chorus-line dancer. "People think they're lovers," Burley says, "and then the hijinks begin."
At parties, director Dag Luthan would often regale everyone with hilarious stories about how difficult it was working with a monkey in Me and the Chimp, or coaxing a performance out of a Pontiac in Knightrider.
But now, getting chewed out by Esther Radcliffe, he longed for the days of working with obstinate simians and talking cars. "Look at these cue cards," she said, practically hitting him with the placard. "The handwriting is absolutely unacceptable."
That would have been too easy.
Instead, he saw Esther's lines written with a Magic Marker in big, simple, block letters that anyone, except perhaps the legally blind, could read with ease from twenty yards away. And he told her so.
"They couldn't be any straighter or more evenly spaced if she had done every letter with a ruler," he said.
"Exactly." Esther tore the placard in half. "The letters are lifeless, without character or emotion. It's throwing off my entire performance."
Luthan couldn't contain his dismay, even though he felt certain it would cost him his first steady job in years. "You want the cue cards written in character?"
"Is that so much to ask?" She tossed the shreds over her shoulder and marched off the set, leaving Luthan to stare after her, stunned, with absolutely no idea how to fulfill her outrageous demand.
Esther stormed out of the soundstage and started toward her trailer when Sabrina Bishop called out to her.
"Esther, could I talk to you for a moment? I could use your advice," Sabrina said, standing in the doorway of her trailer, which, as Esther had demanded, was a minimum of six feet shorter than her bus.
"Of course, sweetheart," Esther replied, eager to exacerbate any problem Sabrina might have, and to revel in whatever discomfort the unwelcome co-star felt in her cramped trailer.
Sabrina stepped aside and let Esther in, closing the door behind her and discreetly locking it, not that Esther noticed. The geriatric star was taking in the place, relieved to see the trailer was every bit as cramped and gaudy as she had hoped.
"You've done wonderful things with your dressing room. It's so homey." Esther sat down in one of the matching swivel chairs and smiled at Sabrina. "You certainly don't need decorating tips from me, so it must be something else. Whatever it is, darling, I'm here to help."
''The other night, I was assaulted by Flint Westwood," Sabrina said bluntly. "He drugged my drink, took me to his house, tore off my clothes, and tried to rape me."
"Oh dear, how horrible." Esther reached out and took Sabrina's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "What a nightmare."
It was the most acting Esther had done in twenty years. While she was doing her best to exude concern, what she really wanted to do was slap the lying little bitch until she bled. Esther knew Flint Westwood didn't need to drug women for sex, and certainly not when he had an incredible fuck like herself more than satisfying his needs.
"I only hope you were able to escape with your virtue intact." Esther figured Sabrina's virtue was probably tarnished before the little slut was in her teens.
"I was rescued before Flint could do anything else to me."
"By whom?" Esther asked.
"By me," Charlie replied, emerging from the bedroom curtain behind her.
The sound of his voice caused an instantaneous reaction in Esther. In a nanosecond, her polite facade shattered, revealing the monster beneath. Sabrina could swear Esther actually snarled as she whirled around to face her foe.
Esther started to rise, but Charlie grabbed her by the shoulders and roughly shoved her back into her seat.
"Sit down, Esther," Charlie said sharply. "We have some things to discuss."
"So you two are in this plot together," Esther hissed. "I should have known. The sleazy parasite after my money and the filthy slut after my show. It's a perfect match."
"Shut up and listen," Sabrina snapped.
"Believe it or not," Charlie said, "we're going to do you a big favor."
Sabrina opened a drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. "Flint wanted to do to me what he was doing to you."
"You should be so lucky," Esther said to Sabrina, then motioned to Charlie, "but you sure as hell aren't if you're fucking him."
"I'm not the one who's getting fucked," Sabrina said, spilling open the envelope on the table beside Esther. Out tumbled Charlie's photos of Esther making the drop in Playa Del Rey, and Flint picking up the money.
Esther slowly sorted through the pictures, her face reddening with each new shot.
"Flint Westwood was the one blackmailing you, Esther, not me," Charlie said. "You killed a man for nothing."
Esther stared at the pictures, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. It meant confronting the unthinkable notion that it wasn't her that Flint Westwood found attractive, it was her bank balance. And even more repulsive than that was the realization that if Charlie Willis wasn't blackmailing her now, he soon would be.
"I haven't killed anybody," Esther said evenly. "Yet." She pushed the pictures away. "Are these the only pictures you have?"
Charlie smiled. "If you mean, have I seen you riding Flint's pogo stick? Yeah, I have."
Sabrina shot Charlie a scolding look, a glance that Esther didn't miss.
"So, you little bitch," Esther sneered, turning her chair to face Sabrina. "When do I get your bill?"
"We don't want your money," Sabrina said. "We aren't blackmailers."
''Then why are you telling me this?"
Charlie spun Esther's chair around to face him and leaned forward on her arm-rests until his face was an inch from hers, forcing her to rear back. ''To give you a chance to do the right thing. You can either turn yourself in to the police, and take responsibility for the death you caused, or I can give all the photos and videos I have to the press and let them figure it out."
Esther glared at Charlie, her face screwed up in a scowl of hatred. "And you don't call that blackmail?"
''Think of us as your conscience," Charlie replied, straightening up. "If you have one, of course."
"Can I go now, or do you intend to beat me, too?"
"I already have," Charlie said.
Esther stood, pushed Charlie aside, and squeezed past Sabrina to the door. ''This isn't over. I'll see you both grovelling at my feet, I promise you."
"You have two days to get your personal affairs in order," Charlie replied.
Esther shoved open the door and slammed it shut behind her. Sabrina let out a deep breath and turned to Charlie. "Now what?"
"She's probably going to kill Flint Westwood," he said. ''Then us."
"What do we do?"
"My brother-in-Iaw's a cop. I'll have him keep an eye on Flint." Charlie took Sabrina in his arms and gently pulled her close to him. "And I'll keep an eye on you."
She squeezed him even closer and whispered in his ear. "I want more of you on me than that."
# # #
What saved McGarrett's life was his keen sense of apathy. He simply lay on the kitchen floor, watching with vague curiosity as Delbert Skaggs picked the lock on the back door and slipped into the house.
Had McGarrett jumped and barked and snarled like other dogs, Delbert would have had to use the silenced gun in his hand. But it turned out well for both of them. McGarrett got to live, and Delbert didn't have to kill him, something he would have hated to do.
Instead, Delbert petted McGarrett with his gloved hand and proceeded through the house looking for Flint's videos. He didn't have to look far. Charlie had shrewdly hidden them on top of the VCR.
Delbert set down his gun and his briefcase and picked up the universal remote. He turned on the TV and the VCR, and hit Play. McGarrett ambled in and watched Esther having sex his way, then he returned to the kitchen, his mild curiosity satisfied. So was Delbert's. He switched off the VCR and left the tapes where they were—he'd take them on his way out.
When Delbert first heard about Flint's predicament, he was afraid it would complicate his strategy for dominating network television. But then, after giving it some thought, Delbert realized Flint's problem was actually a stroke of luck. Even Daddy Crofoot appreciated it once Delbert explained his plan to him.
Delbert picked up the briefcase and headed for Charlie's bedroom,
where he opened the closet and looked for a suitcase or a tote bag. Delbert found a blue gym bag labelled LAPD and, attracted to the irony, stuffed it with the $50,000 in his briefcase, which he'd taken from Flint, who'd taken it from Esther.
That done, all that was left was finding Charlie's gun.
# # #
Robokillers, giant mechanical monsters from another world, stomped through the city, smashing buildings, crushing cars, and firing flame-streaking missiles from the massive cannons mounted on either side of their gleaming steel heads.
Below them, a small band of resistance fighters mounted a brave, if ill-equipped, defence against the towering invaders. They battled the otherworldly death machines with bazookas, land mines, and rebel tanks, jury-rigged cannons mounted on iron-plated jeeps.
It was here, amid the blackened girders of smoldering skyscrapers, that the last great battle for humanity would be fought. And a thousand tourists sat impatiently on metal bleachers, their Polaroids and camcorders aimed and ready, waiting for it to start.
No one was more expectant than Joel Metzger who, at thirty-three, still lived at home and slept in uniforms from Star Trek, V, SeaQuest, and Logan's Run that his mom made for him. On weekdays, he worked at a comic book store. Every weekend and holiday, however, his butt was planted right here.
The Global Armageddon action show was a pyrotechnical extravaganza based on the hugely successful movie of the same name. The one that changed Joel's life. Before the movie, Joel had been a Spacey, a diehard Space: 1999 devotee who found himself constantly embroiled in the heated world of fan bigotry. In the world of fandom, Spaceys were a reviled minority, downtrodden by the ranks of Trekkies and followers of The Force. Spaceys just didn't get the respect they and Space: 1999, rightfully deserved in the science fiction community.
Tired of fighting against the narrow-mindedness of fandom, Joel sought respite in the opening day of the latest science fiction epic. Little did he know, standing outside the Mann Valley West on that fateful Friday evening three years ago, that the movie he was about to see would change his life forever. Global Armageddon wasn't just a movie, it was a rich, fascinating culture full of complexities and significance.