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by Lee Goldberg


  It was also a merchandising phenomenon for Pinnacle Studios, who depended on a steady stream of income from lunch boxes, hats, records, toys, T-shirts, canteens, videocassettes, candy bars and, of course, the Global Armageddon attraction at the tour, to finance lots of other, less successful movies.

  Four times each day a dozen stuntmen reenacted a fiery battle between three towering Robokillers and the resistance. The entire fifteen-minute show consisted of the stuntmen taking spectacular falls, getting hurled through the air by explosives, and steering the rebel tanks over the rubble-strewn landscape, while all around them bombs exploded and buildings toppled, and Robokillers marched, shooting missiles.

  Joel knew every move by heart, had analyzed the motivation of each character, scrutinized the battle strategy of both sides, and written a lengthy paper on the subject that was printed in the prestigious Global Armageddon fanzine. He'd sent copies of his treatise to the Pinnacle Pictures board of directors, offering himself as a consultant and proposing a complete redesign of the show based on his findings. Surprisingly, they had yet to respond.

  Perhaps what eluded Joel was that a change in the program would cost millions even if, in the mythical world of Global Armageddon, it might give the resistance fighters a greater edge. All the staged action, from the hulking Robokillers knocking over buildings to an out-of-control jeep bursting into flame, unfolded according to an automated and precisely timed computer program activated by remote control. The show was, in essence, an updated version of a player piano, only instead of playing a ditty, it decimated a make-believe city.

  The Robokillers and vehicles were on tracks, the buildings crumbled on cue, and each missile moved along a predestined course on barely visible filaments. Nothing was left to chance. It was all operated by remote radio control by the day's toothsome master of ceremonies, usually a wannabe actor hoping to break into the business by working on the tour.

  Joel was one of the few who aspired to be just a Global Armageddon host, nothing more. No one cared about the characters, understood the enemy, or saw the show more than he did. But most of all, he dreamed of holding the remote control that brought the world of Global Armageddon to life. In fact, he could be happy if that was all he achieved in his life.

  Sadly, this was as close to Global Armageddon as he was ever going to get. Because while the Robokillers marched through the city, a far more terrifying, and unbilled, studio attraction prowled beneath the bleachers.

  Boo Boo was hungry.

  It wasn't enough that he was hungry, he had a mate to feed now, too, back in his cave, deep in the backlot jungle. Boo Boo's drooling, moaning, prostrate lover, with her deep mane of golden hair, was everything Boo Boo had ever dreamed of. Life was good these days, spent mating, sleeping, barking, and hunting for food.

  He brought his lover back half-eaten hamburgers, stale fries, anything he could scavenge. That was fine for mere sustenance. But what he craved, and his lover deserved, was the delicacy dangling above him right now—a big, juicy ass.

  Which, unfortunately, happened to belong to Joel Metzger, who was about to experience his own personal Armageddon, thanks in large part to the fact that he'd sat in the same spot every time, week after week, show after show, for years. The bleacher beneath him had imperceptibly begun to sag under the stress of his excited bouncing and jumping, day in and day out.

  At the exact moment when one of the Robokillers shot a missile seemingly into the audience, and hundreds screamed in surprise, Boo Boo leapt up and sank his fangs into Joel's butt.

  Joel's scream was drowned out by those around him. When the bench broke, and he was pulled down under the bleachers, those who noticed thought it was part of the show.

  He landed on the back of his head, snapping his neck and dying instantly, which was probably fortunate, because a moment later Boo Boo was tearing his flesh off in thick, bloody chunks.

  Meanwhile, everyone in the bleachers above was too spellbound by the destruction in front of them to notice the carnage occurring under their feet.

  In fact, Joel wouldn't be missed until three days later, when his mother returned from a slot machine tournament in Tahoe to find, to her horror, his Deep Space Nine bed sheets unwrinkled and the new box of Rice Krispies she'd left for him unopened, the free Global Armageddon action figure still buried inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Flint Westwood was glad when Esther called him on the set and invited him to her house that evening. He figured it would give him a chance to do a quick appraisal of her personal property and see if maybe a price hike was in order. Besides, after the harrowing day he'd had, he was in the mood for some penile adulation.

  So he left the set in his Porsche and sped along Mulholland Drive to her Beverly Hills estate, which was hidden behind a high stone wall and tall trees.

  Esther's house resembled a French villa in Provence and, in fact, almost was. She'd bought a three-hundred-year-old stone mansion and had it dismantled and shipped to Beverly Hills to be reconstructed. Unfortunately, no one could decipher the dismantlers' French scrawls and crude drawings. And even if they could, the county's building codes and seismic regulations prevented her from rebuilding the house anyway.

  So Esther's house became a replica of a French villa, while the actual French villa became the wall that surrounded Esther's property, the only imported wall in Beverly Hills.

  Flint Westwood had no appreciation of French architecture or imported stones, but he understood what the folly must have cost her. And if she could still live well after that, then she had money to spare. To spare on him, that is.

  If she had any servants, he figured she'd given them the night off, because she buzzed him through the gate herself. And she was there to meet him at the door, in a clinging silk robe, a crooked, lusty grin on her face.

  Esther didn't say hello, didn't ask him why he was all bruised and cut, and didn't offer to give him a tour. She just grabbed him by the crotch and led him up the grand spiral staircase to her bedroom, which was dominated by a hand-carved four-poster bed and a crystal chandelier. She didn't want talk, she wanted action. Fine with him. He could peruse her belongings afterward.

  She pushed him back on the bed, pulled off his pants, and began working his member into greatness without even taking out her dentures. Obviously, she worshiped his hard body. The way he figured it, the old bag was lucky to have him at twice the price, even if she knew it was him she was paying, which she didn't. And wouldn't. Daddy Crofoot would see to that. His endowment was worth as much to Daddy as it was to Flint.

  Closing his eyes, imagining Sabrina Bishop writhing on top of him, he could almost forget it was Esther lapping up his awesome enormity and her ardent appreciation began to feel pretty good. He felt the blood surging downward, awakening the slumbering behemoth between his legs, making it rise in all its majesty.

  She stopped for a moment, so he glanced down to take an admiring gander at himself, and was not disappointed. It was a landmark in its own right, the leaning tower of Los Angeles in all its engorged glory.

  He was so entranced by his own erection, he didn't notice Esther reaching under the bed until it was too late.

  In one swift motion, she whipped out a pair of hedge shears and pinched his giant boner between the gleaming, razor-sharp blades. He gasped in utter tenor, unable to speak, unable to breathe, his eyes locked on his throbbing, hostage penis.

  "It's a shame we don't have the cameras running, lover boy, because this would be a keeper. My best performance yet and your last." She grinned with malicious delight, her lips wet, her arms braced to Bobbitt. "AfterI cut it off, I'm gonna smoke it."

  Esther was about to chop when her breast exploded in a sickening burst of silicone and blood. She jerked back, her hands still clinging to the shears, and then the top of her head flew off, knocking her to the floor and freeing Flint from the shears.

  Unable to breathe, he watched his penis shrivel up like the Wicked Witch of the West, perhaps never to rise ag
ain.

  Delbert Skaggs casually unscrewed the silencer from his gun and strode into the bedroom to glance at Esther. She was heaped in a clump on the floor, covered in blood and brains, her hands still gripping the hedge shears. He had planned to kill her, but he hadn't expected to find her with Flint, and he certainly didn't expect to find her about to chop his prick off.

  "Don't worry about cleaning up the mess," Delbert said. "Leave that to me."

  No problem at all, Flint Westwood would have said, if he'd been able to speak. He was still staring at his groin and still wondering if he'd remember how to breathe again. There was so much to comprehend. Esther with the shears. Delbert with the gun. Esther dead on the floor. His prick dead between his legs. How did she know about the pictures?

  "Does anyone know you're here?" Delbert asked.

  Flint tried to speak, but nothing came out. Delbert tossed Flint his pants and asked again. "This is very important, Flint. Does anyone know you're here?"

  Flint shook his head no.

  "Good," Delbert said. ''That makes things much easier."

  For a moment, Flint thought Delbert was going to kill him, too, and so did Delbert, who never let anyone witness a killing and survive.

  Yet he let Flint live. It went against everything he believed in, but there was no way around it. He needed Flint alive at least until they had enough episodes of Frankencop for strip syndication. Then Delbert would kill Flint and, as the villains on Frankencop always said, make it look like an accident. He couldn't let a witness live, even if it was a member of Daddy Crofoot's family. In the meantime, Delbert had to make sure Flint got away clean.

  There was nothing UBC could program against Frankencop now that could pose a serious threat. With Esther Radcliffe dead, Miss Agatha was finished. And with Boo Boo dead, UBC lost the one show they had that could provide a strong enough lead-in to a new series and make it a formidable competitor to Frankencop. Pinstripe Productions' dominance of Thursday nights, and soon the entire Nielsen rating, was assured. There were just a few more, final details to take care of first.

  ''There's a plainclothes police officer parked outside your house," Delbert said. "I want you to go home, change your clothes, and go to a movie or something. Can you do that?"

  Flint slowly pulled on his pants and nodded.

  "The cop is going to follow you, so obey the speed limit and make sure he doesn't lose you," Delbert said, watching Flint slip into his loafers and button up his shirt. "Enjoy the show, have a nice dinner, and when you get back home, all your troubles will be over."

  We'll see if that's true next time I'm in bed, Flint thought, hurrying out the door without bothering to thank his guardian angel, or to ask himself what Delbert was doing there in the first place.

  # # #

  Charlie and Sabrina spent the night making love, hungrily, desperately, like two starving people given a shopping spree at Safeway.

  They moved through Sabrina's condo like two Tasmanian devils, their wild, unrestrained lust upending tables, knocking over couch cushions, toppling chairs, and wiping dishes off the kitchen countertops. They finally ended up in her bed, clawing the sheets off the mattress as they writhed, wrestled, wriggled.

  For the first time in months, Charlie felt he actually had some control over his life, even while completely letting go of his pent-up passions. Making love to Sabrina felt great, and not just physically. It made him feel he had come back to life, returning to the real world from that different dimension he'd been inhabiting since he was shot. Maybe even before he was shot.

  Only now did he realize that losing Connie had hurt him far more deeply than he was willing to admit. Fact was, the day she walked out on him was the day he lost control of his life. All it took to get a grip on it again was an insane old woman, a bullet in the stomach, premature ejaculation, and pretending to be a man he wasn't. Not exactly a therapy he'd recommend to the lovelorn. But hey, it worked.

  Charlie still had his problems, but at least he felt he was fighting back, maybe even winning a couple of battles along the way.

  It was different for Sabrina. Being with Charlie, she felt secure for the first time since coming to Los Angeles. More than that, she didn't feel alone against it all anymore.

  Ever since she arrived in Hollywood, she had been surrounded by mercenaries, lechers, sharks, and pigs. The only person that she could depend on, that she could trust, that she could stand to be with, was herself. Now she had Charlie. And she was going to hold on tight.

  And that's what she did, wrapping herself around him in a myriad of different ways, in several different rooms, until they finally, ultimately lay exhausted in her bed, entwined in each other's arms, sticky with each other's sweat.

  They stayed that way for that long, sweet hour between their last simultaneous orgasm and the moment when her alarm clock jangled at four a.m. Sabrina had an hour to shower and make a feeble attempt to study her script before the limo arrived to take her to the studio.

  While she did that, Charlie lay tangled in the sheets, the room thick with the smell of sex and sweat. If Glade could bottle the aroma, he thought, they'd make a fortune.

  The limo arrived promptly at five o'clock and whisked her away to Pinnacle Studios, where she'd have another hour or so for makeup and wardrobe before she was expected on the set for a thrilling episode of Miss Agatha.

  Charlie figured she'd be safe from Esther on the lot, as long as Sabrina checked out her prop gun and any weapon a guest star might use against her. He also warned her to keep an eye open for runaway cars, falling lights, or unstable scenery. When shooting wrapped, he'd be waiting for her at her place. In the meantime, he had some work to do.

  As soon as she was gone, he dressed and straggled out of the house, figuring he'd shower and shave when he got home, then knock off some copies of Flint's cassettes. He wanted to be prepared for a mass mailing tomorrow—he had very little faith that Esther would suddenly do the right thing.

  The freeway heading north into the valley was practically empty, while the southbound lanes were already packed with puffy-eyed commuters heading into the city from the suburbs, jerking themselves into consciousness with cranked-up radios and jumbo jugs of coffee.

  The sun was beginning to shine through the airborne sludge, which was churned by the spinning blades of countless helicopters as radio stations, police, and TV channels all vied for the best view of the awakening city.

  Charlie tuned in KNX news radio to see if the world had changed drastically overnight. Boo Boo was still missing, but was sighted running down the aisles at a WaI-Mart in Sacramento, chewing on a bone in Yosemite, pissing on a shrub in New Jersey, and eating cherry pie with Jimmy Hoffa at a truck stop in North Platte. The less important news of the day—a presidential summit, a devastating earthquake in China, and a cure for the common cold—was promised after the commercials.

  But by then Charlie was already pulling into his driveway. He snatched up his sprinkler-soaked edition of the Los Angeles Times and trudged to his door.

  When he stepped inside, his mind was on breakfast, and whether or not he should have stopped for a McMuffin. So his first thought when he was slammed against the wall, and felt the gun jammed in his back, was that he should have eaten something before getting killed by Esther.

  "Don't move," said a gruff, male voice behind him. Suddenly a half-dozen cops spilled in through the front and back doors, kneeing aside McGarrett in their rush to get in. Bringing up the rear was Spinoza, the forensics expert.

  Charlie felt his arms being pulled behind his back, and a pair of handcuffs closed around his wrists. Then he was spun around to face Sergeant Emil Grubb.

  "You're under arrest," Grubb said.

  "What's the charge?"

  "Murder," Grubb replied, holstering his gun and turning to the cops around the room. "Toss the place, catalog and note everything you find." The cops pulled on rubber gloves and got to work. Charlie glanced at the TV. The videocassettes were gone.

  Gru
bb turned back to Charlie.

  "You got the right to remain silent, and all that stuff," Grubb said. "Do I need to do the whole number'?"

  "No," Charlie replied. "Who did I kill?"

  "You mean besides that actor?"

  "There's someone else?" Charlie asked incredulously.

  "Esther Radcliffe."

  Whatever control Charlie fleetingly fell over his life abruptly disappeared.

  Act Four

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The situation was achingly familiar. A recalcitrant murder suspect questioned by the hard-nosed cop. It might as well have been a scene out of My Gun Has Bullets. In fact, Charlie was certain it was.

  The interrogation room was just like the set, and the dialogue sounded like half a dozen scripts that still kicked around in his head. Only in those scripts, Charlie was Derek Thorne, supercop, crusader for justice, quick with a quip or a right hook. Now Charlie was playing the villain.

  He heard actors say playing the bad guy was more fun than the hero, but Charlie wasn't enjoying the chance to stretch as an actor. Hands cuffed behind his back, Charlie was intentionally paraded down every corridor in the station before they finally took him into interrogation. For a cop, for a man who believed in the badge, there was nothing more humiliating. And Grubb knew it.

  "Last time you killed someone, we had you, we had the gun, we even had the murder on film. All that was missing was the motive," Grubb said. "This time, you made it easy. All that's missing is the film."

  Grubb held up an evidence bag containing a gun. "You recognize this?"

 

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