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by Lee Goldberg

  He suddenly realized what each of those hit shows had in common. They answered a question, not just any question, but one that gripped the entire fucking country.

  Will Gilligan and the castaways ever get off the island? Who shot J.R.? Would Richard Kimble catch the one-armed man and clear his name?

  Where's Boo Boo?

  Yes. That was it. He started to shake. Either it was the physical manifestation of a staggering intellectual epiphany, or he was having a nervous breakdown. Maybe it was a little bit of both.

  Where's Boo Boo?

  DeBono marched to his intercom and punched it. "I want every department head in my office now."

  It was only an idea, half formed, yet Don DeBono knew it could be the greatest success in the history of television. It might even put him on the cover of TV Guide. All he needed was a star, and he had the perfect person in mind.

  # # #

  "I don't have a lawyer, and I only had one call, so I'm calling you," Charlie said.

  Sabrina sat in her limo, holding the cellular phone to her ear. Esther Radcliffe's murder was an enormous shock, Charlie being arrested for it was an even bigger one. Both her career and her love life had taken powerful blows.

  "But you couldn't have done it," Sabrina said. "You were with me last night."

  "They don't know that." Charlie stood at a pay phone just outside his holding cell. A police officer stood a few yards away, barely out of earshot, watching Charlie.

  "Didn't you tell them?" Sabrina asked.

  "No, I didn't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't want to get you involved in this," Charlie replied.

  Even in jail, charged with murder, he was trying to protect her. She wanted to reach out and hug him.

  "I am involved, Charlie. If you won't tell them, I will. I'm on my way down there right now."

  "Please don't, you'll only be making things worse for both of us," he replied.

  "I want to help you," she said. "I don't want you going through this alone."

  "If you want to help, you can find me a good lawyer," he said. "And could you feed McGarrett for me? I think they left him at the house."

  He was worrying about his dog. She started to cry. Charlie was too good. She wasn't going to let anyone, not even the police, take him away from her.

  "I want to see you," she said, wiping away a tear.

  "No," Charlie replied firmly. "Promise me you'll stay away from the police station. It's going to be swarming with reporters and I don't want you sucked in to this. You don't know me, you've never even met me. Hell, you've never even heard of me. Okay?"

  She didn't say anything.

  "Hello? Sabrina? Are you there? Have I lost you?"

  "You haven't lost me," she said. "And I'm not going to lose you."

  There was a sudden burst of static on the line and then it went dead, the signal cut off. She held the silent phone against her ear for a moment, then set it back in its cradle.

  Sabrina was reaching for the wet bar to make herself a drink, when the phone trilled. She snatched it up.

  "Charlie?"

  "No," said the voice on the other end, "This is Don DeBono."

  Sabrina leaned back into her seat, preparing herself. Here it comes. The ax. "Mr. DeBono, what can I do for you?"

  "I know you're still grieving, and believe me, I share your sorrow at this tragic time," he said softly, then added with urgency, "but I need you here at UBC in twenty minutes."

  Couldn't he just tell her now that her TV career was over and save her the humiliation of being told face to face?

  "Is that really necessary?"

  "Necessary?" DeBono sounded surprised. "Sabrina, I've got two hundred people in a soundstage right now building sets and setting up lights. I've got six film crews on the street shooting footage and twenty-five editors waiting to cut it all together. AJI we need is you."

  ''To do what?" she asked.

  "Save our network."

  # # #

  Charlie spent the entire night trying to sleep and knowing he couldn't, not as long as he was in a jail cell.

  Because he was once a cop, they couldn't stick him in with the usual tenants in the holding cells. If they did, they knew all they'd find was Charlie's corpse in the morning. So they stuck him in the drunk tank and let the intoxicated denizens of society sleep it off with the evening's pack of whores, killers, rapists, junkies, thieves, and pushers. That would sober the drunkards up quick.

  Charlie was left to sit on a stone slab in a cell that reeked of piss and puke. The walls were stained and soaked with it. He figured they could dismantle the building, bury the slabs, and wait a thousand years, and future archeologists would still be able to figure out how much booze its inhabitants had imbibed and what they'd eaten for dinner.

  Contemplating profound thoughts like that distracted him from his predicament and kept him up until morning, when he hoped to meet his lawyer, whoever he or she might be. Sure enough, at 9 a.m. he was told he had a visitor. Charlie was led into a room, where he relished the recirculated air and basked in the warm glow of fluorescent light for a few minutes until his attorney arrived.

  A police officer opened the door and in bounded a rotund man in a satin Cop Rock show jacket, his round face capped with an Amblin Entertainment baseball cap. If it weren't for the Armani shirt, slacks, and tie, Charlie would have figured him for an obsessed TV freak, arrested while stalking somebody like William Shatner. The man turned to the officer.

  ''That'll be all, friend," the man said, waiting for the officer to leave. Once the cop was gone, the man held out his pudgy hand to Charlie.

  "Victor Ratliff." he said, giving Charlie an enthusiastic hand shake. "It's a real thrill to meet you. I loved your show."

  ''Thanks,'' Charlie replied.

  Ratliff set his briefcase down and sat on the edge of the table, presumably because the chair couldn't hold his weight or, Charlie guessed, because he saw Perry Mason do the same thing.

  "I take it you're my attorney," Charlie asked.

  "That's entirely up to you, Charlie," Ratliff said. "Rest assured, I'm a specialist in celebrity criminal law."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Celebrities are larger than life—the law doesn't apply to you the way it does to the average Joe. We understand that fame gives you a sort of diplomatic immunity."

  Which is how Esther Radcliffes are born, Charlie thought. Now he knew how such a dangerous woman managed to stay out of jail. There were probably countless violent acts in her past that some "specialist in celebrity criminal law" had hushed up. Like the time she shot a police officer, who was given a series in return for his silence.

  "When it isn't possible to get youoff outright, our firm recognizes that our responsibility is twofold," Ratliff continued. ''To defend our clients and, at all costs, maintain their bankabiIity—or TVQ in your case."

  Charlie couldn't believe that in his twelve years of law enforcement experience, he'd never encountered this particular beast before. "How exactly did Sabrina find you?"

  "We're quite well known in certain circles. Let's just say we only represent people in the biz," Ratliff said. "Perhaps you heard about a certain sitcom father arrested at an orgy wearing women's lingerie?"

  "No, I can't say that I have."

  "Or the influential casting director who ran a call girl ring?"

  "Must have missed it."

  "How about the starlet who beat her boyfriend into a coma?"

  "Never heard of her."

  Ratliff smiled. "Then I've made my point."

  Charlie gave him a dubious look. "You really think you can keep my name out of the papers?"

  "No,but I can minimize the damage, maybe spin the story to your advantage, and I'm a hell of a fighter in court," Ratliff replied. "However, my services aren't cheap. I charge about the same as Matlock."

  "I can afford it." If I empty my bank account, sell my house, and hire McGarrett out for stud service. Charlie thought.

&
nbsp; "Can you get me a My Gun Has Bullets jacket?"

  "We weren't on long, we only had T-shirts."

  ''That'd be fine," Ratliff said. "I'm sort of in the biz myself, you know."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Sure, I dabble. I write scripts. Musicals, mostly. Maybe you'd like to see one?"

  "Right now I'd like to see the outside of this jail," Charlie replied.

  "No problem." Ratliff clicked open his briefcase. "We'll get you into court for an arraignment and have you bailed out. Figure bail is gonna be in the high six figures."

  Charlie nodded. Ratliff pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pen.

  "Before we go any further, I want to hear the whole story, from the top." Before Charlie could begin, or even decide how much of the truth to tell Ratliff, something occurred to the star-struck jurist. "Oh, Sabrina asked me to give this to you."

  Ratliff reached into his briefcase, pulled out a neatly folded man's shirt, and handed it to him.

  There was a handwritten note attached to the shirt. It read: I'm returning the favor. I won't leave you exposed, either. Love, Sabrina.

  For the first time in twenty-four hours, Charlie felt he might just make it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Otto and Burt were sitting in Eddie's living room, two briquettes leaving charcoal stains on his wife Shari's white couch. When she got home from her aura massage, Eddie was certain she'd kill him.

  Let Shari throw a tantrum—it was nothing compared to the potential rewards of this little gathering. Eddie brought them their martinis, shaken not stirred, as they requested.

  "What happened to you guys?" he asked, looking them over. Their faces were scorched, and their hair was singed down to the roots. Their skin was blistered and red, slick with medicated cream and oils.

  "We fell asleep in the sun," Burt said, always fast on his feet.

  "Your clothes are burned," Eddie said.

  "It's a style," Otto said. "It says to the world that you're so hot you set your own clothes on fire."

  "I see." Eddie didn't, but for a brief moment, he actually found himself thinking their idea wasn't bad, and wondered if he should steal it.

  Otto and Burt were too worried to realize they might have just come up with a new fashion fad. They were more concerned with what effect their charred flesh would have on their budding acting careers.

  "You think our sunburns will make a difference?" Burt asked.

  "In what?" Eddie was thoroughly bewildered.

  "Our chances with Sunn of a Gunn," Otto replied. "I mean, do you think we're too tan for the parts?"

  Eddie stared at them, dumbfounded. "I don't know."

  "George Hamilton is tan," Otto observed. "And he's still suave."

  "We're even tanner," Burt added. "So we're even suaver."

  "Especially in that new fashion of yours." Eddie was unable to resist the jab, not that they'd notice. "No, your rich tans won't hurt the show. We've only got one obstacle, and it's a big one. In fact, that's why I asked you here today."

  Otto and Burt were relieved—they thought he'd found out about Boo Boo or, maybe, about Twinkles, Shari's cat. When they were working on Eddie's house back in '88, Burt accidentally ran over Twinkles, so Otto poured the cement patio over her.

  "What obstacle?" Burt asked.

  "I'm really excited about Sunn of a Gunn, and I can't wail to get started on it," Eddie enthused. "You guys are natural-born stars. The Cary Grant and David Niven of our generation. Anybody could see that. Except Delbert Skaggs."

  "Why not?" Otto asked.

  "It boggles my mind, too," Eddie replied. "I've tried to convince him, but he just refuses to accept it. Frankly, I think it's jealousy, that he didn't discover you and your immense talent himself."

  "Can't we do the show without him?" Burt asked.

  "Unfortunately, no." Eddie sighed heavily and refilled his drink. "I'm under exclusive contract to Pinstripe Productions, and if he doesn't go for the idea, it's dead. It's a shame, because I know the networks would flip for this."

  There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the occasional snap of Burt popping one of his blisters. Eddie pondered his drink. Otto stared at the television, the opening titles of Sunn of a Gunn playing out in his mind on the blank screen.

  Otto and Burt in tuxes, flanked by babes. Otto and Burt leaping out of an airplane, holding babes. Otto and Burt in their Bentley, babes in the back. Otto and Burt in a gunfight, protecting babes.

  Then the picture abruptly vanished, as if someone had pulled the plug on the TV.

  Otto looked up from the TV at Eddie.

  "So, if Delbert Skaggs, for some reason, weren't around," Otto asked, "then Pinstripe Productions would do the show?"

  "In a flash," replied Eddie, pleased that Otto had made the intellectual leap himself. Now all he needed was a little push. "I just don't see how that's gonna happen."

  Burt shared a glance with Otto and smiled. "The same way it happened to Boo Boo."

  "Hey, there's an idea," Eddie said, as if it were the first time it had occurred to him.

  Otto smiled back at his friend. "Great minds think alike."

  The two burnt stuntmen clinked their martini glasses together in a toast to their future, something Eddie would have to make sure they never had.

  # # #

  Charlie spent the early evening handcuffed to a chair outside the holding cells, waiting for his bail to be processed and his release to come through.

  He told Ratliff the same story he gave to Emil Grubb, and was careful to keep Sabrina out of it entirely. Charlie still wanted a chance to clean up the mess himself, and figured he could always tell Ratliff all the dirty details if things got desperate enough. Though Charlie had a hard time imagining things getting any worse than they already were.

  It was Ratliff's idea to wait until nightfall to get out of jail. Ratliff thought it would make it easier to slip past the throng of reporters, who spent most of the day crowded outside the building, angling for the opportunity to corner Charlie Willis, suspected murderer of a television icon.

  Which was why Charlie was surprised the tiny television set on the guard's desk wasn't blaring out news about his arrest for the heinous crime. Instead, the UBC network announcer told viewers to stay tuned for an astonishing, live special! ...

  Suddenly there was Sabrina Bishop, standing in the center of what looked like a high-tech command center, surrounded by computer terminals, television screens, and smart-looking people either talking on headsets or typing away at keyboards. She was dressed in a sharp, efficient Ellen Tracy suit, grim-faced and serious. On her lapel was an official looking ID badge with her photo on it.

  "Hello, America. I'm Sabrina Bishop. Tonight, we join a nationwide manhunt. We'll track the clues and follow the leads. We'll interview the witnesses, re-enact their experiences and, with your help, we'll try to answer the painful question tormenting us all." She stared solemnly into the camera. "Where's Boo Boo?"

  Those three words, in carved-granite letters, hurled into the camera, prompting a thunderous musical refrain, reminiscent of the Dragnet march.

  An announcer's voiced intoned, "Everything you are about to see is true, up-to-the-instant facts in the search for Boo Boo as it unfolds, live from our Command Center with your host, Sabrina Bishop."

  The theme played and the credits rolled over pictures of adorable Boo Boo, culled from his series. Charlie glanced at the guard, who was riveted to the screen.

  Someone yelled from the holding cells, "Can you turn it up?"

  It was a request from the alleged barbecue murderer. Earlier that day, he'd been arrested, standing over an outdoor barbecue, gently brushing hickory smoke sauce on the remains of his neighbor, whom he'd killed and chopped into bite-size pieces.

  The guard silently obliged, cranking up the volume. Despite the gulf that separated law officer from criminal offender, the two men shared a common love deeper than the divisions that divided them.

  Boo Boo.r />
  Charlie looked over his shoulder and saw, to his surprise, that all the inmates were quiet, straining to catch a glimpse of the tiny screen. They actually gave a damn about a sitcom dog, almost as if the pooch were their own.

  And that's when he came to a stunning realization: you don't have to be an actor in a TV show to confuse reality with television. Nobody can tell the difference. Everybody thinks these characters are real.

  When he was growing up, he sought refuge on television, identifying with Reed and Malloy on Adam-12, and longing for the orderliness of their world. It affected his entire life.

  Meanwhile, how many people felt like members of the Cartwright family? Or felt closer to Rob and Laura Petrie than they did to their own neighbors? How many people sent Rhoda Morgenstern a wedding present? Cried when Lucy Ricardo gave birth? Mourned when Henry Blake was killed? How had it affected their lives?

  The enormity of television's power hit him for the first time. It was so strong it could even evoke sympathy from a psychopathic killer for a fictional dog. They actually believed that Lorne Greene was Ben Cartwright, James Garner was Jim Rockford, and Esther Radcliffe was Miss Agatha, and that they had a close, personal relationship with each of them.

  "Sabrina will find Boo Boo," a suspected drug pusher opined, as if reading Charlie's mind. "She worked with Miss Agatha."

  The BBQ murderer nodded in agreement.

  Now Charlie understood something else. Don DeBono wasn't just exploiting the popularity of Boo Boo, but Miss Agatha as well. Everything about television was a manipulation of viewers' sympathies. The one thing he didn't understand was what Sabrina was doing hosting the show.

  Where's Boo Boo? returned with an establishing shot of a Wal-Mart store. The camera pushed in on the store, while Sabrina narrated. "Yesterday, in Sacramento, California, Gladys Aufderbeck went to this store for toothpaste. What she got was a brush with destiny."

  And there was Gladys, thirty-two years old going on ninety, recreating her magic moment, heading down an aisle, pushing her rickety cart. Now it was Gladys's voice narrating the action. "I was in aisle seven, where the toothpaste used to be, but apparently they moved it to aisle eight some time ago. As I rounded the corner, I got the surprise of my life."