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by Lee Goldberg

  The security cart glided to a stop beside the bandstand, the guard pausing to look around. Charlie looked behind him and, through the slats in the bandstand, saw the security guard from Copenhagen arriving on the opposite end of the square.

  The radio crackled on the cart beside the bandstand. "He's got to be in the square somewhere," said a voice Charlie recognized as the guard from Copenhagen. "Be careful, he's probably a wacko, and they say he's armed."

  They say? Who the hell were they? Charlie wasn't going to stick around to find out, but he'd have to be very careful. Studio security guards were usually the guys who, for good reason, couldn't get into law enforcement. They spent most of their days sitting in the guard booth, or sitting in the security cart. Either way, their physical prowess was hardly honed to a sharp point. On the other hand, amateurs with guns scared him a lot more than an armed professional. Action was so rare for these guys they were likely to shoot the first person they saw, especially if they thought they were hunting a crazed psycho.

  The guard got out of his cart, took out a flashlight, and walked up the courthouse steps to investigate inside. Charlie didn't waste a second. He crawled out from under the bandstand and slid into the cart, where he found the key still in the ignition.

  Charlie twisted the key into drive, lowered his head, and sped off. The security guard whirled around and reached for his gun, which, thankfully, he had forgotten to unstrap. While the guard fumbled with his holster, his friend from Copenhagen gave chase, tooling after Charlie in his own wobbly cart.

  Once outside the city limits of Anytown, USA, Charlie made a hard right, toward Muck Thing's swamp. The cart bounced onto the wide tram tracks, and continued along the predestined route. Charlie twisted the key to neutral and, as the cart entered the swamp lands, he dived out into the brush. The cart continued on its own momentum along the tram tracks, disappearing around a curve. A moment later his pursuer followed, also disappearing around the bend, his cart zipping as fast as its batteries would allow.

  Charlie waited until he heard the roar of Muck Thing and the collision of the two carts to emerge from hiding and dash into the dark, thick jungle. From here on, he'd be able to move virtually unseen, safe from another run-in with studio security.

  He was nearly at the fence when something leapt out of the brush for his throat. He whirled around to his left, saw a glimpse of hair and fangs flying at him, and instinctively raised his arm across his face in self-defence.

  Boo Boo buried his teeth deep in Charlie's thick arm, his jaws clamping tight on his prey. Charlie screamed in pain and anger, and swung his arm back furiously against a tree trunk, trying to knock the vicious beast off.

  Whap! Whap! Whap!

  He bashed the mud-caked terror repeatedly against the tree, but was unable to dislodge Boo Boo, who was beaten senseless, his jaws locked shut around Charlie's blood-soaked arm.

  Charlie stared in horror at his arm, the filthy, drooling dog dangling from the bloody flesh. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, but he had no time to ponder the insanity of it. Behind him, he could hear footfalls in the brush, and could see flashlight beams cutting through the trees. His screams had drawn the security guards into the jungle.

  Grilling his teeth against the pain, Charlie ran to the fence and scaled it, the dog still clamped on his arm. He staggered to his car, and whacked the dog a few more times against the grille, to no avail. With his right hand, he opened the driver's-side door and rolled down the window. Then he got in the car and, with the dog dangling above his wrist, propped his bloody arm on the window and sped off into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The first thing Dr. Gaston Grospiron told Charlie Willis when they met years ago was that he was a Mensa. However, with his thick French accent, Charlie thought the verbose veterinarian had told him he was a matzo.

  Mensa or matzo, he'd been McGarrett's vet ever since Charlie found the dog nosing through trash in an alley behind Rodeo Drive. Whenever Charlie brought McGarrett in for a checkup over the years, Dr. Grospiron would examine the dog while regaling Charlie with some long-winded diatribe about politics, women, medicine, taxes, or whatever else was on his mind.

  It was no different when Charlie showed up at Dr. Grospiron's twenty-four-hour emergency clinic that evening, an unconscious dog clamped on his shredded arm. While the doctor carefully injected a muscle relaxant into the dog's jaws and gently pried the animal loose from Charlie's arm, he yammered authoritatively and, because of his accent, incomprehensibly, about the European common market. Oddly enough, the learned Dr. Grospiron was completely oblivious to Charlie's legal trouble, or showed rare discretion by not bringing it up.

  All the while, Charlie stared at the hell beast hanging on his arm, still shocked that this could have happened to him. The thought distracted him from the pain, the trip he'd have to take to the emergency room for shots and stitches, the mob takeover of primetime television, and the murder charge he faced.

  Perhaps that's also why it took Charlie a long hour in the veterinarian's operating room, watching him expertly remove the tranquilized dog from his arm, before he realized that the vicious mutt that had attacked him was ... Boo Boo.

  "As deese ees a strange dawg, it weel be necezary to test for zee babies," Charlie thought he heard Dr. Grospiron say.

  ''The dog bit me," Charlie said irritably, "it didn't fuck me."

  "I sayed zee rabies," Dr. Grospiron stammered, faux furious, "not zee babies. I weel keep zees animal 'ere, but first I drive you to zee 'ospital."

  That sounded like a good idea to Charlie, who was too tired, too dizzy, and in too much pain to mull the full ramifications of his discovery that the creature that had attacked him was America's favorite pooch. Keeping the monster in Dr. Grospiron's care until Charlie could figure out what to do about him seemed like the best decision.

  Dr. Grospiron cleaned Charlie's wound, wrapped it lightly in clean gauze, then drove him to Tarzana Medical Center in Charlie's car, while one of the vet's nurses followed in the doctor's Mercedes.

  Once they were confident Charlie would be all right, Dr. Grospiron and his nurse left Charlie in the waiting area, holding the gauze to his wound, watching reruns of T.]. Hooker.

  Three hours, four shots, and twenty stitches later, Charlie left his car in the parking lot, walked across Reseda Boulevard to the Gaylord Motor Inn, and checked into a room for the night. He knocked back his codeine and antibiotics and went to sleep.

  # # #

  While Charlie slept, knocked out by exhaustion, tremendous stress, significant blood loss, and a strong painkiller, viewership numbers were being tabulated from the ten major markets around the country.

  The numbers, upon which careers and fortunes would ride, were quickly analyzed, quantified, and categorized, then faxed, transmitted, or otherwise hustled to everyone whose livelihood depended on what people watched.

  These statistics were the "overnights," and represented the feedback from the biggest population centers in the nation on the evening's primetime fare. The broader-based, national numbers would come later, usually only underscoring more dramatically the story foretold by the overnights.

  Don DeBono never left his office after the closing credits of Where's Boo Boo? He sat behind his desk all night, waiting for the moment of truth, for the sheet of paper from the research department that would tell him if his outrageous gamble had worked.

  Sabrina Bishop was up all night too, wondering if she had done the right thing accepting DeBono's offer, or if a decision made in a moment of panic and desperation had ruined her career. And she worried about Charlie Willis, asking herself why he hadn't called her since his release, and where he might be right now.

  Flint Westwood wasn't up at all that night, at least not between his legs. He lay awake in bed, staring at his crotch, waiting for the night erection all men supposedly have, the one he always had, until that hell bitch tried to snip his magnificence off. Now the only thing that rose was his fear that he mig
ht be impotent forever.

  Eddie Planet spent the night pacing around his bedroom, tormented by several unanswered questions that terrified him. Was Where's Boo Boo? an enormous hit? If so, what did it mean for Frankencop? Did Charlie Willis know about the mob's involvement in Eddie's show? And if so, who would Delbert Skaggs kill when he found out?

  Delbert Skaggs slept peacefully, and was behind his desk at Pinnacle Studios at dawn, when he noticed immediately that his notepad was gone. But Delbert was not one to panic. He remained in the darkness, waiting for the overnights, and Eddie Planet, to arrive.

  Delbert never suspected that, just outside the studio gates, Otto and Burt sat in a rusted, dented heap of a GMC truck, stuffing Jack in the Box sourdough breakfast sandwiches down their throats, waiting for their chance to kill him.

  Otto and Burt had also watched Where's Boo Boo? last night as they smeared Noxzema on their charred flesh, ate Doritos, and felt intellectually superior to the rest of the world. Unlike all the other poor jerks out there, they knew where Boo Boo was. Or at least they had a pretty good idea. But it was worth watching the show just to get a look at Sabrina Bishop's hooters. Maybe they'd let her do a Sunn of a Gunn, if she played her cards right. Before that could happen, though, they had to get rid of Delbert Skaggs, and that took top priority over everything, even capturing Boo Boo.

  The overnights came in to Don DeBono's office at about nine a.m., hand delivered by Buttonwillow McKittrick, his VP of current programming. He could tell by the depressed look on her face that he'd scored big. The only thing that could make her look that sad was the realization that she wouldn't be getting his job.

  He snatched the paper from her trembling hand and looked at the numbers. Where's Boo Boo? had scored a phenomenal 48 rating, becoming one of the most-watched shows in television history.

  Broad Squad and the Anson Williams Show, benefiting from the powerhouse Where's Boo Boo? lead-in, each scored a 34 share, stellar numbers in their own right, leading into one of the last Miss Agatha episodes, which grabbed a 28 share to beat Frankencop by 10 share points.

  "Congratulations, Don," Buttonwillow said. "You've made the record books."

  "Again," he added.

  "Again," she reluctantly conceded. "Toobad you can't pull that miracle off every week."

  "Why not?" Don DeBono admired the sheet of overnights as if it were a work of art.

  "What do you mean?" She was confused, certain she had stated the obvious before.

  "Exactly what I said. Why not? Tell me why I can't do Where's Boo Boo? every week." DeBono stared at her, waiting for the answer.

  "Because," she stammered, completely taken by surprise. The suggestion of making Where's Boo Boo? a weekly series was patently ludicrous, he must know that, right? "Because, the audience will buy it once. The show was a special, a one-time fluke—maybe for one hour it relieved some of the anxiety they're feeling. But it'd be ridiculous to do it every week. Boo Boo can't possibly be in all those places. The audience isn't that desperate or stupid."

  She was astonished to see that, by the look on his face, he wasn't swayed. "I mean, c'mon, Don, the people who claim to see Boo Boo are either lunatics or liars. We might as well make it up ourselves."

  "So?"

  "So!?" She couldn't believe this. Couldn't he see what he was talking about was crazy? "What are we going to do? Say one week he was snatched by aliens, the next by Big Foot, the week after that he's had a sex change and has become your cat?"

  "Sure, why not?" DeBono said.

  "Because it's insane," she shouted.

  "No, it's primetime television and a guaranteed number one hit." He stood up slowly. "If you can't see that, perhaps you belong in first-run syndication."

  DeBono looked her in the eye. She was clearly not cut out for network television. She didn't have the necessary vision or low opinion of the viewing public.

  "We're ordering twenty-two episodes immediately. I hope you'll watch them in your new job, wherever that may be."

  Buttonwillow turned on her heel and marched out, her career at UBC finished. There was nothing she could do about it. From his new position of strength, there would be no undermining him this time, not even by sleeping with his boss.

  As soon as she was out the door, DeBono called Buttonwillow's assistant and promoted her.

  "It'll be your office by lunch time," he promised.

  Across town, at the Pinnacle Studios lot, Eddie Planet carried the overnights into Delbert Skaggs's office, hoping that the old adage about shooting the messenger wouldn't apply.

  Delbert glanced at the sheet of paper and analyzed the numbers. This was not good, Delbert thought. Obviously, he'd been going about this the wrong way. Instead of killing the soldiers on the street, the stars of the shows competing against him, he should have aimed his sights higher. You want to stomp out a crime family, you start with the leader, the Godfather.

  Delbert had started small—that was his mistake—and had underestimated the ingenuity and experience of Don DeBono. It was a mistake often made when a young upstart tried to invade a crime boss's territory.

  However, it was a mistake that was easy to correct, as long as you had a loaded gun. Right after he killed Sabrina Bishop, to assure that neither Where's Boo Boo? or Miss Agatha could come back to haunt him, he'd eliminate Don DeBono. The UBC "family" dominance of "the business" would die with DeBono.

  Killing him would be business as usual for Delbert. He'd killed so many crime family bosses, it had become his specialty. But first there was another small matter to take care of.

  He looked at Eddie, who didn't like what he was seeing in Delbert's eyes. It was a killer look.

  "Who could've figured DeBono would come up with something like that?" Eddie shrugged. "That's the TV biz. You gotta love it."

  "Where's my notepad, Eddie?" Delbert asked.

  "You're missing something?"

  "Yes, Eddie, I am. My notepad. Where is it?"

  "Maybe you misplaced it," Eddie offered.

  "I don't misplace things," Delbert said. "I do, occasionally, misplace people. Permanently."

  "Come to think of it," Eddie replied quickly, "we did have a break-in last night."

  Delbert grabbed Eddie by the throat and slammed him back against the wall. "Why wasn't I informed, immediately?"

  "I didn't think the guy took anything," Eddie blathered. "I mean, who would've thought to look for a lousy notepad?"

  "I want to know exactly what happened."

  "It was no big deal," Eddie gurgled. "I walked in on him, scared him off. I called the guards, but they lost him."

  "You saw him, didn't you?" Delbert squeezed Eddie's throat until he could feel Eddie's pulse pounding in his hand. Delbert had found that cutting off a person's air supply encouraged the truth. They were so desperate to breathe, they couldn't sustain an expression of innocence. It was no different with Eddie Planet. The fear in his bulging eyes told Delbert everything. Delbert loosened his grip just a bit. "Yes, Ithought you did. Who was it, Eddie? Who broke into my office?"

  "The guy looked like"—Eddie croaked, spitting out the name—"Charlie Willis."

  Delbert abruptly released Eddie, who slid down the wall and slumped on the floor. He looked down at Eddie with disgust.

  Charlie Willis.

  It seemed Don DeBono wasn't the only person Delbert had underestimated. The time for subtlety was gone. It was going to be St. Valentine's Day in television land.

  "I have some errands to run," Delbert said. "When I get back, you and I are going to have another little talk."

  And with that, Delbert marched out. Eddie watched him go, and silently prayed Otto and Burt ran into him first.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It was about ten a.m., and Sabrina was finally beginning to fall asleep when her phone rang. She grabbed it and heard a groggy, thick-tongued voice on the other end.

  "Sabrina?"

  "Who is it?" she asked.

  "It's me, Charlie."

 
If it was, he had a sock in his mouth. "Are you drunk?"

  "I wish I was, maybe I'd feel better." Charlie was still in his bed at the Gaylord Motor Inn, his left arm swollen and pounding with pain, his hand numb. The night before had seemed like some twisted nightmare, until he awoke on his back, the sweat-soaked sheets clinging to his skin, his bandaged arm propped up on pillows.

  "I had a hell of a night," he said, "but I'll tell you about that when I see you."

  "Where are you?"

  "A dive motel off the Ventura Freeway, but never mind that. The important thing is, I'm out of jail and I think I found the solution to my problem."

  "Our problem," she said. "We're in this together."

  He couldn't help smiling to himself, despite the pain he was in. "Okay, our problem."

  She hesitated, wondering whether this was the right time to bring up what she had done last night.

  "I had a hell of a night myself," she ventured.

  "I saw."

  He said it so straightforwardly, she couldn't discern his attitude. "Do you think I made a mistake?"

  Did he? he asked himself. Could he really condemn her for trying to salvage some small piece of her career while she had the chance?

  "No, why should I?"

  "Because I sold out, because I took part in a show that pandered to the lowest common denominator."

  Charlie thought about it for a moment. "How is that different from doing Miss Agatha or My Gun Has Bullets?"

  "I did it for the money," she said. "I did it to save my career. I did it because I was scared and alone."

  "Hey, you couldn't have been alone," he replied. "We're in this together, remember?"

  She laughed, feeling better already. "How soon can you get here?"