My Gun Has Bullets (6 page)

"Make yourself at home," Boyd said. "Fuck my secretary, while you're at it."

DeBono glanced up from the
TV Guide
and gave Boyd a wicked grin. "I would, but I've decided to fuck you instead."

"Am I going to like it?"

"Do I care?" DeBono tossed the
TV Guide
onto a pile of scripts and swivelled around in the chair to face Boyd, who was sauntering up to admire his unobstructed view of the valley.

"Have you seen the demographics on
Miss Agatha?"

"You came all the way down here to ask me that?"

"It was a rhetorical question, butthead," DeBono said. "That
is
butt hair on your

head, isn't it? Or did Dr. Desi harvest your arm pits?"

The muscles in Boyd's cheeks tightened. Maybe if he gritted his teeth, he wouldn't throw the guy out the window. He turned very slowly to face DeBono.

''The show is a hit. That's all that's important."

"The demographics skew so fucking old, the entire audience of the show could be dead by next season," DeBono said. "DBC's
Red Highway
is snagging everyone who isn't on social security yet."

"Red Highway
is in forty-eighth place," Boyd said.

"Last season it was seventieth," DeBono replied. "You see a trend here? Of course you don't. That's why you're here and I'm running the network. The right show, with the right demographics, can take Sunday night."

"We
are already taking the night."

"We
are sitting ducks." DeBono got up from behind the desk. "So we're going to youthify
Miss Agatha.
She's going to get a niece who wears black leather, drives a sports car, and can do more Ninja shit than Steven Seagal."

Boyd couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had just saved Esther's ass, not to mention his own, rescued the network and the show, and even managed to restore his hairline. And now this jerk was recklessly putting it all at risk again.

"Are you insane?" Boyd marched up to him, practically stammering in disbelief. "You don't fuck around with a hit. You leave it alone and count your money."

"Scrap the episode you're shooting and shut down for a week," DeBono said casually.

"You realize what I had to go through to
save
the show for you?" Boyd exclaimed.

"You saved your own hairless ass
and
got a new series out of the fucking deal, so don't give me that shit." DeBono picked up the
TV
Guide
and admired the picture of Rappy Scrappy on the cover. "I want the new character in the next episode, and I want to air it during sweeps."

"Esther Radcliffe won't stand for this."

"Then tell Esther Radcliffe you either shoot the episode I want, or you shoot the series finale."

"You'd cancel a hit?" Boyd asked incredulously. Now he knew for certain that DeBono had actually lost his mind.

DeBono shrugged. "It's been done before."

"We'll take the show to another network." Boyd paced defiantly in front of him. "Let's see how those demos look to you when your ass is getting kicked."

DeBono shook his head. "Check out the contract. You can't shop new episodes anywhere for a year after cancellation." DeBono watched with amusement as the color drained from Boyd's face. "Snuck it into the contract a few seasons back."

Boyd slowly settled into his desk chair and contemplated impaling himself on the edge of the desk. DeBono watched the man wilt.

"If
Miss Agatha
is off the air for a year, most of her audience will be dead when she comes back. You either do it my way, or you don't do it at all."

Boyd could feel his hair losing its footing in his scalp. Another painful session with Dr. Desi was inevitable.

"You have someone in mind for the part?" Boyd asked, resigned to defeat.

"Sabrina Bishop," DeBono said. "You know her?"

Know her? He dreamed of her. Suddenly it all seemed worth the risk. Suddenly Don DeBono was a programming genius. Suddenly he wanted to see Dr. Desi. Sabrina Bishop was going to want Boyd's perfect head of hair as much as he wanted her perfect breasts.

"I've heard of her." Boyd hoped he'd disguised his excitement. At least he was glad he was sitting down. "You realize the risk, don't you?"

"Miss Agatha
has to go sometime," DeBono said. "Worse thing that happens, you'll get your fucking fortune in rerun money sooner rather than later."

"That's not the worst thing," Boyd said. "She's already shot a cop. You think she'd think twice about killing Sabrina Bishop?"

T
here was no way Esther Radcliffe was setting foot in a Winnebago. Even though the studio called it a dressing room, as far as she was concerned it was still a
mobile home.
Economy-size coffins for the living dead. Tin cans for the sardines of humanity. There wasn't a more heinous pairing of words in the English language.

Mobile home.
The words immediately evoked images of TV dinners and Barcaloungers. Wink Martindale and Kmart. Fast food and slow death. Trailer parks with names like Sunny Acres, Paradise Pines, and Valley Vista collecting like weeds along the freeways of America. The white-trash Beverly Hills.

She hadn't worked all her life to set herself apart from
them
just to end up in a mobile home herself. That would have been the ultimate indignity.

So she made the studio fork out half a million dollars on her dressing room—a Greyhound bus converted into an estate that just happened to be on wheels. Pity the losers retreating to their Formica and vinyl boxes. Between scenes
she
retired to opulence that rivalled her own home. With her brass fixtures and marble countertops, Persian rugs and mahogany paneling, no one would mistake
her
dressing room for a
mobile home.

But right now the most noticeable feature of her dressing room was not the Hockney on the wall or the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. It was the plain manila envelope propped up in a chair like a bored guest.

She saw it the moment she came in. She didn't have to open it to know what was inside, but she did anyway. A dozen eight-by-ten photos that could have been a
Penthouse
spread on sexual positions. Or a
Playgirl
tribute to the male sex organ.

Only the limber lass cavorting with the endowed stud wasn't some airbrushed centerfold beauty. It was Esther. Her immediate reaction to the photos was always the same. First came pride. She looked fucking incredible. Was it any wonder this Adonis, thirty years younger than she, was hard enough to cut diamonds? Hell no. She was, and always had been, a spectacular lover and a devastating beauty. Esther was half tempted to ask for blowups. The photos should be published the world over, so men could dream of having her and women could dream of being her. Even Madonna could learn a few things.

After three or four minutes of self-adulation came the deadlier reaction. The one that stayed with her through all her waking hours. The one that gnawed at her like some ravenous parasite. The one that motivated her to do terrible things to innocent people. Rage.

Sharon Stone could be caught giving three guys blowjobs at the same time and it would only make her more popular. Madonna could fuck a horse and it wouldn't hurt her career. But get a snapshot of kindly Miss Agatha holding a man's face between her legs, and civilization would come to an end. Certainly her career would. Other stars could fuck and be admired for it, but not her. It was grossly, horribly, unspeakably unfair, an inequity made all the more unbearable because it had a price tag. Each roll of film cost her $50,000 in small bills stuffed into a canvas Pinnacle Studios tour bag.

This was the third time the blackmailer had asked for $50,000 and it was going to be the last. She knew damn well who was doing this to her.

Charlie Willis.

It had to be him. The photos started showing up as soon as he arrived on the lot. It wasn't enough that the studio gave him a series. He had to soak her, too.

Well, that was going to end. The same way it began.

She was envisioning her revenge when there was a knock on her door. Esther stuck the photos in a drawer and sat down in one of her Pierre Deux upholstered chairs.

"Enter," she commanded.

The door opened and Boyd Hartnell tentatively stuck his celerystalk head in. "I hope we aren't disturbing you, Esther."

"We?" she asked imperiously.

"Yes, I've got Sabrina with me. She's very eager to meet you." Boyd stepped in, expecting a vase or a knife to come sailing his way at any moment. "You've been her idol for—" He caught himself before he could make a fatal reference to her age. "—for obvious reasons," he stammered. "You're an inspiration to actresses everywhere."

When Boyd had told Esther she was getting a co-star, and that there was nothing she could do or say about it, the old crone went crazy—destroyed everything in Boyd's office. He had to hide under the desk as if riding out the Big One. Now he had no idea what she would do. He certainly didn't expect what came next.

Esther broke into the warm, grandmotherly smile that made Miss Agatha welcome in millions of living rooms. "Well, don't leave her standing there in that heat. Bring her right in. Let me give you both a nice glass of iced tea."

Boyd stepped in and motioned outside to Sabrina, who stood a few feet away, staring at the cavernous soundstage as if it were the Vatican. She had finally arrived. This wasn't another crummy refurbished warehouse in Van Nuys or Valencia, this was a real studio where real shows were made. Where professionals plied their craft in an atmosphere of mutual respect. Where nobodies become international stars. Her nipples were already stiffening on their own.

She turned to the Greyhound bus, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. Her agent had warned her about Esther Radcliffe. But could this old lady be any worse than the predatory, drooling pack of producers, agents, and has-been actors she'd survived already?

Sabrina was expecting the Tasmanian Devil in drag—she wasn't prepared for the kindly grandmother who greeted them, pouring two tall glasses of iced tea from an enormous, frosty pitcher.

"Have a refreshing glass of tea, darling, you look positively blanched." Esther handed Sabrina the glass and gave her a quick once-over. All pert and pretty in a short-sleeved, white T-shirt and vest. Long-legged and slim in faded blue jeans. Baring her perfect boobs on film hadn't hurt
her
any.

"Thank you very much, Miss Radcliffe." Sabrina took the glass and smiled. "That's very kind of you."

"I can't have my niece fainting from sunstroke." Esther gave Boyd his glass of tea. "You didn't tell me she was so sweet. Shame on you, Boyd."

There was no way Boyd was drinking anything Esther handed him. He tried to think of a way to warn Sabrina.

"We appreciate the tea, but you know it's not a good idea to drink something so cold immediately after coming in from the heat," Boyd said. "I read that somewhere."

"Nonsense," Esther said to Boyd, her eyes flashing, for just a moment, with the malice he knew thrived in her soul. But when she turned to Sabrina again, Esther was angelic, harmless Miss Agatha.

"Next thing you know, he'll say fresh-baked cookies are bad for you, too. I just made a batch, if you'd like some."

What a nice woman, Sabrina thought. It figures. Hollywood is run by men, so naturally they are scared to death of a woman with power, even when it's a gentle lady like Esther Radcliffe. Of course, they
had
to portray her as a queen bitch or face their own fears of impotence. Someday, Sabrina hoped, she'd be popular enough that the men in charge felt so threatened they'd concoct ridiculous stories about her.

"No thank you," Sabrina said. "I'm trying to watch my weight."

I bet you are, you little slut, Esther thought. But she said, "Oh, isn't she darling." She smiled at Sabrina. "I am so happy you're going to be on the show. Finally, I'll have someone to share girl talk with. We are going to have a marvellous time."

"I'm certainly looking forward to it," Sabrina said. "I've been a fan of yours since I was a little girl."

Boyd winced. Sabrina didn't know it, but she had just committed suicide—and without even taking a sip of her drink. It was bad enough Esther had to share the screen with a young beauty, but he knew Esther couldn't stand being reminded she was an old bag by comparison. Esther would ruin her. Then Sabrina had to go and make it worse.

"I can't believe I'll actually be working with you. It's like a dream come true. When I was six, I adored you as
Sally Sweetcake.
I wanted to grow up and live with you, and Santa, and all your cartoon elves," Sabrina said, recalling with genuine fondness Esther's famous role as Santa's happy-go-lucky, singing nanny in the Disney classic. "And now here I am."

Esther loathed the part, and had been trying to escape it, without success, her entire career. But instead of choking the life out of the little bimbo, Esther surprised herself and Boyd by feigning bashful pride. "I'm so glad."

"Of course, I didn't think I'd be wearing black leather and delivering judo chops." Sabrina giggled. It was an infectious, joyous burst of laughter that endeared most people to her immediately. Boyd was instantly aroused, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by Esther. She saw the pathetic bump in his trousers. A ball of cotton could make a bigger impression. Esther was aroused, too, but in a very different way. Sabrina's innocent laugh made Esther want to grind her thumbs into the bitch's blue eyes until they squished.

"Well, sweetheart, I want you to think of me, on screen and off, as your loving Aunt Agatha," Esther said. "If you have any problems getting settled in, or you just want to have a slice of homemade pecan pie, drop by and see me."

Sabrina glanced down at her glass. Oh shit, Boyd thought. He had to think of a way to stop her from drinking whatever hell brew the witch had cooked up in her cauldron.