by Lee Goldberg
But Kim Woodrell didn't have any pets so Doyle Klemm had to go with the mannequin bit. It was no problem, really, because Klemm kept his van stocked with mannequin limbs "just in case" anyway.
In his business, it paid to be prepared. He kept his van loaded with everything he needed to instill fear and, when necessary, severe bodily harm. The nice thing was, from an inventory point of view, that a lot of the items could be used for either purpose. Take his power drill, for instance. Klemm could use it to terrify, like screwing a dog to somebody's door, or he could use it for torture, like giving somebody an extra nostril.
Each job was unique, though he often used the same, tried and true, techniques. Pissing on the walls wasn't one of his favorites, because he liked to be tidy, and it meant staying in a stinking house for quite a while. But most people usually responded to that simple message right away, it was the real hard cases who needed more convincing.
Apparently, Kim Woodrell was one of them. So tonight the call came down to deliver the message on her body. Nothing fatal, though, because she was no good to Klemm's boss dead. Disfigured was okay.
He selected a gun-shaped, cordless drill and a 13/64 high-speed, steel bit, recommended by Black & Decker for metal, wood, and plastic, and recommended by Doyle Klemm for knee caps, wrists, and skulls.
Klemm parked a couple blocks from Woodrell's place and approached her house from the beach, where he was virtually invisible in the darkness in his black outfit. Deactivating her alarm was no biggie, he used to be a SafeSec installer. SafeSec was a wonderful place to learn your trade and case homes at the same time.
He picked the lock on the door to the maid's quarters and slipped inside.
* * * * * *
After Charlie Willis cleaned out the refrigerator of fake body parts, he asked himself how the intruder kept getting into the house and bypassing the alarm.
Charlie went outside and checked the alarm box, and wasn't surprised when he saw indentations where clips had been placed on the wires. He then studied the house for the intruder's likely entrance, the one best shielded from view from either the street or neighboring houses.
It was the door to his room.
So Charlie wasn't surprised when the door opened and man crept in, holding a power drill. He let him get a few steps into the room, and punched him in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of his lungs.
Charlie shoved him face down on the floor, jammed a knee into his back, and wrapped a towel around his lower jaw, preventing Klemm from closing his mouth. He picked up the power drill with his free hand and put it against the back of his Klemm's head.
"Don't even think of biting that cyanide capsule," Charlie said.
"hyandhide?" Klemm gurgled. It wasn't easy to talk with a towel in his mouth.
"The only way you're dying tonight is if I kill you. Now, you can either tell me what I want to know, or I'll go looking in your head for the answers myself."
Charlie squeezed the trigger of the drill, letting the bit spin in Klemm's hair, so the guy would get the point.
"Do we understand each other?" Charlie asked.
"Yeff," Klemm said.
"What does Clive Odett want from Kim?"
"Who ig Qwife Oehhh?"
Charlie squeezed the trigger and touched the point of the whirring bit to Klemm's scalp, drawing blood.
"I woof for woher hinglehein," Klemm spit out in a terrified rush, drool sloshing out of his mouth.
Charlie loosened his grip on the towel. "Dr. Himmelstein? The plastic surgeon?"
Klemm nodded, but it was more of a rhetorical question. Dr. Himmelstein was the most popular plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills, so sought after by celebrities that he accepted a wide range of payment, from cash, stock, securities and property, as well as flexible credit terms. There were several A-list actors who simply had him on commission, along with their agents, managers and lawyers.
"Okay," Charlie said. "What does he want from Kim?"
"His $250,000," Klemm said.
"What did she have done that could possibly cost that much?"
"Everything, Charlie," said Kimberly Woodrell.
She stood in the doorway in her loosely-tied bathrobe, tears rolling down her cheeks, her arms crossed under her surgically enhanced breasts, the bosom she dreamed of having all those years ago when she was a man.
Chapter Thirteen
The bomb wired to Conrad Stipe's front door was strong enough to blow it, and most of Conrad Stipe, clear across the street. Or something like that, Artie Saputo wasn't entirely sure. That was part of the thrill of working with explosives.
That morning, Artie broke into the ranch-style house, "south of the boulevard" in Encino, by tossing a brick through the sliding glass door. After eating all the sweets in the house, and jerking off a couple times with Stipe's collection of Big Hooters magazines, he set to work on the bomb, using material he found in Stipe's house.
He could improvise like that because Artie was an inventive, can-do guy, with the tools and the know-how to create the right gadget for the job, just like the Endeavor's wily Chief Engineer Glerp. Of course, he had no formal training in engineering and explosives, he learned by trial and error. Mostly by error.
He leaned back to admire his work, the yellow pupil rolling around in his hollow, Zorgog plastic eye. The explosive device was spread across the entire wall on either side of the door. It was a complex tangle of Christmas lights, styrofoam cups, extension cords, lighter fluid, fertilizer, paint thinner, thumb tacks, model glue, and a propane tank. The finishing touch was a Beyond the Beyond wet 'n' stick decal. Not very sleek, but the device was state-of-the-art in the Confederation.
Artie reached for a pair of wire-cutters from his plastic Chief Engineer Glerp action-belt and made the final adjustments, ensuring the device would explode the instant Stipe came through the door. Which, unfortunately, was at that exact moment.
Stipe and the door were blown to smithereens, just as Artie predicted, along with the entire front wall of the house, which he hadn't. Artie found himself lying on the warm hood of Stipe's Acura, covered in debris and Stipe-flesh. He was also missing his left ear, which wasn't so bad, since he was pretty sure they were still selling Security Chief Zorgog masks at Toys R Us.
* * * * * *
But it wasn't Conrad Stipe who opened the door. It wasn't even Conrad Stipe's house.
The house belonged to Dermot Elroy, 37, a rising star in the answering machine message voice-over field. And while bits of poor Dermot and his house were falling all over 190 South Ardwyn street, Conrad Stipe was coming home to his apartment at 190 North Ardwyn in his '77 Eldorado.
The Sunset Vista Palms, where Stipe lived, was a half-block of stucco and window air conditioners and laundry hung on tiny balconies to dry. The two, sickly palm trees that gave the building its name were on either side of the only entrance and were pissing posts for every dog within a three mile radius. Stipe had to leap a puddle of pee just to get in and out of his home.
But his days of crossing the piss moat would soon be over. A man of his stature in the industry belonged south of the boulevard, in a massive house with a front gate, stone lions, and a long, flagstone driveway. A team of real estate agents were already scouring the valley for a suitable abode.
So when Stipe came in and heard the shower running, he wasn't concerned. He was relieved. It meant another one of Milo's Double-D girls was waiting for him. She would be a welcome distraction from the gloom of his past life and an exhilarating reaffirmation of his newfound power.
Stipe strode into his bedroom. Steam from the running shower spilled out of the open bathroom door and gave the bedroom a humid, tropical heat. Behind the frosted glass of the shower, he could make out the top-heavy figure of a woman.
He turned off the lights and hurriedly undressed, peeling off his girdle and letting his stomach flop free. A man of his power and influence didn't have to bother with the niceties of romance and seduction any more. It was straight to the main ev
ent.
Stipe kicked the girdle under a chair and sprawled on the bed, laying on his back and letting gravity flatten his stomach. What gravity didn't hide, the darkness would.
The woman emerged from the bathroom in a burst of steam, backlit by fluorescent light. Stipe had to admire the cinematic effect, even if it meant he couldn't see her face, not that it was really necessary anyway.
"It's been such a long, long time," the woman said in a sultry, husky voice. "But it was worth the wait."
Stipe liked the sound of that.
"We're going to be so good together," she came around to the foot of the bed. "Again."
Again?
She crawled onto him and he saw her face. Shocked, he scrambled back, slamming his head sharply against the backboard. It was Shari, his ex-wife.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he yelled.
She sat up, straddling his legs. "I got tired of waiting for you to call."
"Why would I call you?" He'd seen her around the conventions, but purposely ignored her. How many times had she remarried? Three? Four?
"To resume my role as Dr. Kelvin, of course."
He was about to throw her out, until he looked at those enormous breasts, her nipples big enough to hang a coat on, and decided it would be more polite to fuck her first. No sense turning her away completely disappointed.
"Of course," he slid back down the bed.
"I still have what it takes to play the part, don't I?" she leaned over him, letting her breasts swing in front of his face.
He buried his face in her cleavage and pressed her breasts around his head. He mumbled something against her sternum that felt, more than sounded, like "Oh yes."
She grabbed him by the hair and pulled him away from her bosom. "So when do I start?"
"You can start right now," he searched for his erection to put inside her, but was having a hard time finding it.
"I meant, when do I report to the set?"
"Let's talk about this afterward." He abandoned his search. If she wanted it, she could find it. Taking one of her massive breasts in both hands, he devoured the nipple, licking, sucking, and drooling with abandon.
"Do I have the part or don't I?"
Stipe could see she just wasn't going to give up. He fell back against the mattress, defeated, still panting with excitement, his cheeks wet with his own drool.
"No, you don't. We're going with a younger cast."
Her face crinkled with rage. Stipe sighed. As soon as she left, he'd have to call Milo's office, get a Double D girl to come down right away and finish him off.
But she didn't leave. She was remembering the last time she saw Stipe, in a lawyer's office, signing their divorce papers.
To Stipe's surprise, she smiled, all traces of anger gone.
"I guess I'll just have to settle for the merchandising." She took his head in her hands and mashed his face against her breast.
He slathered all over it hungrily, unable to believe his good fortune. She was going to fuck him anyway. What a mature woman. Then, her nipple in his mouth, his face mashed against her huge breast, he realized something.
Merchandising? What merchandising?
He tried to ask, but his words were lost in her flesh. That's when he realized something else. He couldn't breath.
Shari didn't understand what he said, but she could guess. She pinned him to the mattress with the entire weight of her body, smothering him with her breast.
"I just remembered. You never amended your will after the divorce, darling," she grabbed the mattress to hold herself in place as he squirmed frantically underneath her, scratching at her back, kicking his legs. "If you die, I get your share of Beyond the Beyond merchandising."
His struggle turned into a desperate, panicked flailing, during which he accidentally inserted himself in her. She gasped.
She read somewhere that terror, rather than diminishing an erection, only made it harder. Now she had clinical proof.
He clamped his teeth on her nipple and bit it off. She screamed, and was surprised at the erotic charge it gave her. His squirming was hitting all the right spots.
"Yes," she panted, "yes."
Just as she was nearing orgasm, Stipe froze, twitched, and died. She rolled off the corpse and caught her breath.
It was like being married to him all over again.
* * * * *
Charlie spent an hour on the phone with Milo Kinoy, who was at one of his castles in Scotland, and told him that Kimberly Woodrell owed someone $250,000, and if it came out what she spent the money on, it would ruin her and probably the network, too.
Kinoy asked if the $250,000 would keep the secret quiet, and Charlie said he was confident that it would. This wasn't really a case of blackmail, he explained, and the person Kim was indebted to relied on confidentiality to stay in business.
They made the necessary arrangements, Kinoy expressed his appreciation to Charlie, and then it was over.
Charlie went into the living room, where Doyle Klemm was sitting in one of the chrome chairs, which was probably the most painful thing that happened to the intruder that night. Kim stood at the window with her back to them both. It was too dark to see the beach, all she could see was her own reflection staring back at her.
"The money will be wired into Dr. Himmelstein's Swiss bank account within the hour," Charlie said.
"I guess that settles it," Klemm sighed, stood up, and glanced at Kim's back. "I'm sorry it came to all this, lady. It was nothing personal."
Kim didn't say anything. Klemm turned and offered his hand to Charlie. "No hard feelings."
Charlie debated whether to shake his hand. Who knew how many people this guy had tortured, raped or killed? If he could arrest him, he would. But then Kim's secret would come out. He had to let this guy walk.
But did he have to accept a handshake? Yes, he did. There was an unspoken, professional code of conduct, even between cops and crooks, that demanded he accept the peace offering.
"You might take this experience as an omen," Charlie shook Klemm's hand. "Maybe consider a career change."
Klemm picked up his drill off the coffee table. "I appreciate the advice, but this is what I do."
"I catch you doing it again, and you won't walk away."
Klemm nodded. "Fair enough."
The intruder left through the front door. As soon as he was gone, Charlie looked at Kim.
"Milo didn't ask what the money was for, but he says don't expect your performance bonus this year."
"Milo had no choice," she said. "He's invested way too much in me and the Big Network to let $250,000 jeopardize everything."
She turned to face Charlie. "I guess I'll never really be the first woman to run a network, will I?"
"I don't see why not."
Kim walked slowly towards Charlie. "Do I disgust you, Charlie?"
"No," he said, not moving.
She stopped a few inches away from him and let her robe slip off her shoulders. She was naked. "Prove it."
Charlie had to admit Dr. Himmelstein deserved every penny of his $250,000. He couldn't tell what was real, and what was manufactured. And without closer examination, there was nothing about her physically that betrayed her original sex. Certainly his body was fooled. He had a stiff one before her robe hit the floor.
"You're not my type," Charlie said.
"Too masculine?"
"No," he picked up her robe and offered it to her. "Too network."
She snatched the robe from him and put it on, cinching it tight around her waist for the first time since he'd met her.
"I suppose you'll want something for your silence."
"Just a good night's sleep."
And with that, Charlie went to bed.
ACT THREE
Chapter Fourteen
Leigh Dickson sat at a table outside Starbucks in Sherman Oaks the next morning, sipping coffee and reading Harold Pinter's The Dumb Waiter. He thought he made a pretty picture for any woman on the
prowl for handsome, educated, witty men.
Of course, the play was not actually about waiters, but she would appreciate the subtle irony and be undeniably intrigued by him. Because, living in LA, she would be starving for genuine intellect, for a man with cultured tastes and shrewd wit, and shocking good looks.
Unfortunately, she was starving somewhere else today. After a good twenty minutes of posing, Leigh closed the book and decided to pose across the street at Tower Records in the classical music section.
He got up and walked down the street, slipping on a pair of sunglasses to shield his sensitive eyes from the harsh glare. Soon, he would have to wear them to hide himself from the harsh glare of adoration. Or so he hoped.
He'd won the role of Mr. Snork over fifty other hopefuls, but the only reason he was there was because his agent tricked him. Leigh thought he was auditioning for an updated version of The Elephant Man.
But once he got the part, his agent convinced him it was a career-making opportunity. It certainly was a money-making one. But the idea of spending the next five years wearing an elephant nose terrified him.
His terror was misplaced. He should have been worried about crossing the street.
A brown Chevette tore away from the curb, tires squealing, Bev Huncke hunkered over the steering wheel screaming "die alien scum," targeting Leigh Dickson with her starship Endeavor hood ornament.
She slammed into him with a satisfying, squishy smack, the car lurching as it rolled over his body with a moist, grinding crunch.
The last thing Leigh Dickson saw, cheek against the gory pavement, a cloud of exhaust in his eyes, was a blood-splattered license plate that read: "Shtlcrft 3."
The Chevette sped away, driven by what witnesses would later describe as a "lady with a penis on her face." The police never found anyone matching that general description.
* * * * * *
Thrack of Oberon watched Spring Dano jog down the grassy median of San Vicente Boulevard, her breasts as solid and immovable as the Statue of Liberty's.
