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by Lee Goldberg

  Thus began a relationship between the two cousins that would continue into adulthood, as Daddy took his mob profits from drug dealing, grand theft, bookmaking, bone-breaking and arson-for-hire and bankrolled Huey's porno film career. Of course, Daddy took his customary sixty percent cut.

  The first thing Daddy did was change Huey's name to something classy that also hinted at his wondrous endowment. Flint Westwood was born, first as a stand-in erection for lesser-gifted actors and later as a leading man himself.

  But during all those years, one thing had never changed. Flint had to know he had an audience, or he literally couldn't rise to the occasion, whether for fun or profit.

  Which was why now, as Flint lay on his back, his latest lusty conquest riding his livelihood like a pogo stick, three video cameras silently whirred behind the minors that lined the walls of his round bedroom.

  The mirrors served a dual purpose. With them, he was always certain he could look out from his rotating bed and see at least one member of the audience enjoying the show—himself. And he could imagine that the cameras, hidden behind the mirrors, were the eyes for millions of adoring fans.

  The woman atop him writhed and moaned, riding the fine edge between pleasure and pain. She wasn't the most beautiful woman he had ever screwed, but she was one of the most enthusiastic, and certainly the richest.

  She was surfing on that rolling, building wave of pleasure, anticipating the mighty crash, the pounding against the shore, and the slow, tantalizing retreat back into the tranquil sea. The occasional jolt of pain she felt was an exciting riptide just below the turbulent surface of her ecstasy.

  Although the beach was in sight, and the wave continued to grow in intensity, the shore never seemed to get any closer. The frustration was becoming a pain of its own, and not one she enjoyed. She needed that extra gust of wind to carry her forward.

  That's when she imagined a fusillade of bullets pounding into Charlie Willis, jerking him across her psyche until he was blown apart into billions of bloody smithereens.

  That was enough.

  Esther Radcliffe shrieked, climaxing so hard and so loud Flint wondered if he'd inadvertently killed her. But luck was on his side tonight—the tragic event in Spokane was not repeating itself, which was good, because he had long since gotten rid of his chain saw.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Otto and Burt moved through the quiet, empty streets of Manhattan, across the dusty plains of the Old West, and finally past the shadow of soundstage 15 to Boo Boo's compound.

  Otto was armed with bolt cutters and a syringe filled with sleeping pills dissolved in water. Burt carried an extra-large, swimming-pool leaf-net on an extendable pole in one hand, and a gunny sack in the other.

  Tonight, they were on an important mission for Eddie Planet, one that would ultimately hurl them from obscurity into the national limelight as romantic leading men. Then their dreams would all come true. They could go into any airport nudie bar and the girls would let them put money into their panties. They could have a comic book made about them. They could become spokesmen for Swanson Dinners, and get all the Hungry Man Frozen Meals they could eat for free.

  Eddie would see to that, because he was the most powerful man in television and the visionary who had discovered them. All they had to do was this one little favor, and it was easy. They had done the same thing a million times before.

  "Ready for some takeout?" Burt snickered, thinking if they hurried, they could have Boo Boo on the grill in time to watch Suzanne Somers's Thighmaster infomercial.

  "Yeah," Otto said, stopping at the gate to Boo Boo's domain and handily snapping the lock with his bolt cutters. He opened the gate wide and, with a grandiose wave of his arm, ushered Burt in. Burt stepped inside, bowed politely, and then the two of them launched into their ritual dance.

  They got through their soft-shoe, their patty-cake, their jumping jacks, and were midway through their John Travolta spin when Boo Boo leapt out of the darkness for Otto's neck. Burt saw the furious furball out of the corner of his eye. He swung his leaf net at Boo Boo, missed the dog, and smacked Otto in the head, knocking him off balance and inadvertently saving his life.

  Instead of ripping apart Otto's neck, Boo Boo landed in Otto's crotch, clamping his teeth firmly on a mouthful of genitalia.

  Otto considered this only a temporary setback. At least he had Boo Boo right where he wanted him. Otto took his syringe and prepared to jam it into Boo Boo.

  Unfortunately, this was the exact moment Burt decided to help Otto, reaching for the dog at the same instant Otto brandished his needle. Instead of jamming it into Boo Boo, Otto injected Burt, who staggered backward and splashed into the canine reflecting pool.

  Boo Boo, seeing a flash of the dreaded needle, immediately released Otto, scampered over his face, through the gate and into the night in search of less well-armed prey.

  Otto reached down, relieved to find his testicles still attached to his blood-soaked crotch, and then picked up the leaf net to fish his comatose friend out of Boo Boo's pond.

  Although Otto was a generally optimistic fellow, he was forced to admit this hadn't gone well.

  # # #

  Charlie emptied his Porto-potty into the perfectly manicured bushes of Flint Westwood's Spanish-style house, which was, appropriately enough, in Westwood.

  He had been so stunned when he first recognized Flint's black Porsche parked out front that he snapped a roll of film just of Esther Radcliffe going inside the house. Why, he didn't know, but he had a feeling he'd be sorry if he didn't.

  He then ran back and moved his car out of the parking structure. It was a good idea, because Esther had been inside with Flint for six hours, and Charlie didn't have the $50 in cash it would've taken to ransom the Camaro.

  It took him half an hour to figure out how to use his shotgun mike, but once he did, he pointed it at the house. Whatever he might have heard was drowned out by someone watching Oprah next door.

  So he crept up to the house for a closer look, and to empty his Porto-potty. Of course now, as he was standing right outside the house, was the moment Esther picked to leave. Thankfully, it was a dark night, and she walked past Charlie, crouched behind the bushes, without even noticing him, and strode back up Malcolm to the parking structure.

  Charlie waited until she disappeared around the corner before he went to his car and drove to the parking structure, arriving just as Esther's Rolls was coming out.

  Esther cruised west on Wilshire, got on the San Diego Freeway, and took it south to Jefferson Boulevard, which stretched across the city from the depths of South Central Los Angeles to the edge of the continent.

  He stayed several cars behind her as she cruised Pacific-bound on Jefferson, across the wide-open marshland, the most valuable undeveloped property in Los Angeles. The land had been earmarked for decades as the site of an ambitious, upscale neighborhood of towering condos, exclusive beaches, swank shopping, and private marinas, but was mired in legal challenges, zoning ordinances, and politics. For now, the land was home to cancerous ducks, corpulent mosquitoes, and chunks of sewage that dropped from incoming jets like shit from a pterodactyl.

  Esther surprised him by heading out toward Playa Del Rey, an oceanfront village along the spit of beach between the airport runways and the Pacific Ocean.

  Playa Del Rey was the ugly cousin of Marina Del Rey, where wealthy singles, stewardesses, and recent divorcées flocked looking for hard bodies, development deals, and tropical drinks.

  Once, Charlie thought about moving to Marina Del Rey just to get laid, but took one look at the prices and decided he was better off celibate in Reseda.

  Charlie couldn't imagine what Esther was doing in ramshackle Playa Del Rey, where departing aircraft rattled the shingles off half-million-dollar homes and choked the skies with exhaust fumes. No doubt the people who lived there stuck earplugs in their ears and cotton up their noses, admired their ocean views, and honestly thought they had it made.

  The Rolls
tooled down the coast on Vista Del Mar, the ocean on one side, the airport on the other. His car shook as a 747 roared overhead, so low Charlie half expected the retracting landing gear to scrape the roof of his car.

  Esther turned left into a tiny, well-lighted picnic area on the airport side of the street, sliding her Rolls between a seaspray-corroded Econoline van and a couple of Mexicans necking in a '73 Impala. Charlie slowed to watch Esther walk quickly across the grass toward the cyclone fence that surrounded the floodlit oasis on three sides.

  A tailgater behind Charlie leaned on his horn three or four times in rapid succession. Charlie could have shot the sonofabitch for drawing attention to him, but thankfully Esther didn't look back.

  Charlie parked illegally across the street, ran across the busy thoroughfare, and strode into the park, his head low, his camera around his neck. He looked up just enough to see Esther slip through a hole in the cyclone fence and disappear into the darkness beyond.

  As much as he hated Esther, the cop side of Charlie wanted to rush out and stop her. It was insanity for a woman her age, or any age for that matter, to walk into a vacant lot in the dark. No, it was suicide.

  On the other hand, he knew she was insane, and was probably better armed than anyone she was likely to meet in the darkness. Besides, if anyone tried to attack her, he'd be there to rescue her. And he knew he would, too, even though Esther had shot him and framed him for murder.

  What a chump, he thought.

  Rather than go through the hole, Charlie climbed the fence nearest him and dropped over as quietly as he could on the other side.

  Charlie crouched and spotted Esther moving along what looked like a path through the weeds. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, even though it was pitch black.

  She's a lunatic, he thought, as if that was a big revelation.

  He started after her and immediately tripped, landing on his side and scraping his elbow on a slab of cement.

  The ground shook, and for a split second, the area was illuminated by the lights of an airplane taking off. In that moment, Charlie saw a snapshot of a dead neighborhood. Faded numbers on cracked curbs. Crumbled chimneys spilled across weed-choked foundations. Cracked driveways leading to nothing.

  Charlie realized he was lying in the rubble of a house, and that Esther was walking down what had been a street. Now he remembered. Thirty years ago this dark wasteland had been the fashionable neighborhood of Vista Del Mar, demolished to make room for the airport expansion. Only the ruins remained of the ornate homes that once overlooked the sea.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  Charlie checked his camera and was relieved to find it in one piece. He carefully found his way to what remained of the curb and followed it in the direction Esther had taken. Blindly, he stumbled along for a few minutes, hoping he wouldn't collide with Esther, who had so confidently navigated the same street only minutes ago.

  He instinctively ducked as another plane took off above him, shaking the ground and bathing the street in a flash of light. Esther was only a few yards ahead of him, kneeling in front of an old, rusted mailbox lying on the cracked rubble of a driveway.

  Charlie slipped behind the debris of a brick flower box and snapped a few pictures. He was able to see her slipping a brown-wrapped package into the mailbox before the plane passed and the decaying skeleton of Vista Del Mar was once again shrouded in darkness.

  He heard her footsteps approaching and lay flat on the ground. She marched confidently past him, as if the whole place were bathed in light and she could see every crack and stone in her path.

  Instead of following her, Charlie stayed where he was, watching her make her way back to the parking lot. She got into her Rolls and drove off.

  Charlie turned his attention back to the mailbox and was surprised to see something move in the gloom. He hunkered down and peered through his camera, but he didn't see anything until a moment later, when a plane passed overhead, its lights revealing a man standing over the battered mailbox, holding the package.

  It was Flint Westwood.

  Flint tore the package open to reveal a thick wad of cash. Charlie didn't have to count it to know it was $50,000.

  Charlie snapped away, taking as many pictures as he could before the plane flew off and Esther's secret melted back into the night.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Long faces lined the long table in the long boardroom this morning, the start of the longest day in the long history of the United Broadcasting Company.

  Its cash cow was missing. Actually, its cash dog—the illustrious Boo Boo, beloved by millions, linchpin of Don DeBono's entire schedule.

  For Don DeBono, nothing could be worse. A classic television sitcom was threatened. The entire UBC schedule hung in the balance. And UBC's position as the number one network was in grave peril.

  How could a merchandising juggernaut worth more than $50 million annually in T-shirts, coffee cups, key chains, lunch boxes, and thousands of other overpriced trinkets be gone?

  The season was becoming a disaster of legendary proportions, and all on Don DeBono's watch. As long as UBC dominated the schedule, DeBono felt whatever happened to primetime during the season, on whatever network, would be remembered as his legacy. He wouldn't be fondly remembered as the man who steered UBC into its fifth straight victorious season, as the man who introduced America to Miss Agatha. No, history wouldn't be so kind. The TV Guides of the future would forever link him with the slaughter on My Gun Has Bullets, the parboiling of the Two Dicks, and the disappearance (or worse) of Boo Boo.

  Don DeBono sat at the far end of the table, an Alka-Seltzer burbling in his glass of Evian, glaring at Boyd Hartnell, who sat with his head in a turban, a stupid smile on his face. Like fucking Boyd didn't realize what a monumental catastrophe this was. There was no sign of Boo Boo anywhere and, so far, no ransom demands had come in. The dog could be lost forever.

  "How the fuck could you let this happen?" DeBono asked, every vein on his face visible, pulsing just under the skin. '''Your incompetence could cost this network hundreds of millions of dollars."

  "It's not my show or my problem," said Boyd, relishing the moment. Under his turban, his golden mane was taking hold, and as Don DeBono disintegrated, Boyd was growing stronger. What did he care if Boo Boo was gone? Most of Boyd's shows were on rival networks and were going to benefit from this amusing turn of events. And, more importantly, his scalp was tingling. If Dr. Desi's experiment worked, not only would he have Sabrina Bishop, but he'd have chest hair again to hide his scrawny pees. He'd know very soon.

  "The dog was on your fucking lot," DeBono said. "Boo Boo is worth more than your whole fucking studio, and where were your guards? In their damn shack, jerking off when they should have been protecting the dog."

  "We only rent you studio space," Boyd replied. "Boo Boo's welfare was entirely your responsibility. If you wanted round-the-clock security guards on Boo Boo's compound, you should have put them there."

  DeBono grabbed his glass of Alka-Seltzer, his hand shaking as he brought it to his mouth and downed the antacid.

  Boyd couldn't believe how well this was going. DeBono was practically begging to be humiliated in front of his underlings, and Boyd gladly complied. He couldn't resist twisting the knife one more time.

  "But I guess it wasn't worth twelve bucks an hour to you," Boyd said, getting up. He wanted to see Sabrina Bishop while he was at the peak of his power and manliness. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got pressing business."

  DeBono watched Boyd leave, and wanted badly to kill the man. He knew Boyd was right, and it made him sicker and angrier than he already was. If he couldn't find someone to blame, and fast, his career would be over. There wasn't a single person at the table who wouldn't slit his throat at the first opportunity.

  His best shot at a scapegoat had just walked out of the room. His second choice, Boo Boo's trainer Lyle Spreen, got the news at his kennel. He was so shaken he forgot to watch where he was walk
ing. Spreen slipped on a dog turd, cracked his skull open, and ended up in a coma at Cedars Sinai. There went DeBono's elaborate plan to blame Boo Boo's mysterious disappearance on the abusive techniques of his trainer.

  DeBono glanced over at Buttonwillow McKittrick, vice president of current programming, always dressed in black, and saw her quickly lick her full, red lips. It was all she could do not to foam at the mouth. She was probably sharpening her icepick, waiting for the first opportunity to stab him in the back. He would be if he were in her position.

  After all, that's how he got this job in the first place. Every executive knew the only way to step up in network television was on someone else's back.

  If he fell, the network would be hers.

  So DeBono had to think fast.

  Until Boo Boo was found, it would take raw, programming genius to keep the schedule alive. And if Boo Boo wasn't found, DeBono would have to concoct a sure-fire hit overnight. Nothing short of a miracle.

  "Who knows about this?" DeBono asked Gilbert Schlaye, the chicken-necked VP of publicity.

  "Everybody everywhere," Schlaye replied. "CNN had it on the satellite two hours ago. Katie Couric burst into tears on the Today show. Three hundred kids broke into sobbing fits at a Chicago grade school—they had to call out the paramedics. They closed the school for the day, and they're offering psychological counselling to the panicked children." Schlaye was no threat, DeBono thought—the guy was a time-card puncher and nothing more.

  "Our L.A. station is pre-empting programming for round-the-clock coverage on the search for Boo Boo," interjected Larry Sydes, VP of affiliate relations, and professional interjector. Unwilling to be the first into any fray, he always waited to speak until his voice could be lost among others. The sneaky little shit would go far in network television, DeBono thought. But not on my back.