Jack Kilborn & J. A. Konrath (26 page)

Crofoot smiled, but Eddie found it anything but reassuring. For the first time in days, his bowels wanted to do aerobics.

“The shows were toilets, Eddie. Everyone shit all over them and the studios had to flush twenty million bucks down the drain.” Crofoot’s fingers were doing their tap dance and so was Eddie’s stomach. Crofoot’s choice of metaphor verged horrifyingly close to mind reading. “No one can afford you. The big studios are too smart now, and the little ones are too poor.”

Eddie sat up so quickly some of his drink sloshed out of the glass onto the black leather. “Look at
Saddlesore,
look at
Deputy Ghost,
look at
Beyond Earth
—those shows made ten times what my other shows lost!”

“A decade ago, Eddie.” Crofoot handed Eddie a napkin and motioned to the wet spot. “In Hollywood, that’s the Stone Age. You’re extinct. You’ve had to mortgage everything you own just to keep up the appearance that you’re still alive.”

Eddie wiped up the tiny puddle, then unconsciously dabbed his brow with the wet napkin. “This is your chance to get into the television business big time, to start as a player. You know how hard it is to sell a pilot? You don’t let opportunities like this slip away. It’s brass ring time. You understand what I’m saying? They don’t come along every day.”

And in Eddie’s case, might not come along ever again. But Planet was right about one thing, it was the perfect opportunity for Crofoot to buy into the exclusive network television game and get a coveted seat at the high rollers’ table.

“You’re asking me for a million dollars just for the pilot, and maybe three hundred thousand an episode to cover the deficit if it goes to series.” Crofoot said. “That’s a big risk.”

“Frankencop
is gonna sell and it’s gonna be a hit, I can feel it,” Eddie said. “I’ll stake my career on it.”

“If I give you a million bucks, more than your career is going to be at stake. You do understand that, don’t you, Eddie?”

Eddie swallowed some Jim Beam and mulled the implications. If he couldn’t deliver on a pilot commitment, for Christ’s sake, he was dead in the business anyway. What difference did it make if he was dead all the way around? Better to be six feet under than to face the humiliation of waiting for a table at Morton’s.

“Sure,” Eddie said.

No contract. No deal memo. No handshake. One tentative word was all it took for Eddie Planet to strike a coproduction deal with the mob, otherwise known as Pinstripe Productions International, Daddy Crofoot, president and head of production.

“I own the negative,” Crofoot said, “and I call all the shots.”

“I want the final card, at the end of the show, executive producer credit.” Eddie hoped the bathroom was close by. He was going to need it.

“You can call yourself Grand Poobah of the Realm, I don’t care, as long as you remember you work for me.”

“Gotcha, Mr. Crofoot.” Eddie downed the rest of his drink. “Could you point me toward the bathroom?”

“Call me Daddy.” Crofoot walked to the desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. “I want you to meet the star of
Frankencop.
Flint Westwood.”

“What’s his TVQ?” Eddie had never heard of the guy, much less his popularity quotient with the public.

Crofoot opened up the envelope and tossed Eddie an eight-by-ten photo. Eddie looked down at a picture of the biggest hard-on he had ever seen. Crofoot grinned.

“
That’s
his TVQ.”

A stream of cold air was aimed at Sabrina Bishop’s nipples, and eighty-three people were waiting around impatiently for them to get hard. But her nipples just weren’t team players.

Maybe if she had spent all those years in all those acting classes pretending to be erect nipples instead of a tree, or all old woman, or a dog, she wouldn’t be sitting topless on a pool table, while a stringy haired makeup lady dabbed Sabrina’s face and a gum-chomping special effects man wearily aimed a tiny air hose at her breasts.

Her cinematic lover, Thad Paul, who had already managed to become a has-been TV star at age thirty-five, was huddling with the shaggy young director, just out of USC. They were watching the video playback of Thad’s close-up, taken while he lay on top of her and mimicked orgasm.

Being a method actor, Thad had thought they should
experience
the orgasm rather than
act
it, but she wouldn’t go for it, despite his fervent protests. After all, he claimed, Mickey Rourke did it in
Wild Orchid,
so why couldn’t they? She didn’t care if Ronald Reagan did it in
Bedtime for Bonzo,
she wasn’t going to prostitute herself for a direct-to-video, erotic thriller—another
Postman Always Rings Twice
meets
Double Indemnity.

In this epic,
Scorching Passion,
she was playing a sexually frustrated woman in a bad marriage who falls for a mysterious loner—and then becomes the target of her murderously jealous husband. This time she was a frustrated sex therapist, last time she was a frustrated city councilwoman. Sometimes she killed the hubby and framed the lover for it—but it always ended up with her writhing around naked with William Katt, or Andrew Stevens, or Jack Scalia, or Thad Paul, or some other refugee of series television.

Sabrina was born with genuine acting talent, but she was also born with perfect breasts—the kind women bought for themselves and men dreamed of groping. Big without being large, well defined and firm, sloping into soft, smooth curves that led the eye down to her flat, taut stomach and narrow waist.

They were terrific, she had to admit. And combined with her long blond hair, blue eyes, quick wit, and vivacious personality, they had gotten her far. She was momentarily a journalism major at the University of Chicago (where she had successively been an art major, French major, communications major, and English major) when
Playboy
offered her five grand to take off her shirt in their “Stop the Presses” spread on collegiate cub reporters. She found a new major. Playboy Centerfold. And then she graduated. To Playmate of the Year.

That got her $50,000 and a red Corvette convertible. And it got her noticed in Hollywood. First by sleazy porn producers, whom she ignored, and then by television casting agents looking for something pretty to sizzle up the hundredth episode of their tired detective shows. It wasn’t much, but her brief bounces across the screen got her into the Screen Actors Guild, and gave her enough money when her
Playboy
prize ran thin to keep her nice little Venice house, maintain her gas-guzzling Corvette, and enroll in all the major acting courses.

She eventually graduated from TV bit player to a guest shot as a bikini-clad
Baywatch
lifeguard killed by a ferociously horny jellyfish. And that led to her first direct-to-video thriller,
Torrid Embrace,
and that led to another, and another, and now, if she wasn’t careful, she was on her way to being the next Shannon Tweed or, worse, Tanya Roberts.

It’s a living, she told herself. And she
was
the star. But deep down she knew that if it were at all possible, she would get second billing behind her breasts. All she wanted to be was a serious actress. And all anybody else seemed to want from her was a stiff pair of nipples.

The director, in desperation, had already dropped the temperature in the soundstage to near freezing, but complaints from the crew and the foggy breath of the actors made him reluctantly give up on that approach.

Satisfied that his writhing and wincing were Oscar caliber, Thad Paul tore himself away from his celluloid orgasm and looked up from the monitor. “Are you ready yet?”

Sabrina glared at him, a man she detested, a man who would soon be nuzzling her cleavage like a baby and getting paid for it. Is doing porno any different? The writing is much better, she told herself, and she’s working with real actors.

She glanced at Thad again. Okay, the writing is better.

The special effects man studied her breasts. “The soldiers are still at ease.”

“We need ’em hard enough to cut diamonds,” the director said. “The audience has to know she’s hot and bothered, and spraying her cleavage with sweat isn’t enough.”

She closed her eyes. I’m not doing porno. This is an
erotic thriller.
Porno is all about the sex. These movies have a plot. There’s murder, there’s passion, there’s angst. Even the big studios are doing movies like this, so it can’t be porn, right? Look at
Basic Instinct.
Was that porno? Hell no, it was an
erotic thriller.
Like this. It’s not just about sex. Click your heels together, Dorothy, and repeat after me: It’s not just about sex. It’s not just about sex.

“How about I stick an ice cube in my mouth and caress her boobs with it,” Paul asked the director. “We could even work it into the scene.”

“It’s been done,” the director said. “
9½ Weeks.”

“How about a frozen Tater Tot,” Paul suggested. “I’ve never seen that.”

Sabrina opened her eyes and came to a realization. Tater Tots weren’t going to do it. Neither were Eskimo pies, frozen peas, or a couple of waffles. Her nipples were trying to tell her something.

She abruptly got up from the pool table, startling the effects man, and grabbed her shirt, pulling it over her chest.

“It’s a wrap,” she said.

“But we haven’t done the close-up of your heaving breasts,” the director said.

“Steal a shot from
Passion Play,
no one will know the difference,” she said, heading for the exit and the safety of her trailer.

“You walk out of here, babe, you’ll never work again,” Thad called after her. “You’ll be finished in this biz.”

She should be so lucky. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but it wouldn’t be more of this.

Sabrina Bishop was going to change her life. But she had no way of knowing that if she wasn’t extremely careful, she stood a good chance of losing it.

One Adam-12, a 211 in progress…
One Adam-12, a 415
man with a gun…
One Adam-12, a 415
fight group with chains and knives.

Twelve years as a cop, and Sergeant Charlie Willis still thought of Officers Reed and Malloy when he saw a black and white. Even when it was his own. That’s what you get growing up in front of a television set.

He could also thank his mother. Married four or five times (the validity of the Tijuana ceremony was still being hotly debated), and each new hubby was a bigger deadbeat than the last. If they weren’t beating on his mother, they were making moves on Zoe, his early-blooming younger sister. So Charlie found himself unwillingly cast in the role of family cop. By the time he was eighteen, he had subdued so many drunken stepfathers, wife beaters, and would-be child molesters, it seemed like a natural career move to actually make it a profession.

Besides, it looked pretty good to him. At least from what he saw on TV. When he wasn’t defending the family from predatory stepfathers, he found solace observing the orderly world of television. Everything made sense, and good was always noticeably different from evil. And the people who seemed to have the most control over this orderly world, who led the happiest lives and had all the answers, were the kind-hearted, clean-cut police officers.

Boy, did TV have it wrong.

Charlie zipped up his fly and stepped out from behind the large bush he was using as a combination speed trap and urinal. The sweltering Santa Ana winds were sweeping through Los Angeles on this sunny afternoon, kicking up lungfuls of hot-baked, free-floating muck. Which made his throat dry and sore. Which made him drink about a quart of cola every hour. Which made him make a pit stop five times a shift.

The clean-cut officers of
Adam-12
never parked for hours at a stretch on Coldwater Canyon, keeping the homeowners of the $4-million-plus mansions safe from the evils of loud mufflers, casually flung fast-food wrappers, and the occasional speeding European car. And not once did Reed and Malloy ever have to take a leak, Charlie thought, as he slipped back into his trusty black and white Impala cruiser. Come to think of it, they never sweated, had a runny nose, or stomach cramps—each a particular joy he had experienced during this all-around rotten day. Then again, Reed and Malloy never got laid, either. Reality occasionally had its advantages.

Not that Charlie was notching his bedpost into sawdust. He was obeying a self-imposed oath of celibacy since Connie ended their six years of blissful cohabitation. She cut out his heart, and his libido, when she packed up and ran away with the gardener. If Charlie was a better detective, he would have suspected something when she started taking Spanish courses and waxing poetic on the virtues of Atilano’s green thumb. At least she dumped him right away. Another three months and he would have been stuck untangling himself from a common-law marriage. This way, at least he got to keep his gym set, his collection of John D. MacDonald paperbacks, and all his NFL glasses.

Thank God for small victories.

Charlie was making a mental note to check on Atilano’s immigration status when he heard a screech of tires, followed by the sight of a white Rolls-Royce convertible whipsawing around the turn and charging past him.

He flicked on the lights and siren and pulled out, shredding an ice plant in a spray of gravel. His car skidded onto the street right behind the Rolls. If the driver noticed, he didn’t give a damn. The Rolls sped downhill, closing in tight on a Range Rover and, just shy of ramming it, swerved into oncoming traffic, forcing a cellular-toting boytoy in a Jeep to make a sudden right, jumping the curb onto a front lawn and plowing through the Statue of Liberty and Michelangelo’s David.

The Rolls returned to the proper lane, cutting off the Range Rover which skidded to a sudden stop, eating about a thousand bucks worth of brake-pad. Charlie swerved to the right, deftly avoiding a rear-end collision with the Rover, choosing instead to mow over a perfectly manicured juniper and a mailbox with a wood-shake roof.

He bounced back onto the road behind the Rolls as it barrelled toward the intersection, making a right-hand turn, south toward Wilshire. Charlie surged into the opposite lane, overtaking the Rolls and cutting it off as it rounded the corner.