Part 29 (1/2)

”Nick Stryker is a rogue cop who doesn't play by the rules, he just makes 'em up as he goes along. He's an undercover cop who finally went so deep into the bowels of organized crime it took half the L.A. police force to get him out.” Eddie was feeling good now, getting caught up in his own momentum, building his pitch. ”And when the smoke clears, and the blood dries, there are seventeen corpses on the floor. Ten of 'em are mobsters, seven of 'em are cops. One of 'em is Nick.”

Eddie's hands were moving now, as if grabbing ideas out of the air and thrusting them into the hungry maw of his voracious pitch. Crofoot watched with a poker face. Eddie didn't care whether Crofoot liked it or not; the pitch had a life of its own, it couldn't be stopped.

''Then a black Corvette pulls up and out steps Dr. Francine 'Frankie' Stein, a scientist with a badge, a black-belt beauty with more dangerous curves than Mulholland Drive. She picks up Nick's decapitated head and clutches it to her heaving bosom. He was her lover, the best she ever had, and d.a.m.n it, she's going to bring him back, somehow, someway.” Eddie was feeling the rush, carried by the energy of his idea, of his vision, of what had to be the best f.u.c.king idea ever.

”She takes his head, and the corpses of the dead cops, back to her secret, high-tech, underground lab where, using the latest advances in surgical engineering, cybernetic organs, and computer imaging, she makes medical history.” Eddie was in the homestretch, the finish line in sight, the prize money and the fame his for the taking. ”She builds a man. He's got Nick's head, and the best body parts and healthiest organs from the seven other dead cops. He's also got a gun. And a badge. He's no ordinary man. And he's no ordinary cop. He's Frankencop, and he's serious about fighting crime. Dead serious.”

Eddie stopped then, a broad smile on his face, waiting for the rousing applause. Crofoot nodded, taking it all in.

”Are we talking a two-hour pilot?” Crofoot asked.

Not exactly the enthusiastic response Eddie had hoped for, but at least he was showing an interest. ”We can shoot some s.e.x scenes and sell it overseas as a big, wall-to-wall action movie-on the slim chance MBC is stupid enough to pa.s.s on a sure thing.”

Crofoot tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, adding up the figures on an imaginary calculator.

”It's going to cost two million dollars, and what's the network coughing up, maybe half?” Crofoot didn't need an answer, he could see it on Eddie's face. ”So that leaves a million dollar deficit. How much is the studio kicking in?”

Eddie instantly plummeted from his postpitch high. ”I think I'll have that drink now.”

Crofoot motioned to the bar. ”Help yourself.” He knew where this conversation was going, but it wasn't fun unless Eddie squirmed.

Eddie took a handful of ice cubes and crammed them into a crystal gla.s.s, then liberally splashed them with Jim Beam. ”I've worked with all the studios, and made each of 'em a fortune. We're talking millions on millions. But executives have no loyalty, no respect. You have a couple near misses, and they forget you exist.” He gently shook the gla.s.s as he walked back to Crofoot, the tinkle of ice cubes making him feel like an important character in a meeting rife with human drama. Suddenly, he felt like he actually had some control over the situation. He sank into a leather chair.

”I did a half-dozen ambitious, high-concept series that were too innovative, ahead of their time kind of stuff. The networks didn't have the guts to stick with 'em. So the studios lost a few bucks, but not nearly as much as they've made off of me in my time.” Eddie settled into a seat opposite Crofoot, who was staring impa.s.sively at him. ”There's still a Saddlesore stage show on the Pinnacle Studios tour. But, can you believe this, no studio will give me a cent for this incredible pilot, just because they lost a couple dollars on a couple shows.”

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

”The shows were toilets, Eddie. Everyone s.h.i.+t 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 gla.s.s 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 bra.s.s 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 cla.s.ses 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Her cinematic lover, Thad Paul, who had already managed to become a has-been TV star at age thirty-five, was huddling with the s.h.a.ggy 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 o.r.g.a.s.m.

Being a method actor, Thad had thought they should experience the o.r.g.a.s.m 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 prost.i.tute herself for a direct-to-video, erotic thriller-another Postman Always Rings Twice meets Double Indemnity.

In this epic, Scorching Pa.s.sion, she was playing a s.e.xually 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 s.e.x 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s-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 s.h.i.+rt 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 p.o.r.n 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 h.o.r.n.y 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 o.r.g.a.s.m 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 p.o.r.no 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. ”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 p.o.r.no. This is an erotic thriller. p.o.r.no is all about the s.e.x. These movies have a plot. There's murder, there's pa.s.sion, there's angst. Even the big studios are doing movies like this, so it can't be p.o.r.n, right? Look at Basic Instinct. Was that p.o.r.no? h.e.l.l no, it was an erotic thriller. Like this. It's not just about s.e.x. Click your heels together, Dorothy, and repeat after me: It's not just about s.e.x. It's not just about s.e.x.

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