was so hot he figured he could throw a handful of Jolly Time into the air and have a bowl of popcorn when it landed.
Charlie peeled off his shirt and was reaching for a clean one when she tentatively came in, though there was nothing tentative about her. Everything, Charlie suspected, right down to her bikini top, was premeditated. But what the hell.
"I'm Alice." She had put on her uniform shirt, but left it open to show off her resume. "Alice Doss."
"I'm a thorn in the side of organized crime," Charlie replied, offering his hand. "Or, as I'm known to my friends, Charlie."
"I thought big stars had air-conditioned dressing rooms." She stayed in the doorway, where at least she had some fresh air.
"That should tell you something." Charlie pulled on the fresh shirt, and faced the mirror. He could see her behind him, admiring his body, which still showed the positive effects of regular workouts. There was only one thing not quite right about his body, though. There was a scar that looked like an extra bellybutton, a lasting memento from the slug that passed through his stomach, miraculously weaved past vital organs and vertebrae and, eight months later, became an attractive acrylic paperweight on his coffee table.
"Were you really a cop once, or is that just hype?"
"I was a cop, but I wasn't Derek Thorne." Charlie buttoned up the shirt. It was clear from her expression that that wasn't what she wanted to hear. So she sure as hell wouldn't want to know how he sold out. How he "forgot" who shot him. How he claimed he got the license number wrong. The face wrong. The name wrong. How he agreed to cover the whole thing up in exchange for their generous thirteen-week series commitment and $15,000-an-episode salary.
Now he really was like the cops on Adam-12. He had become make-believe. At least it beat being shot at.
"Where did you get the scar?" she asked.
He thought about that for a long moment. She looked at the pained expression on his face and thought he was reliving a painful experience. It was actually the first acting he had done all day. Perhaps all month.
"I walked into a burger joint in the middle of a hold-up. I ended up digesting a bullet instead of a hot meal," he said. "The four scumbags sent me to the hospital, I sent them to the morgue."
That was what she wanted to hear. She looked at him with an appraising grin, the grin of someone admiring something they wished they could own but couldn't afford.
"Did you ever take an acting class?"
"To survive undercover, you have to know how to be anyone, anywhere, anytime." Charlie had no idea where this was coming from, or more worrisome, why it came so easily. Perhaps he really was Derek Thorne. Or maybe he simply wished he had been half the cop in reality that he was now.
"I bet what I've been learning in acting class for the last five years isn't half as valuable as what you learned on the street," she said with forced innocence, proving she needed more acting classes. "I can't imagine what I could learn from you in an hour."
"Imagine what you could learn in an evening. Do you think it would be against department policy for a detective lieutenant to have dinner later with"âhe tipped up the badge on her uniformâ"a lowly parking enforcement officer?"
She smiled and he smiled back. As long as he was going to sell out, he should go all the way. He left his trailer without looking in the mirror again.
CHAPTER TWO
E ddie Planet always read the trades on the toilet, which was a good thing, because the headline in Daily Variety scared the shit out of him.
Boo Boo Fetches Audience; Frankencop D.O.A
UBC's Boo Boo's Dilemma has proved his bark is as big as his bite, chewing on a 40 share of the Thursday night audience and tossing a big bone to the shows which follow.
The spin-off Rappy Scrappy is the cat's meow, holding 75% of Boo Boo's lead-in, and leaving DBC's My Wife Next Door and MBC's Johnny Wildlife to fight over the litter box.
The two sitcoms
Charlie peeled off his shirt and was reaching for a clean one when she tentatively came in, though there was nothing tentative about her. Everything, Charlie suspected, right down to her bikini top, was premeditated. But what the hell.
"I'm Alice." She had put on her uniform shirt, but left it open to show off her resume. "Alice Doss."
"I'm a thorn in the side of organized crime," Charlie replied, offering his hand. "Or, as I'm known to my friends, Charlie."
"I thought big stars had air-conditioned dressing rooms." She stayed in the doorway, where at least she had some fresh air.
"That should tell you something." Charlie pulled on the fresh shirt, and faced the mirror. He could see her behind him, admiring his body, which still showed the positive effects of regular workouts. There was only one thing not quite right about his body, though. There was a scar that looked like an extra bellybutton, a lasting memento from the slug that passed through his stomach, miraculously weaved past vital organs and vertebrae and, eight months later, became an attractive acrylic paperweight on his coffee table.
"Were you really a cop once, or is that just hype?"
"I was a cop, but I wasn't Derek Thorne." Charlie buttoned up the shirt. It was clear from her expression that that wasn't what she wanted to hear. So she sure as hell wouldn't want to know how he sold out. How he "forgot" who shot him. How he claimed he got the license number wrong. The face wrong. The name wrong. How he agreed to cover the whole thing up in exchange for their generous thirteen-week series commitment and $15,000-an-episode salary.
Now he really was like the cops on Adam-12. He had become make-believe. At least it beat being shot at.
"Where did you get the scar?" she asked.
He thought about that for a long moment. She looked at the pained expression on his face and thought he was reliving a painful experience. It was actually the first acting he had done all day. Perhaps all month.
"I walked into a burger joint in the middle of a hold-up. I ended up digesting a bullet instead of a hot meal," he said. "The four scumbags sent me to the hospital, I sent them to the morgue."
That was what she wanted to hear. She looked at him with an appraising grin, the grin of someone admiring something they wished they could own but couldn't afford.
"Did you ever take an acting class?"
"To survive undercover, you have to know how to be anyone, anywhere, anytime." Charlie had no idea where this was coming from, or more worrisome, why it came so easily. Perhaps he really was Derek Thorne. Or maybe he simply wished he had been half the cop in reality that he was now.
"I bet what I've been learning in acting class for the last five years isn't half as valuable as what you learned on the street," she said with forced innocence, proving she needed more acting classes. "I can't imagine what I could learn from you in an hour."
"Imagine what you could learn in an evening. Do you think it would be against department policy for a detective lieutenant to have dinner later with"âhe tipped up the badge on her uniformâ"a lowly parking enforcement officer?"
She smiled and he smiled back. As long as he was going to sell out, he should go all the way. He left his trailer without looking in the mirror again.
CHAPTER TWO
E ddie Planet always read the trades on the toilet, which was a good thing, because the headline in Daily Variety scared the shit out of him.
Boo Boo Fetches Audience; Frankencop D.O.A
UBC's Boo Boo's Dilemma has proved his bark is as big as his bite, chewing on a 40 share of the Thursday night audience and tossing a big bone to the shows which follow.
The spin-off Rappy Scrappy is the cat's meow, holding 75% of Boo Boo's lead-in, and leaving DBC's My Wife Next Door and MBC's Johnny Wildlife to fight over the litter box.
The two sitcoms
Similar Books
Irish Chain
Earlene Fowler
The Nemesis Blade
Elaina J Davidson
Vintage Volume One
Lisa Suzanne
Sinner: Devil's Sons MC
Kathryn Thomas
Hungry
Sheila Himmel
Joseph Balsamo
Alexandre Dumas
Dusk Falling (Book 1)
Keri L. Salyers
Ballers Bitches
Deja King
Ties That Bind
Natalie R. Collins
How to Talk to Girls at Parties (eBook Original)
Neil Gaiman