and the show, and even managed to restore his hairline. And now this jerk was recklessly putting it all at risk again.
"Are you insane?" Boyd marched up to him, practically stammering in disbelief. "You don't fuck around with a hit. You leave it alone and count your money."
"Scrap the episode you're shooting and shut down for a week," DeBono said casually.
"You realize what I had to go through to save the show for you?" Boyd exclaimed.
"You saved your own hairless ass and got a new series out of the fucking deal, so don't give me that shit." DeBono picked up the TV Guide and admired the picture of Rappy Scrappy on the cover. "I want the new character in the next episode, and I want to air it during sweeps."
"Esther Radcliffe won't stand for this."
"Then tell Esther Radcliffe you either shoot the episode I want, or you shoot the series finale."
"You'd cancel a hit?" Boyd asked incredulously. Now he knew for certain that DeBono had actually lost his mind.
DeBono shrugged. "It's been done before."
"We'll take the show to another network." Boyd paced defiantly in front of him. "Let's see how those demos look to you when your ass is getting kicked."
DeBono shook his head. "Check out the contract. You can't shop new episodes anywhere for a year after cancellation." DeBono watched with amusement as the color drained from Boyd's face. "Snuck it into the contract a few seasons back."
Boyd slowly settled into his desk chair and contemplated impaling himself on the edge of the desk. DeBono watched the man wilt.
"If Miss Agatha is off the air for a year, most of her audience will be dead when she comes back. You either do it my way, or you don't do it at all."
Boyd could feel his hair losing its footing in his scalp. Another painful session with Dr. Desi was inevitable.
"You have someone in mind for the part?" Boyd asked, resigned to defeat.
"Sabrina Bishop," DeBono said. "You know her?"
Know her? He dreamed of her. Suddenly it all seemed worth the risk. Suddenly Don DeBono was a programming genius. Suddenly he wanted to see Dr. Desi. Sabrina Bishop was going to want Boyd's perfect head of hair as much as he wanted her perfect breasts.
"I've heard of her." Boyd hoped he'd disguised his excitement. At least he was glad he was sitting down. "You realize the risk, don't you?"
"Miss Agatha has to go sometime," DeBono said. "Worse thing that happens, you'll get your fucking fortune in rerun money sooner rather than later."
"That's not the worst thing," Boyd said. "She's already shot a cop. You think she'd think twice about killing Sabrina Bishop?"
CHAPTER FOUR
T here was no way Esther Radcliffe was setting foot in a Winnebago. Even though the studio called it a dressing room, as far as she was concerned it was still a mobile home. Economy-size coffins for the living dead. Tin cans for the sardines of humanity. There wasn't a more heinous pairing of words in the English language.
Mobile home. The words immediately evoked images of TV dinners and Barcaloungers. Wink Martindale and Kmart. Fast food and slow death. Trailer parks with names like Sunny Acres, Paradise Pines, and Valley Vista collecting like weeds along the freeways of America. The white-trash Beverly Hills.
She hadn't worked all her life to set herself apart from them just to end up in a mobile home herself. That would have been the ultimate indignity.
So she made the studio fork out half a million dollars on her dressing roomâa Greyhound bus converted into an estate that just happened to be on wheels. Pity the losers retreating to their Formica and vinyl boxes. Between scenes she retired to opulence that rivalled her own home. With her brass fixtures and marble countertops, Persian rugs and mahogany paneling, no one would mistake her dressing room for a mobile home.
But right now the most noticeable feature of her dressing room was not the Hockney on the wall or the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. It was the plain manila envelope propped up in a
"Are you insane?" Boyd marched up to him, practically stammering in disbelief. "You don't fuck around with a hit. You leave it alone and count your money."
"Scrap the episode you're shooting and shut down for a week," DeBono said casually.
"You realize what I had to go through to save the show for you?" Boyd exclaimed.
"You saved your own hairless ass and got a new series out of the fucking deal, so don't give me that shit." DeBono picked up the TV Guide and admired the picture of Rappy Scrappy on the cover. "I want the new character in the next episode, and I want to air it during sweeps."
"Esther Radcliffe won't stand for this."
"Then tell Esther Radcliffe you either shoot the episode I want, or you shoot the series finale."
"You'd cancel a hit?" Boyd asked incredulously. Now he knew for certain that DeBono had actually lost his mind.
DeBono shrugged. "It's been done before."
"We'll take the show to another network." Boyd paced defiantly in front of him. "Let's see how those demos look to you when your ass is getting kicked."
DeBono shook his head. "Check out the contract. You can't shop new episodes anywhere for a year after cancellation." DeBono watched with amusement as the color drained from Boyd's face. "Snuck it into the contract a few seasons back."
Boyd slowly settled into his desk chair and contemplated impaling himself on the edge of the desk. DeBono watched the man wilt.
"If Miss Agatha is off the air for a year, most of her audience will be dead when she comes back. You either do it my way, or you don't do it at all."
Boyd could feel his hair losing its footing in his scalp. Another painful session with Dr. Desi was inevitable.
"You have someone in mind for the part?" Boyd asked, resigned to defeat.
"Sabrina Bishop," DeBono said. "You know her?"
Know her? He dreamed of her. Suddenly it all seemed worth the risk. Suddenly Don DeBono was a programming genius. Suddenly he wanted to see Dr. Desi. Sabrina Bishop was going to want Boyd's perfect head of hair as much as he wanted her perfect breasts.
"I've heard of her." Boyd hoped he'd disguised his excitement. At least he was glad he was sitting down. "You realize the risk, don't you?"
"Miss Agatha has to go sometime," DeBono said. "Worse thing that happens, you'll get your fucking fortune in rerun money sooner rather than later."
"That's not the worst thing," Boyd said. "She's already shot a cop. You think she'd think twice about killing Sabrina Bishop?"
CHAPTER FOUR
T here was no way Esther Radcliffe was setting foot in a Winnebago. Even though the studio called it a dressing room, as far as she was concerned it was still a mobile home. Economy-size coffins for the living dead. Tin cans for the sardines of humanity. There wasn't a more heinous pairing of words in the English language.
Mobile home. The words immediately evoked images of TV dinners and Barcaloungers. Wink Martindale and Kmart. Fast food and slow death. Trailer parks with names like Sunny Acres, Paradise Pines, and Valley Vista collecting like weeds along the freeways of America. The white-trash Beverly Hills.
She hadn't worked all her life to set herself apart from them just to end up in a mobile home herself. That would have been the ultimate indignity.
So she made the studio fork out half a million dollars on her dressing roomâa Greyhound bus converted into an estate that just happened to be on wheels. Pity the losers retreating to their Formica and vinyl boxes. Between scenes she retired to opulence that rivalled her own home. With her brass fixtures and marble countertops, Persian rugs and mahogany paneling, no one would mistake her dressing room for a mobile home.
But right now the most noticeable feature of her dressing room was not the Hockney on the wall or the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. It was the plain manila envelope propped up in a
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