Stephen Cannell - The Devil_s Workshop

Buddy had one of the most extensive gun collections in Hollywood. He loved guns. He even had a gun dealer's license, which he got when he was in pre-production on Grunt, a Vietnam War epic he'd made at Columbia. He'd cherry-picked the prop department for the best ordnance. He had a U. S. M203, which was a single-shot pump grenade launcher, and five hot pineapples to go with it. He had an M60 machine gun called a "pig," and a selection of mini-lights, including the MP5, and the LMG version of the AUG machine gun. He also had a selection of Russian ordnance: the PKM-7 machine gun and the MG3. He had another whole case full of handguns: Glocks and Kochs, Brownings and Berettas. Although his war collection was mostly late-seventies stuff, he had sophisticated laser sights on a lot of them, and always kept his guns loaded.

Buddy would tell guests at his Hollywood parties that he just prayed some wired-up, celebrity-stalking fanatic would try for him, sounding like a ballsy hero from one of his action pictures. He would often field-strip a weapon in front of his coked-out guests, talking trash, while he tore the piece down. 'Til kill the motherfucker if I'm ever transgressed," he'd promised, his eyes shining with a deadly mixture of cocaine and testosterone.

Now, with Consuelo screaming in the yard and glass splinters from Gary's quickly aimed shot still pricking his shoulders, his ballsy resolve evaporated. His hands were shaking. His dick crawled up inside him and his asshole slammed shut.

He was at his gun cabinet, clawing for his new short-barrel Colt Commander with the state-of-the-art Sentry Laser-Lite sight and the filed-down two-ounce trigger pull. He tromboned the weapon, inadvertently ejecting the live round that had already been chambered onto the carpet at his feet. He snapped off the safety and clicked on the laser sight. A red pinpoint of light appeared on the carpet near his bare feet. He heard another gunshot, then Consuelo screamed in agony. As Buddy moved away from the cabinet, he saw that his Charter Arms Mark II target pistol was missing. Buddy was now cowering under a window, afraid to risk his life by exposing his head to look down again at the pool. Consuelo was still crying and pleading in Spanish.

He scrambled to his feet and ran downstairs. He was in one of his silk thong briefs, which Heidi Fleiss had given him last Christmas before her trial. When he had tried it on for her, she had told him the pouched thong made him look "killer." He always wore one to bed. Now it made him feel stupid and unprotected. He was in the living room, wondering if he should just run to the garage, take the Porsche, and split. Fuck Consuelo, he thought, I'm at risk here! She doesn't even have papers. It's every man for himself Then he saw movement out the plate-glass window. Gary was standing on the pool deck, his back to Buddy, screaming insanities at Consuelo, who Buddy could now see had indeed been hit in the arm, near the shoulder. She was seated on the pool deck beyond, crying, begging for her life. The dim pool lights gave eerie cinema verite ambience to the area.

Then Iverson aimed again at Consuelo. Before the crazed doctor could pull the trigger, Buddy cringed and flinched. Because of the Colt's hair trigger, he inadvertently squeezed off a round. The shot shattered the living-room window near where Gary was standing. The slug bounced off the pavement and whined away into the Malibu night, splashing harmlessly in the ocean a hundred yards beyond the surf line.

"Fuck! Oh fuck, oh fuck!" Buddy screamed, as Gary turned and faced him through the now glassless opening. Buddy had never seen such confusion, terror, or craziness in another man's eyes. It was even worse than when Jack Nicholson, zooted on uppers, had taken a fire ax to Buddy's desk at Warners after he'd seen the re-cut on Dead Before Dawn.

Gary's eyes were terrifying.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," Buddy kept saying, the laser sight on the forgotten Colt Commander burning a red dot in the carpet.

Gary Iverson aimed the Charter Arms Mark II at Buddy. He was yelling something. Buddy strained to make out the words, but couldn't.

Then Buddy was moving, screaming in terror as he went, with no idea where he was going. Gary had him in his sights; he would never escape.

Gary fired just as Buddy tripped over the marble coffee table. The bullet whined past his right ear, missing him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Buddy screamed at nobody. Then he got up and ran into the kitchen. "Help! Help me! Please!" The Colt Commander was still at his side, as he was fumbling for the phone to dial 911. Then his heart froze. Gary was clawing at the back door. Buddy turned and screamed at the door, "Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Why are you doing this?"

A shot shattered the lock, and then Gary kicked the door open.

Buddy had both hands out in front of him to ward off the certain killshot. He knew he was scant seconds from death.

"Don't shoot! Please, Gary… please! I'm your friend, man! I love you!" Then he saw a strange red dot between and slightly above Gary Iverson's eyes. It was sitting there like the ruby on Cleopatra's forehead. Buddy wasn't sure what it was.

Then Gary cocked his pistol.

Buddy spasmed in fear. The Colt Commander kicked unexpectedly in his hands and Iverson flew backward, out the kitchen door, landing on his back on the pavement. The new transplant plugs that Buddy had paid for, and half of Gary's forehead, were now missing.

"Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," Buddy mantraed, still in the kitchen, not sure exactly what had happened. Then he saw the gun in his outstretched hand, and realized that he had again pulled the hair trigger. He moved on weak, unsteady legs out the back door, where Gary now lay dead. He looked down at the doctor, who had written the prescriptions that had kept them both in a drugstore daze for the last two years.

Buddy's teeth were chattering; his bare ass felt cold from a panic sweat that was drying on his cheeks in the chilly air. A clammy sweet-sour aftertaste lingered in his mouth like the memory of rotten chocolate bread.

''Muchas gracias, senor,'' Consuelo was blubbering from ten yards away. She was still on the pool deck, holding her bleeding arm.

Buddy's knees wouldn't stop shaking. He didn't think he would be able to keep standing, so he walked over and sat on a nearby pool chair, never taking his eyes off Gary Iverson's body. He tried to steady himself. He was trembling uncontrollably, but euphoric to be alive. He took several deep breaths to calm down. For a long time, he just looked down at the lifeless doctor.

"Transgress me, you motherfucker," he finally growled at the dead body.

How and why this shooting took place are still pretty much a mystery, Steve," field reporter Shannon Morrison said. She was standing in front of the gate of Buddy Brazil's multimillion-dollar Malibu Colony home. "The body was wheeled out at about six A. M., and the police left a few minutes ago. The way the bizarre story pieces together: Dr. Gary Iverson, a Long Beach pediatrician, who had been living in famous 'bad boy' producer Buddy Brazil's pool house, apparently went crazy around midnight last night and tried to kill Mr. Brazil's maid"-she glanced at her notes-"Consuelo Gutierrez. The Oscar-winning producer heard gunshots and Miss Gutierrez's screams, then got a pistol from his gun cabinet and apparently saved Miss Gutierrez's life, shooting the doctor out by his pool. This strange incident occurred just hours after Buddy Brazil's son's body was inexplicably stolen from the Santa Monica morgue."

The TV shot switched to Steve Edwards, seated at his in-studio desk at KTTV in Los Angeles. Steve shook his head in dismay.

"Any idea if those two events are connected, Shannon? It would seem they must be."