Pimp (15 page)

Not that she gave a toss but she felt it was vague enough to sound like she knew what she was asking and because he was the kind of gobshite who loved abstracts.

He didn’t disappoint, went into a long spiel about post-structuralism and the use of prism as a channel to postmodern parody.

She battled not to yawn.

In an attempt to be clearer, he tried, “The writer Stuart Kaminsky, his son Peter wrote, ‘If there was a hell, he had a one-way ticket, and if there was any argument he had with Satan about the matter, all Satan had to do was say, “Roll the film and show that scene from the bathroom.” ’ ”

She couldn’t help it, went, “Wot?” in faux Cockney as the whole gig seemed to require absurdity.

He said, “The world is divided into those who hear this and nod and those who ask, ‘What bathroom scene?’ ”

What choice did she have? She nodded.

Later, leaving the restaurant, Angela called Darren on her cell and gushed, “I got Moss.”

“Great news,” Darren said, “and the timing’s perfect. I got great coverage on
Spaced Out
, and I agree, Moss is perfect for
Bust
. Also, I heard through Lionsgate that for some reason Ethan Coen doesn’t want to be in business with me. But, hey, it’s Ethan’s loss. I’ll be sure to thank him when I win my Oscar.”

When Angela clicked off, she saw a familiar face, staring at her in the lobby of the Chateau. Was it Lee Child?

The guy saw her noticing him and rushed away. Angela went after him, but when she got near the escalators, he’d either gone into an elevator or left.

The truth was setting in. It was actually him—the man who’d shot her and left her for dead in Canada was now here in L.A. Definitely not Lee Child, but when she found him he’d wish he fookin’ was.

The best the white world offered was not enough ecstasy for me. Not enough life, joy, kicks, darkness, music. Not enough light.
J
ACK
K
EROUAC

Sebastian, a name to reckon with.

You’d think, right? ’Twas a curse and a blessing that he looked like Lee Child. While ol’ Lee’s star was in the ascendency, so was Sebastian. But, oh dreary me, now Lee was losing his grip.
I mean
, Sebastian pouted,
that bloody Jack Reacher movie.

Sebastian looked in the mirror, he still was
hot
, wasn’t he? So okay, a slight pot belly, gotta cut down on those pints of bitter. As if a Brit could. It was enshrined in the constitution that an Englishman must down pints of the swill and eat Yorkshire pud at every opportunity. It was also enshrined that a handsome British man with no wife must be in want of a good fortune.

Sebastian came from a reasonably wealthy family, i.e., they could afford to play polo but not quite afford to fund Sebastian’s lifestyle. He was a writer, with stunning plots, descriptions, gripping narrative style. So okay, get petty, he hadn’t actually written down any of his masterpieces, but gosh, a chap had to live, experience the planet. And did he ever! On the lam, on the loose in Greece, a few years back, he’d met an American babe, Angie. The moves he put on her, he was astonished at his own charm. You got it or you don’t. He had it, in bucketfuls. But she turned out to be a complete nutter, a psycho of epic proportion. He shuddered to think of it now, helping the mad cow throw a dead body over the cliffs of Santorini.

Write that.

He’d managed to get away from her, until the dead guy’s insane brother recruited him to carve revenge. He’d managed to blot the whole crazy sordid affair from his mind, almost. The years in between had been lean, and
Darling
, he gasped,
he wasn’t getting any younger.

The big Four Oh was beckoning and he hadn’t a pot to piss in. The days of marrying a debutante were gone. Those gels were marrying Americans! Horrors indeed.

For several years he lived in London, hiding out too from many assorted creditors, and working, yes, working. One had to earn a crust. It was what made the Empire great. He was in Earls Court, in a call centre, trying to swindle ordinary Johns out of their pensions. His track record wasn’t exactly lighting up the skies and the boss, a Paki, had the bloody cheek to suggest that he hit the targets or hit the road. That someone from the Colonies would have the effrontery to speak to an Englishman thus!

The situation worsened. The Paki suddenly appeared over Sebastian’s shoulder one day, screeching, “Facebook! This is how you waste my time, you…” He reached for an English description, found, “…wanker!” Then commanded, “My office,
now
.”

And Sebastian found the old forgotten rage of the Angela era, tired of being the fall guy, of forever hustling for a break. His growing anger was fueled by the looks of the other drones in the centre who looked on him with, was it pity?

He was God’s own Englishman, by Christ, he would not be talked down to by a shitheel who should be grateful to even grab a job as a bus conductor. His temper was ignited by the fact that being fired, he’d again be scrambling for nickel and dimes. Enough.

The Paki led him into the office, closed the door, began, “I must say…”

Whatever it was was lost as Sebastian hit him on the chin with a Golden Award Statue for Sales that had been perched, pride of place, on his desk. It knocked him back against the board of projected sales for the first quarter. And lo, Sebastian came alive. All the groveling, the desperate kiss-ass existence, the fucking Facebook insult, why wasn’t he up there with Katy Perry, who had eclipsed Obama on the site? Where was his share?

Sebastian strolled over to where the fallen Paki lay, kicked him in the head, asked, “So, who’s the wearing the knickers now?”

Pulled the desk drawers open, found a bottle of Teacher’s, twenty Valium, one thousand pounds sterling, five hundred dollars, and a well-thumbed copy of a trashy paperback called
Fake I.D
.

Put the lot in a bin liner (except for the cash), moved back to the man on the floor, and asked, “Got a wallet?’

He did.

Holy Queen, three thousand in cash.

The man began to rise, blood dripping from his chin, spat, “I make sure you go to prison for life, yes, life, you piece of Rawalpindi sewage.”

Sebastian had no idea what this meant save that the foreigner was insulting him. He grabbed him by his non-UK throat, hissed, “We might have lost the World Cup but by all that’s English, we never, never lose our dignity, so swallow this, you fucker.”

Managed, with great difficulty to force the phone receiver down the guy’s throat, not an easy task but got there, and as he watched the guy finally succumb to his death rattle, said, “Hello, call waiting.”

Added, as the guy went still, “Your call is important to us, please hold while we try to transfer you to another operator.”

Headed out, cash leaking out of every pocket, stopped, said to the waiting faces,

“You’ve all being given a bonus and the rest of the day free.”

Marching out of there, a ticket back to America and maybe a fast few vodkas were his next, well,
call.

But Sebastian didn’t make it ’cross the pond, popping in at a travel agency on Goodge Street instead and purchasing a ticket to the Canary Islands. An Englishman needs his holiday.

A few weeks later, Sebastian returned to his Britain homestead, broke, but rested. What next? He didn’t think applying for a position in the phone industry would work out very well. How would he respond to the interview question: “So, why no recommendation from the previous job?”

Over the years in a pinch he’d made some good dosh by impersonating Lee Child. He’d set up tables at flea markets, with a stack of Reachers, claiming he was Lee, signing books with a forged signature that would’ve made Tom Ripley proud. Oh, and yes, he did roger a few fans along the way—thank God for the Reacher Creatures!

The authorities caught on to the scam, though, and he did a few months at a dreary prison near the border of—the horror, the horror—Wales. Whatever proper Englishman didn’t believe in hell hadn’t been to a football pub in Cardiff.

When he was released, he was lonely in that peculiar English fashion. He missed cricket, warm beer, Yorkshire pud, London fog.

Now, he had never played cricket, drank only gin ’n tonic, wouldn’t quite know what Yorkshire pud even was, and he certainly had never seen London fog outside of a Jack the Ripper movie. But Sebastian had public school looks, i.e., ripe for buggery, and was British as British got in the eyes of non-Brits. Was that the key to success? If you can’t be big at home, go abroad. Knock ’em dead in Japan. If that fails, try Germany. It was what the U.K. crime writer Simon Beckett had done and, get this, even more than Lee Child, Sebastian was Beckett’s spit. Crikey, it seemed as if he could do a spot on for any of these English writer chaps. If he grew a mustache and told some old jokes he could pass for Mark Billingham.

As it turned out, impersonating Britain’s own Simon Beckett, Germany’s number-one bestselling author, wasn’t such a bad thing when you were desperately short of cash, prospects and plans. He was in the small town of Kuhn, a short ride away from Frankfurt, and the locals were delighted to have a celebrity among them—he embellished ol’ Simon’s C.V., claiming he was the grandson of Samuel Beckett. He regaled the peasants with tales of sitting on Samuel’s lap as a child, and how he was indeed the inspiration for the character of Godot in
Waiting for Godot
, enduring the shame afterward when the frau of the bookshop informed him that Godot never appears in the play. Bloody Irish writers, always with tricks up their treacherous sleeves.

Sebastian was doing well, but living on very extended credit and time was running out, especially as the real Simon Beckett was due at the Frankfurt Book Fair in a matter of days.

Sebastian was shacked up with a
frauline
named Franziska, a slip of a thing with long blond hair. She was increasingly anxious to see Sebastian/Simon’s new book. He could only stall for so long. Sitting at a writer’s desk she had provided, he looked like an author. Had that studied appearance of seeing beyond. Plus the slight air of disdain common to the best literary people. He was chewing on a pencil, longing for a pack of John Player’s.

Franziska called out, “Simo-o-on, how is it going?”

The German accent, as soothing as a swift kick in the balls. Holy mackerel, he had better write something.

To while away the days, he’d been cruising U.K. dating sites. Maybe salvation lay there. He had put on his profile:
An understated intelligence with a smoky allure
. Women, the poor things, were hopelessly attracted to enigmas, especially ones they couldn’t solve. He had only two requirements, two essential things he desired in a woman—cash and stupidity.

He hadn’t reckoned on the forthright replies of the U.K. online-hunting female, the kindest of whom replied, “You freaking wanker!”

For diversion, Sebastian was checking his Facebook status. He had a wonderful profile on there and nearly three thousand friends. No fans, alas. Then in the current feed he saw a friend had posted a link to a news story about an upcoming TV show based on a crime novel. The show was called
Bust
, based on the bestselling book, but not by Lee Child or Simon Beckett, so—really, now—how good could the bloody thing possibly be? For the past several years, Sebastian had only read books by Lee and Simon—Brits must support their own, by George!

Then he recognized one of the authors’ names—an American, Paula Segal. Good heavens! She’d been a bit player in the whole post-Greece saga, and he muttered, “Barely worth a footnote, in the grand, dark scheme of those iconic events.” Sebastian had a way with words, was always able to capture the essence of a moment with his linguistic gift.

He continued to read of the impending production with mounting hope and adrenaline. He’d never for a moment considered raking over that time to make money, mainly relieved that he got away with his life. But here was Paula Segal, crowing on about her collaboration with some Swede; they’d written the Max Fisher story. He was outraged. He’d been there, nearly lost his balls, and if anyone had the cojones, the sheer detachment, to write in a cool and elegant fashion about the Max Fisher saga, it was him. On impulse, he put Fisher in the search machine and Holy Moly, not only did Max Fisher have a Facebook page, he had nearly a quarter of a million fans.

That elusive animal, hope, began to sing her alluring song, and Sebastian thought,
Hmmmm, you think? Maybe
.

* * *

Sebastian borrowed two thousand euro from Franziska to pay for hospital costs for his sick mum—his mum was alive and well, on to her fourth husband, living in the north of England—then ditched her at a circus on the outskirts of Stuttgart.

A few days later in Berlin he’d met, via a dating site, an aging American actress. She looked sort of like Bette Davis before
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane
. So yeah, ugly, but with some moves. Of course she fancied his “like, adorable accent.” Plus, he had dropped vague hints to his being 978th in line for the throne. Her current name was Jane Bemore—as in,
Can a woman of advanced age be more gullible?
—and she had provided the one thing Sebastian needed—a ticket to L.A.

So he did the deed. Yup, rode that baby until she cried. He cried too but for different reasons. And bingo, she, post-coital glow, whispered, “My gals would love you back in L.A.”

Done deal.

Sebastian had visions of him and Jane in first class, sipping champers, slipping her the mucky under rich duvets as the stewardesses eyed him with—let’s just come out and say it—awe.

But at Frankfurt Airport, Jane cooed, “My sweet Lord-baby, there has been a slight hitch, no business class I’m afraid.”

Fuck, bloody fuck and thunder. He rallied, said with his stiff upper lip, “We shall make the best of it, ol’ gal, slum as if we meant it.”

Thinking he was unduly witty under the circumstances. She rubbed his cheek with her Madonna-like withered hands, fluttered, “Oh you lovely silly man,
I’m
in business class.”