Pimp (19 page)

Repressing a sudden urge to scratch Bill’s eyes out, Angela said, “Why do you want Larry involved? After he fooked you over on
Spaced Out
? Had you write all those drafts on spec?”

“Let’s just say we resolved our creative differences,” Bill said.

“Bullshit,” Darren said. “Larry bought him off and there’s no fuckin’ way I’m going along with this.”

“I think we should sit calmly like civilized people and discuss this,” Angela said.

“Nothing to discuss,” Bill said. “Larry’s in or I’m out and Lionsgate’s already on board, wanna know why?”

Angela sighed, went, “ ’Cause they like,
like
you.”

He snapped, “Not like, fucking
love
, as in, I call the shots.”

Angela went to Becker, “He’s right, you know. Lionsgate loves him, so if he and Larry are a package, we’re stuck with Larry.”

“Larry’s a package all right,” Becker said. “Good choice of word.” He tried for a sneer, managed a poor man’s grimace, which made him look like a disappointed groupie, went, “So how’s the screenplay coming?”

Bill went up close to Becker, said, “All humility aside, it’s fucking awesome, a clusterfuck of ingenious writing.”

Angela forced a grin, went, “We’re blessed to have you, Bill.”

Bill smiled, all teeth and no cattle, went, “Finally, something we agree on.”

People are afraid to merge on the freeways of Los Angeles.
B
RET
E
ASTON
E
LLIS
,
Less Than Zero

In the limo from LAX, riding along the 105 with Kat and Lars, Paula was screaming into the phone, demanding to speak to her film agent, Donna James. Going:

“I don’t give a shit if she’s in a fucking meeting, do you know who the fuck you’re talking to?”

“You said you’re Paula Segal.” The girl sounded like she was sixteen fucking years old.

“No, not Paula Segal,” Paula said, “Paula Segal of
Bust
. You’ve heard of
Bust
, I hope.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said. “What’s ‘bust’?”

“You don’t know what…” Paula’s eyes rolled. “
Bust
. B-U-S-T,
Bust
.”

“Um, sorry,” she said.

“Ohmigod,” Paula said. “Have you been living under a freakin’ stone? First we have to wait fifteen minutes in the hot sun for the limo, and now
this
. Can I have your name, please?”

“I told you my name.”

“And you thought I was actually
listening
? What’s your name?”

“Britney.”

“Of course it is,” Paula said. “Well, Britney, please tell Donna if she doesn’t call me back in five, make that four minutes, she’s fired, and you’re fired too!”

Paula clicked off, loving this. Finally, after years of mediocrity, she was in control of her career again. She had to savor this, relish it.

As Paula was fixing a drink in the limo’s understocked bar—she was going to complain to Charles Ardai about this later—Kat said, “Did you really have to speak to her that way?”

“Who?” Paula asked.

“That assistant—Britney?”

“These people work for me,” Paula said.

“But you don’t have to be, like, such a bitch about it. You’re acting like my fuckin’ sisters.”

“Your sisters are famous, but I’m a star,” Paula said. “There’s a difference, right, Lars?”

Lars was staring at his iPhone; Jesus Christ, what was it with the Swedes and Apple products? And he wasn’t watching porn again, was he? Yes he was—Paula caught a glimpse of a gang-bang.

“For fuck’s sake, can you turn that shit off?” she said.

“Vut shit?” Lars asked, practically screaming, because he was listening with earbuds.

“That horrible, sexist crap,” Paula said. “It’s okay when we’re writing about Max Fisher because we’re, like, in character, but it’s degrading to women.”

“I don’t think it’s so degrading,” Kat said.

“Well, aren’t you Miss Oppositional today?” Paula said. “If I said I want to fuck Angelina Jolie would you argue that too?”

“I think porn is empowering,” Kat said.

“Watching four guys taking turns sodomizing a chick when she’s bound and gagged is empowering?”

“If the woman is in control, yes.”

“How is she in control if she’s bound and gagged?”

“Maybe she wants to be bound and gagged.”

“You mean maybe she’s drugged? High on PIMP?”

“Most porn stars don’t take drugs,” Kat said.

“Really, and how do you know? Have you ever been in a porno?”

“Yes, actually.”

Lars’s eyes bulged. He went, “Vut film? I must know title.”

“I made a couple of movies actually,” Kat said, “with this rabbi I knew in Israel.”

“You made a porno with a rabbi?” Paula asked.

“These were amateur movies, just for Israel.”

“Some of the best porn is in Israel,” Lars said. “Not many people know this.”

“Good, so why don’t you watch with Lars, knock yourself out, get your rocks off.”

Paula downed the rest of her drink and made another, wondering what she was doing with Kat. She’d been into her because she was a Kardashian and because she was, let’s face it, hot, but she was starting to understand why her family had disowned her.

Paula’s cell rang, Donna James, going, “I’m so sorry to make you wait, Paula. How was your flight into L.A.?”

“Hideously awful.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m super excited about your reading tonight.”

Why were people in L.A. always super excited? Wasn’t it enough to just be excited?

“Well, I’m super pissed off with your fucking agency,” Paula said. “I’m in town with my entourage on our book tour, and my meeting with Darren Becker and Lionsgate still hasn’t been arranged.”

“Actually I just got off the phone with Lionsgate,” Paula said. “Unfortunately they can’t meet today, but I’ve set up a meeting for you with Darren Becker and his producing partner, for you and Lars, at three p.m. I’ll text you the address.”

“Whoa, whoa, back up,” Paula said. “Producing partner? I thought Darren was the only producer on this project.”

“No, that’s changed. He’s working with Brandi Love.”

“Brandi who?”

“Love.”

“Sounds like a porno name.”

“Vut?” Lars had rabbit ears.

“Nothing,” Paula said to Lars. “Go back to your gangbang.”

“I’m sorry?” Donna asked.

“Not you,” Paula said. “Who’s this Brandi?”

“She’s a new name for me too,” Donna said, “but Darren has been raving about her. Oh, and Darren will tell you the great news about the screenwriter they’ve hired. His name’s Bill Moss and there’s a lot of heat on him around town right now.”

“I wish someone had informed me about all this,” Paula said. “Does Lee Child find out about his screenwriters third-hand?”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” Donna said. “Next time there’s news I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”

The traffic was so bad that they didn’t have time to check into their hotel, and they went straight to the meeting with Becker. It was at Becker’s office, on the second floor of a modest building in Westwood. Paula was expecting something more upscale; what the fuck?

Paula, Lars, and Kat entered together. While Paula was still upset with Kat she thought the pros of having her along outweighed the cons.

Darren Becker came out to greet them. He was lean and tan with artificially white teeth, wearing a shirt with only two buttons buttoned, like Hank Moody in
Californication
.

Becker shook hands as Paula made the introductions, emphasizing that Kat was “Kat
Kardashian
.”

“It’s great to finally meet you,” Becker said, as he led the group along a hallway to his office. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be working on this project. And Brandi, my producing partner, is super excited as well.”

In the office, a blonde was waiting. Paula’s first thought was,
Holy shit, she’s hot
. Her second thought was,
H
o
ly shit, how is this possible?

“This…this can’t be happening,” Paula said, staring at the woman.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Kat asked.

Becker, with his permanent smile, went, “Brandi Love meet Paula Segal.”

“You’re…you’re supposed to be dead,” Paula said.

“Bigfoot revived me,” Angela said.

“Lars is confused,” Lars said.

“This isn’t Brandi Love,” Paula said. “This is Angela Petrakos… from
Bust
.”

“Wait, Brandi Love, I know your work,” Lars said. “You are star of
Brandi and Ginger
, yes?”

“In the flesh,” Angela said.

“Wait,” Paula said to Angela. “You were in porn too?”

“I’ve had a dark few years, yes,” Angela said.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Kat said.

Lars, ready to drop to his knees, gushed, “It is a great honor to be in your presence.”

“I still can’t believe you’re alive,” Paula said to Angela. “And I can’t believe I’m here, actually
with
you. The next thing you’ll tell me is that Max Fisher and that Lee Child wannabe are alive too.”

“I don’t know about Max,” Angela said, “but I actually saw Sebastian the other day at the Chateau Marmont.”

“Funny you mention Lee Child,” Becker said. “I met his brother at my health club the other day. Get this, he was trying to pitch me to be the screenwriter of
Bust
.”

“Over my fookin’ dead body,” Angela said.

“I’ve already seen your fookin’ dead body,” Paula said. “What was this about Bigfoot?”

An old sleazy guy, a squat Latino with a mustache, and a young guy in ripped jeans and a hoodie entered.

“Speaking of the screenwriter,” Becker said.

Paula leaned in to Kat, whispered into her ear, “Is this a producing team or the world’s ugliest boy band?”

The old guy came over and Paula shook his sweaty hand as he said, “Larry Reed, A-List producer.”

The Latino guy said, “Yo, I’m Eddie Vegas, I’m Executive Producer too.”

“
Co
-Executive Producer,” Larry said to Eddie.

“Excuse me?” Angela asked.

“I’m sorry?” Becker asked.

“He’s my partner,” Larry said.

“
Co?
” Eddie said to Larry.

“You didn’t say anything about him to us,” Angela said to Larry.

“He’s in or me and Bill are out,” Larry said. “You want to tell Lionsgate that you’re looking for a new screenwriter? Yeah, I’m sure that conversation will go over well. Why don’t you also tell them you want to cast Lindsay Lohan as Angela. Actually, come to think of it, she’d be a pretty good Angela.”

“
I’m
playing Angela,” Angela said to Larry.

The guy in the hoodie didn’t shake, just looked at Paula—she could see the whites of his eyes around his pupils.

Paula had great psycho-dar. It was how she’d written
Bust
, gotten into the heads of so many psychos. Put her in a room with a hundred people and one psycho, she could pick out the psycho. Seriously, the Secret Service should hire her to screen rooms before presidential appearances. But in this room her psycho bell wasn’t just ringing, it was fucking blaring.

“Well, it’s great to have the whole gang in one room finally,” Larry said, smiling. “This is super exciting stuff and I’m super hungry. Who wants sushi?”

I have two rules: no castration, and no violence to nuns.
C
HARLES
A
RDAI

Max loved to follow the news stories about himself. At Attica, fuck, he must’ve read the stories about his arrest and trial thousands of times and it always brought him such a rush. The only thing more addicting than PIMP was fame. Max couldn’t get enough of himself; he felt the way movie stars feel when they read gossip. Whining about the paparazzi, yeah, right, they ate that shit up—Alec Baldwin probably had TMZ pics of himself hanging over his bed, staring at his own manic face every time he came.

Lately Max had been reading the articles about the search for the mystery man, the Philip Seymour Hoffman-on-a-bad-day figure with an Irish accent, who was responsible for the shootings in Brooklyn and Harlem. It wasn’t as satisfying as seeing the Fisher name in the papers, but it was damn close.

He read an article in the
Post
that rehashed what had been in the papers about him lately, how they were describing the wanted killer as “twisted,” “heartless,” and “cold blooded.” He remembered his mother once shouting at him, “You’ll never be anybody!”

Well, he’d proven her wrong, goddamn it.

“Look who’s the big kahuna now, momma!” he shouted.

He flipped to Page Six. Nope, no mention there, but wait, what was this? Paula Segal and some Swedish guy, reading from their phenomenal bestseller,
Bust
? Sounded to Max like a dumb title, God knows why it was selling so well. But that name Segal? Why did it sound so familiar?

Wait a sec, holy shit. Paula Segal was the writer bitch who’d visited him years ago at Attica. Max’s biographer.

He read the description of the novel again, and realized the dumb book was about his life. Now, knowing that the book was about
him
, he decided that
Bust
was a great title, slam-dunk fucking brilliant. Whoa, and, holy shit, what was this? They were making a TV show of the book too? Someone was actually going to
play
him on TV? He had to read this part several times to make sure he was reading this correctly. Either this PIMP was better than he thought, or one of his insane fantasies was actually happening.

Max Fisher, a character? A fucking American icon? Tony Soprano
who
? This was Max’s time, the moment he’d been waiting for, for like ever. He had to get out to L.A., visit the set, witness this for himself, but he couldn’t just leave town, especially not with a blackmailing nun on his ass.

Max had run through so many scenarios about the nun. Bottom line, no way was she going away. If he were insane enough to actually give her the cash now, it would be only a matter of time before she was back for more. Nuns always came again, ask the Pope.

Max had been chipping at the PIMP, taking it easy, well sort of. He just got a new supply and told himself he needed to test-run it. Whoa fuck, this shit was strong and then some. Gave him a rush like white speed and his mind, that beast was fucking
electric
and, like Richard Pryor on an 8-ball, it was talking to him. Oh yeah, cajoling him, telling him all the good shit he always got off on, starting with, “Yo, you the Max.”