Pimp (20 page)

Better believe it.

Max shouted, “Word!”

And now the PIMP suggested—in its sweetest PIMP voice—“We need a mega flourish.”

Max went, “Wotcha…”—sure sign of Max out of control was his use of Cockney—“…got in mind, Homes?”

Heard the plan, whooped. “That is a doozy.”

He picked up the phone, dialed.

At first the nun was skeptical, asked, “Why do we have to meet at a church?”

Max wanted to shout, ’
Cause, I like say so, bitch
.

PIMP went with, “Fitting we use a sacred place for sacred business.”

She was suspicious, but went with it.

They arranged to meet at St. John the Divine on Amsterdam Avenue. How do you dress to rub out a nun? Somberly. Max was in a black suit, black shirt and if he’d inserted the tiny white collar, he could have been De Niro in
True Confessions
. He carried a muted, expensive briefcase, like all top brass in clerical circles. No friggin knockoffs for them unless you were counting altar boys.

The nun had taken center pew and old habits die hard, she was absently polishing the rail.

Max slipped in next to her, noted it was just the two of them in the place, went, “Might we light a candle for those who suffer?”

The nun, dressed in Christian Dior and smelling of Chanel, went, “Cut the fucking shit.”

PIMP, loving the mind fuck, said, “Might we least kneel and pray, for world peace?”

She sighed deeply, an old pro at it, as Max opened the briefcase and, in a PIMP-fueled move, took out a nine-inch blade, gutted her as a recorded choir began
How Great Thou Art
.

PIMP asked, “Don’t’cha love fucking symmetry?”

Blood splashed all over Max, his black suit showing the spillage like dark martyrdom. The nun was making lots of guttural noises and Max said, “Ah, shut the fuck up already.”

When she had bled out, he managed to put her sitting upright, then wound a rosary round her hands like handcuffs. Nuns do love their beads. As precaution, he slipped the tiny white collar on, getting that priest gig going, he even felt, well,
holy.

Then giggled, whispered, “Not as holy as this cow.”

And stood, stared at the high altar, said, “Lord, accept this humble sacrifice.”

Outside, he took a moment to gather his frazzled wits when an old woman stopped and asked, “Bless me father?”

He touched her cheek almost with tenderness. Fuck, he felt…
humble
in his omnipotence, said, “Child, many are called, nun are chosen.”

Maybe PIMP had been in control during the whole time because reality didn’t hit home till he was back at his apartment and said, “Holy shit, I killed a fuckin’ nun.”

Down from the PIMP, he thought it was a dream. But he checked his dick, saw it was still tiny—nope, not dreaming.

He flicked on the TV to New York 1 News and it was right there:

NUN MURDERED AT MANHATTAN CHURCH

That pretty much said it all. Max couldn’t tear himself away from the TV all evening, watching every station’s reports about the murder. There was a description of him, maybe from the old woman outside the church, and talk of video footage.

Somehow living across from Manhattan North wasn’t as exciting anymore. He knew it was time to cut his losses and take off—for a while anyway. But where to? He couldn’t go back to fucking Portlandia, not when he was on the verge of ruling the world.

Then it hit him; it was so obvious, maybe even destiny.

Next morning, he was on a flight to L.A., the PIMP muttering, “We are so going to own this fucking town.”

There were a lot of terms you had to learn, as opposed to the shylock business where all you had to know how to say was, “Give me the fuckin money.”
E
LMORE
L
EONARD
,
Get Shorty

“What the fook are we going to do?”

Angela with Darren, who was eating the last piece of tekka maki from the sushi party platter.

Smiling while chewing, Darren said, “We can get married, elope if you don’t want to have a wedding.”

“No, I mean about all of these fookin’ producers,” Angela said. “We don’t have any actors yet and the producers are sucking up twenty percent of the budget.”

“Whoa, talking about budgets now,” Darren said. “My girl knows her shit.”

Oh now he was giving her that look again. That oh so romantic look of,
I want to climb on your body and hump you.

“Yes, I’ve been reading up on the business side, frankly it’s easier to grasp than the porn business. Read a couple of articles online, browse the PGA website, and you get the gist.”

“Well, I don’t know what those sites are telling you,” Darren said, “but when a budget gets too high you have to do one thing. You have to…” He brushed aside the shite from the desk, plopped her down, and began unbuttoning her blouse. “…make some reductions.”

Jaysus, how much sex drive did this guy have? And why was she a magnet for guys on Viagra?

“Who are we going to let go?” Angela asked. “Larry and Bill are a package, and Larry and Eddie Vegas are a package.”

“Speaking of packages…” Darren unzipped his fly. At least the guy was hung so it wasn’t a total loss.

“Including you and me, there are five producers on this project, and that doesn’t include producers at Lionsgate and the network. By the time the credits run, the show will be over.”

“We can’t let that happen.” His hand was in her shirt now, feeling her up like a horny teenager. He said, “We have to hold on to our
Bust
…our very, very sexy
Bust.
”

Oh, gawd.

Letting him have his fun though she sure as fook wasn’t, she said, “God knows why Lionsgate love Bill so much. I said to the exec, ‘Maybe we should give Quentin a call,’ ’cause I heard he’s looking for an edgy pilot to write and direct. Lionsgate says we can’t let Bill go because, get this, ‘He’s the hottest writer in town right now.’ I’m talking Quentin T, who’s won how many Oscars? And Bill Moss is hotter?”

“I don’t want to point the accusing finger of blame,” he said, reaching under her panties, “but it is your fault.”

“My fault?” Angela said. “How’s it fookin’ my fault?”

Yanking down her skirt and panties, he gave her ass a hard spank like he thought he was in fookin’
Nymphomaniac
, then said, “You were the one who sent them
Spaced Out
. You were the one who got them hot on Moss.”

Angela knew this was true but said, “Well, we’re stuck with him, so that doesn’t solve the problem, does it?”

“So what do you think about what I was saying before?” Darren asked as he grabbed her ankles.

“About my bust?” she asked.

“No, about our wedding,” he said. “I think you’d look so sexy in a wedding dress. Virginal white of course.” He was thrusting in her. “I can’t get enough of you. You’re like a bad habit.”

“We have to figure out how to get rid of these gobshites,” Angela said.

“How do we do that?” Darren said. “I mean…fuck, your tits are so hot…it’s like a game of pick-up sticks right now. If we pull out one stick, we lose…oh my God, baby…I mean we’re stuck. There’s…shit…no way out.”

“There’s always a way,” Angela said.

“Yeah,” he said, moaning. “Oh, fuck, yeah.”

* * *

Angela had to get away from Darren, just to give her body a break, so she made up an excuse that she was meeting up with an old college friend. Yeah, like she’d even made it through three days of high school. She just wanted to take a ride, clear her head, maybe walk along the beach at night, hear waves crashing. Depressing late-in-act-two-of-a-movie shite like that.

She got in her car, checked her phone for messages. Lions-gate asking about the screenplay, making sure Bill Moss was “happy.”

Fookin’ A.

Angela responded:
Screenplay’s coming along swimmingly
.

She’d seen swimmingly used in a screenplay recently and had been dying to find a good use for it.

Then she saw a Facebook notification—a friend request from Sebastian. The fooker! He shot her, left her for dead, and now he’s
friending
her? When she found him she was going to kill him slowly, with maximum pain, make the Drano in a bathtub seem like a warm-up.

She headed past Santa Monica, toward Malibu. The sun had set, but there was a big moon, and there were great views of winding cliffs. Then she noticed that a car with tinted windows was following her.

It took a few minutes to realize that it had to be Sebastian himself. Who else could it be?

He was following
her
? Yeah, right. Fook this.

She hit the brakes hard and he had to swerve to avoid her. Then she was chasing him. She sped alongside him, narrowly missing a head-on collision with a truck, then rammed the side of the car. Ahead the road was turning to the right. If she kept ramming him to the left he’d drive straight off the cliff, fall hundreds of feet, and die in a fiery crash. It wouldn’t be the brutal death that she had planned for him, but it would be close enough.

But he must’ve realized the predicament because at the last moment he skidded to a stop, inches from the cliff.

Angela climbed out of the car, shaken but nothing like how she was about to feel in a moment. She glared at the guy coming towards her, and from her mouth dribbled, “Oh my sweet Jaysus.”

She saw what appeared to be Philip Seymour Hoffman, as if he were auditioning for the role of Heath Ledger’s bloated corpse. With a ginger beard and, fuck me, a shitload of weight.

But that smirk. Oh Lord! It couldn’t be…it could only be…

Max.

And worst of all, her damn treacherous heart skipped a beat. The fuck was with that?

Max, seeming equally dazed and bewildered, croaked,

“Angela?”

He explained about how he’d seen the name Brandi Love on a website, and followed her leaving Darren Becker’s earlier, but it had been dark and he hadn’t gotten a good look at her…

“But…” he said. “You…you were dead.”

Angela hadn’t seen Max this frightened since he’d found out the murder of his wife had been botched. She told him the Big-foot story, an abbreviated version, and that she’d taken on the name Brandi Love after a sojourn in London. Yep, she used the word “sojourn.”

Max kissed her. Angela was blown away by the jolt of pure, unadulterated joy. It literally felt like time stopped as they held each other. So much history…most if it bad, a lot of it deadly, murderous, ferocious, insane, but oh what a ride. Then—enough with the
Notebook
shite—he had her over the car’s bashed fender, his tongue deep in her throat and her gripping at his dick. They would have done it right there, mad and fierce, lost in a carnal frenzy, but a tour bus of old folk passed and the codgers, delightedly leaning out the windows, goaded, “Get a room,” “Give her one!” “Ride that rainbow!” and inexplicably, “Free medical for over-70s!”

Angela pushed Max away, attempting to fix her clothing while he, showman supreme, bowed, hollered, “Coming soon to a theatre near you!”

Then he turned to Angela. She expected words of love, got, “Aren’t you some cunt?”

Took her a moment, then she posed on her right foot, did a mini pirouette, and blasted him a right hook that lifted him off his feet. He sprawled in the dust, spat out some blood, snarled, “That all yah got, Angie?”

Well, no.

Kicked him in the balls. When he recovered some from that, he held up a hand, gasped, “Can a guy buy a gal a drink?”

He could.

Considerably the worse for wear, they ended up in a small bar that advertised,
Happy Hour All Day
.

Angela sneered. “Just like our respective lives.”

They grabbed a back table, dim lit to downplay their bedraggled appearance, and Max tried to put his hand up her skirt.

The waitress, standing before them, noticed and instead of calling the cops, smiled, said, “Second marriage huh?”

Max ordered a Long Island Tea and added, “Don’t skimp on the rum.”

Angela had a large Jameson with Coors Light.

Max laughed, said, “Light? Gotta watch the waist, eh babe?”

She looked at him, really looked, said, “I guess being schizoid, you’re eating for two? One of them Orson Welles?”

He laughed, said, “Love it when you talk dirty, Angie.”

The drinks came and Angie raised her glass, said, “
Slainte
.”

Max, draining most of his first, burped, said, “To soul mates.”

Angela, despite her turmoil of feelings never ever succumbed to sentiment, muttered, “Whoever the fuck they might be.”

The waitress smiled, gave Angela a thumbs up, said, “You said it, sister.”

Angela, never big on sisterhood either, smiled nicely, said, “Fuck the hell off.”

Germaine Greer would have been proud.

Naomi Wolf, hmm, not so much.

After a couple of drinks and reminiscing about the bad old days, the conversation turned to
Bust.

“It’s our baby,” Max said. “We should be running the show.”

“Trust me,” Angela said, “I’d rather it be me and you than these Hollywood fucks I have to work with. I’m sick of their fookin’ coconut water and fake smiles and dumb script notes.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Max said. “Bring me on board.”

“It’s not that simple,” Angela said. “We already have five Executive Producers, not including the execs at Lionsgate and whatever studio gets on board.”

“Sounds like we have to take some people out,” Max said.

Agreeing, Angela went, “Well, Darren Becker controls the property equally with me right now, so if something were to happen to Darren you could take his place.”

“I’ll get it done tonight,” Max said.

“Too dangerous,” Angela said, but she thought his assertiveness was fookin’ hot. “You’re a wanted felon. But I know the perfect man for the job.”

Max got his hand under her skirt now, all the way up, and said, “Maybe we
are
soul mates.”

It felt good with Max back inside her; it felt right.

“Mates, yes,” she said. “Souls, not so sure.”