Pimp (24 page)

But the disguise didn’t fool Paula.

“Oh my God, it’s you,” she said.

“In the flesh, sugar tits,” Max said.

With a rush of emotion, Paula went to Max and hugged him tightly.

“This is surreal,” she said. “It’s like you came out of my brain or something. My book’s coming to life.”

“Hey, easy with my fiancée,” Angela said. “We Irish girls can get jealous, you know.”

“Wait,” Paula said. “You two are…”

Angela stuck out her hand, displaying a massive diamond, and went, “Yes, engaged, and not with a fookin’ claddagh ring. It was Darren’s ex-wife’s, God bless both of them, and God rest Darren.”

Paula was dazed—the events of the morning hitting her. “I’m dizzy,” she said. “I think I should sit down.”

“Here, take one of these,” Max said.

He gave her a little pill, something white, looked harmless as a Tylenol.

“What is it?”

Max smiled, said, “It knows how to take care of you.”

Angela handed her a cup of water and she swallowed the pill.

“Does anybody else know that you’re Max Fisher?” Paula asked.

“Not anybody currently living,” Max said.

“A cop came around asking questions, but we got rid of her,” Angela said.

“Even you two can’t pull this off.” Paula was looking at Max. “You’re on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, but number six,” Max said. “What’s up with that shit? Cocksuckers.”

“Still,” Paula said. “You’re taking a big risk.”

“Hey, look how long it took them to find Whitey Bulger,” Max said. “L.A.’s the best place in the world to hide. Everybody has their head so far up their own ass, nobody notices anything.”

“But somebody will recognize you eventually,” Paula said. “I mean, I know who you are. How do you know I won’t go to the police?”

“We’d sue you for defamation of character,” Angela said. “Basing a novel on living people isn’t exactly kosher, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were alive when I wrote it.”

“Would a judge buy that?”

She laughed. “A judge. That’s ridiculous. Like either of you would willingly go anywhere near a courtroom. If people knew who you were you’d spend the rest of your lives in jail. Especially Max.”

“I have the best lawyer in the business,” Max said.

“I know, Darrow,” Paula said. “I put him in
Bust
.”

Something was affecting Paula’s mood; was it the pill Max had given her? She couldn’t tell if she was aroused or angry, didn’t know if she wanted to fuck somebody or kill somebody. All she knew was that suddenly she felt fucking great.

“Can I have another one of those?” she asked.

“Anything for my favorite writer,” Max said.

Paula swallowed another pill, went, “So what does this all mean for
Bust
? Who’s going to write it?”

“First of all,” Angela said, ducking the question, “so sorry about Kat and Lars. We heard about it through the grapevine. If it’s any consolation, Lars makes the worst porn I’ve ever seen and he’s hung like a peanut. I know they’ll bomb out in Sweden.”

“That’s okay, I already have a new co-writer for the novels,” Paula said, “and I want to make out with you. Wow, Jesus, I don’t know why I said that. I feel like it’s not me who’s talking, like something’s taken control of me… So, wait, about a new writer for the pilot to replace Bill Moss…”

“Our first idea was Bret Easton Ellis,” Angela said. “Author of my fave fookin’ book ever,
American Psycho
, and also the giver of A-list cunnilingus.”

Paula assumed this second part was a joke.

“But unfortunately Bret can’t do it,” Angela said. “Something about how he’s too busy writing a show about a stalker for Showtime.”

“So who’s next on the list?” Paula asked.

“One of the hottest writers in the country right now,” Angela said, “though not thus far known for her screenwriting, she’s immensely qualified for this project.”

Was it the pills Max had given her or was Paula getting
thisclose
to an orgasm? Paula had an urge to reach out and grab Angela’s breasts, so she did.

“Sorry,” Paula said. “I…I…I don’t know…”

“It’s okay,” Angela assured her. “I’ve been felt up by worse.”

“Who?” Paula asked.

“Well, one of them is in this room.”

“Fuck you too, sweetheart,” Max said.

Max and Angela kissed.

“No, I mean, who is this hot writer?” Paula asked.

“You,” Angela said. “We want to hire you, Paula.”

Paula writing the TV pilot? It was ingenious; after all, who knew more about
Bust
than her? Angela was the sexiest woman Paula had ever seen and she didn’t give a fuck about Kat.

“You can pick up where Bill left off or you can write it from scratch,” Angela said. “We have total faith in your abundant talent.”

“I’ll show you some abundant talent, bitch,” Paula said, and kissed her.

Her awful morning was a distant memory.

Thanks to those little white pills, life was all good.

A man is his job, and you are fucked at yours.
J
ACK
L
EMMON IN
Glengarry Glen Ross

“Make it real,” Larry said.

“Bill Moss is gone.”

Larry, in his car, in traffic in downtown Hollywood, didn’t even know who the fuck was calling, said, “Who the fuck is calling?”

Larry had been supposed to meet Eddie Vegas at a strip club, to update him on the project. Larry didn’t have an update—fucking Darren and Angela had kept him out of the loop—but he had some good bullshit prepared.

Then this call from a private number.

“Lionsgate told Eddie he’s not a producer anymore,” the voice said. It was a guy—old, a smoker, or both.

“I don’t know who I’m talking to,” Larry said.

“Make this right,” the guy said, and clicked off.

“You there? You there?” Larry said, feeling like some idiot in a movie who says,
You there? You there?
even when it’s obvious he’d been hung up on.

“Fuck me!” Larry screamed.

He called Becker’s various numbers—got voicemail at all of them. Same when he tried to reach Angela. All the execs at Lionsgate were either out of the office or in meetings.

Cut to an hour later—Larry arrived at Becker’s office in West-wood. The kid at the door tried to stomp him as he stormed into Becker’s office. But Becker wasn’t there—just Angela, alone.

“Sorry, I’m in meetings,” Angela said.

“Meeting with who?” Larry said. “There’s nobody here.”

“I’m busy, Larry.”

“Yeah, too busy to answer the phone,” Larry said.

“I learned how to produce from the best.” Angela smiled.

“Look,” Larry said. “I’m just here to resolve a little misunderstanding. Lionsgate’s telling my producing partner that he’s not on the project anymore, do you know why that is?”

“Maybe because he isn’t,” Angela said.

“Huh?”

“Bill Moss quit the project, so since he’s out, you’re out, and your friend’s out as well.”

Knowing he was fucked, that this would never fly with Eddie Vegas, Larry said, “Quit? What do you mean quit? He can’t quit.”

Angela smiled, bust fully expanded, and said, “Welcome to Hollywood, sweetie.”

* * *

Larry knew he had officially passed his expiration date and it was time to get the fuck out of town. He went home, packed a suitcase, and returned to his car. As he was getting in, he felt a gun against the back of his head, heard:

“Goin’ somewhere?”

It was the guy from In-N-Out Burger who looked like Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

“Make a sound, it’ll be your last,” Nolte said.

He led Larry into the back of a black sedan. There were two younger guys in the car, up front.

When the car started moving, Larry said, “I didn’t call for a car service, but it’s nice of you guys to take me to the airport.”

Larry going for humor to lighten the situation, the way the victims at concentration camps told jokes to distract themselves from the horror. Anyway, that’s what he’d heard.

They went up to the hills, not far from the Hollywood sign.

“Get out,” Nolte said.

Were they going to shoot him here? Larry was ready to start begging for his life, when he noticed another car, a BMW, off to the side. Eddie Vegas got out of it. He was in jeans, a white T-shirt, a black blazer. He looked sharp.

“You look sharp,” Larry said to him.

“You got my money?” Eddie asked.

“Is that what this is all about?” Larry said. “Jesus, why didn’t you just say so instead of sending half of
48 Hours
to come get me?”

“You got the money or not?” Eddie said.

“I don’t have it
yet
,” Larry said. “But I’m working on it.”

“Sorry, ain’t good enough, man.” Eddie took off his blazer and handed it to Nolte. Said to Larry, “I told you, you had two strikes, and I told you Eddie Vegas don’t strike out.”

“You didn’t strike out, okay?” Larry said. “You got a foul tip. You’re still alive.”

“I ever tell you how I got the name Vegas?”

“’Cause you like to gamble?” Larry asked.

“No, I hate fuckin’ gambling,” Eddie said. “I got the name Vegas ’cause one time in Vegas when I was coming up, I had to deliver some product to a warehouse and the deal went bad. Guy I was with got blown away, my gun, shit ran out of bullets, but I fought, you know how? With my bare hands. Killed six guys with my fists. Mano a mano is the way I like to do shit. Keeps it more personal.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Larry asked, as the first punch connected with his face and something cracked, probably his jaw. Nolte and another guy held Larry up, as Eddie continued to assault his face like a punching bag.

“P-please,” Larry said through a mouthful of blood. “M-make it quick.”

Eddie didn’t. But eventually the pain went away and numbness set in. Larry couldn’t believe this was how he was going to check out, never getting that big hit. He’d always thought his luck would turn eventually, but the credits were rolling, and he was looking for his name, but it wasn’t there. There were other names, and then he couldn’t remember what his name was, what he was searching for.

Then the credits stopped rolling altogether, faded to black.

I should find Ford attractive, everyone else does. “He’s too good looking,” one of my sorority sisters groaned. “I can’t even look at him without feeling like I’m being punched between the legs.”
A
NITA
N
UTTING
,
Tampa

It had been a long time—what, couple months?—since Eddie Vegas had taken somebody out with his hands and it only got him warmed up. It was like when you get a blow job but it ain’t enough ’cause a few minutes later you want another one.

Maybe Larry Reed was gone, but that didn’t mean the debt was dead. Eddie didn’t care how many Hollywood
putas
he had to take out, he was gonna get his money back.

So Eddie was at the house in Brentwood, banging on the door, going, “Sean Mullen. Yo, Sean Mullen, open the fuck up!”

Eddie’s boys were in the car; he’d told them to hang out there. He was cool, he’d said. He wanted to do this one alone.

Brandi Love, one of the other producers of—what the fuck was the show called?
Bust
, yeah,
Bust
—opened the door.

“Look who it is,” Eddie said. “One of my co-executive producers. The chick who used to make pornos, which is a good thing, cause it means you used to gettin’ fucked.”

“Sorry,” Angela said, “I think you have the wrong address.”

Bitch tried to slam the door in his face. Yeah, right. He pushed it open hard, almost knocked her down. She was lucky he didn’t turn her face into hamburger meat, and maybe he would when he was done with Mullen.

That’s when a guy came over. Ugly, big, fat, red motherfucker with a beard. He was in some kinda black silk kimono with dragons spitting shit on the sleeves. Man looked like Mickey Rourke with red hair on the most fucked-up day of his life.

Guy went, “What’cha carrying, dude?”

Dude? Shit, who was this white boy? If it was Mullen, soon he was gonna be a dead white boy.

“You Mullen?” Eddie asked.

“You a wetback cunt?” guy said.

Did he have some accent? Yeah, sounded British or Irish, Eddie could never tell that shit apart.

“You think you tough, huh?” Eddie said. “That, or you the dumbest-ass motherfucker in Los Angeles.”

“If it’s multiple choice, I pick A,” the guy said.

Eddie had to smile, what else was he gonna do? Some dumb foreign fuck off the boat didn’t know who he was talkin’ to.

The guy went to the drinks cabinet, started making a pitcher of margaritas. Serious? Eddie couldn’t say anything—this shit was too funny, he had to see what happened next. Brandi was standing there too. Wait, was she fucked up, on something? Eddie thought so. Man, these movie people, they’re fuckin’ crazy.

He watched the guy pour two drinks, handed one to Eddie, went, “You didn’t answer my question?”

“I ain’t no cunt,” Eddie said.

“No, about what you’re carrying,” the guy said. “You packing a Heckler ’n Koch, a Nine, or the prissy cop shit, a Glock?”

Jesus Christ. What a fucking moron. From now on, Eddie was only gonna invest in movies if his own kind was in charge. He was gonna give Jimmy Smits a call.

“You really wanna see my piece?” Eddie asked.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the guy said and he took out his, looked like a Browning.

Then the crazy white nigger put two rounds in the ceiling.

Eddie jumped a foot, going, “The fuck, man, chill.”

Then he was lookin’ down the barrel of the gun at the fat man’s face.

The guy asked, “What do you want, asswipe?”

Shit, they was both fucked up. On coke? Nah, somethin’ harder.

Eddie had enough, went, “I’m a patient man…” and had his own piece out, aimed at the guy’s head, “…till I’m not.”

Brandi pulled a gun out of her garter or some shit and aimed it at Eddie.

Just what Eddie needed—some fuckin’ Tarantino bullshit, everybody aimin’ guns at each other. Or was that John Fuckin’ Woo?