Pimp (4 page)

That lie hovered over them, fighting to find some level of entrance. He lit an Arnie-size cigar, asked, “That a trace of an Irish lilt I’m catching?”

He thought he heard, “That’s the very least of what you been catching,” and he went, “What’s that?”

She smiled, said, “I said I’m from back east, but thanks for asking.”

Was he detecting sarcasm? The woman, Brandi Love, was an actress, of course. He’d met her a few nights ago at some party when she’d spilled a drink on his lap and said, “Allow me to wipe you off.”

He liked how she’d delivered the line—sexy, yeah, but sincere.

She was Larry’s type—not too old, with a big, high rack—so he gave her his usual BS about how he was a “top producer” and needed an executive assistant “to help out at the office,” and then he promised her a role in a hot new project,
Spaced Out
, which—bullshit flying now—was “set up at Fox.”

As usual, the dumb wannabe had bought all of that crap.

“You can go home early today,” Larry said, “and you don’t have to come back tomorrow. No offense, but I don’t think this arrangement is working out.”

“No worries,” Brandi muttered. “I’ll just poison you.”

“What’s that?” Larry asked.

“I said it was a pleasure working for you,” she said, smiling.

Larry shook his head, thinking,
Psycho actress in L.A.; big surprise there, right?
She was probably addicted to yoga, in A.A., had stalked all of her exes. He sat at his desk, tried to log onto his PC. Shit, these damn machines. He knew how to send email and do that video chat shit, what was it called? Hyping? Yeah hyping, he was great at hyping, but how the hell did you turn the thing on?

“Shit,” he said. “Goddamnit. Fuck. Fuck the hell outta me.”

“Need some help?” Brandi, at the door, asked.

“No, it’s okay.” He pressed something; nothing happened. “Goddamn piece of shit.”

“You seem a wee stressed,” Brandi said.

There was that lilt again.

“Excuse me?”

“Stress, anxiety,” she said. “After all, most ED is caused by stress. I mean, I’m sure you don’t have a physical problem.”

“Whoa, whoa, look here, sweetie.” Larry smiled with his new dentures. “Let’s make one thing clear, I don’t have any problems in that department. The L-Rod goes to the top floor if you get my drift.”

“It’s on the right.”

“What?”

“The switch. It’s right there on the right.”

Larry pressed the button—shit, it was right there the whole time—and the computer booted up.

“Thanks,” Larry said, “normally I don’t have a problem turning it on.”

“Are we talking about the computer or your cock?”

She said it matter-of-factly, really asking. The kid had spunk; he’d give her that.

“Computer,” he said.

“Thought so,” she said.

Wait, was this all a put-on? Larry was usually great at reading people—it was how he’d gotten to where he was in this biz—but with this chick it was impossible to tell.

“It’s because of my profession,” he said. “When you’re a big-time producer, it’s hard to be—what’s the word I’m thinking of—attentive to detail. That’s not a word, but you get my point, sweetie. I’m always producing, twenty-four/seven, plotting in my head.”

“Right, because you’re feeling so creative today.”

“Exactly,” Larry said. “Exactly.”

“Well, I should be going,” she said.

“Wait,” Larry said, like Travolta’s character would have said in
Spaced Out
.
Wait
, when the alien’s about to leave the spaceship, after they have their falling out in act three.

Brandi, like the alien, turned back.

“You seem like a good kid,” Larry said. “Got more brain on you then most of the girls I usually hire. Anyway, I’m sorry for being a prick. I’m usually not such a prick.”

“Oh, I’m not sure that’s not entirely untrue,” she said, smiling.

Larry smiled with her though he didn’t know what she’d just said.

Then he said, “And, yeah, you’re right I am kind of stressed out today.”

“What’s stressing you, baby?”

Jeez, now she was a combo Dr. Phil and his shrink. Two hundred bucks a week and where had it gotten him? He still had daddy issues, still couldn’t get a fucking movie greenlit.

“I’m looking for a TV idea,” he said.

“That’s smart,” she said.

“Right, I know it’s smart.” Larry said, feeling good about himself, who cared if she was bullshitting him? “I mean, I feel like I’ve been wasting my time, fartsing around with movies.”

“You mean like
Spaced Out
?”

Remembering he’d lied to her, he said, “No, I mean that one’s coming along, I’m just talking in general. You go to a water cooler today, what’re people talking about? TV shows. Not movies. It’s
Game of Thrones
,
Homeland
,
Breaking Bad
, binge watching. Old days there were thirteen channels of shit to choose from, now I don’t know what’s goin’ on with streaming, downloading. You heard of Hulu?”

“Yes,” Brandi said.

“Fuck, I need to get up on this shit,” Larry said. “Every day there’s a new term to learn—hashtag, selfie, downloading, uploading. It’s a different world out there, and Larry Reed’s been in the backseat for too fuckin’ long. It’s time to take the wheel, baby.”

He felt like he was in the third act of another movie—not
Spaced Out
, but that coming-of-age movie he was trying to get off the ground maybe ten years ago, about the high school kids who live on a sailboat for a summer. That line was in the script—
It’s time to take the wheel, baby
—which, come to think of it, didn’t make any sense because they were on a fucking sailboat. No wonder that piece of shit never got off the ground.

“Maybe I can help you, Larry?”

She was doing that sexy thing with her lips, like Ginger from
Gilligan’s Island
.

“I know how to turn on a damn computer,” Larry said.

“No, I mean, in other ways.”

Yep, she was flirting, and what’s this? A little liftoff action from L-Rod?

She came up to him, close enough to kiss, but just stood there, letting him smell her.

Larry said, “Yeah? And what about you, kid?”

“What about me?”

She was looking at his lips. Man, she smelled good. Like tulips, even though he wasn’t sure how tulips smelled.

Larry said, “What do you want? You really want to be an actress?”

“Maybe.”

“I like that. Honesty. You don’t get a lot of that in this town.”

“I think I’m good at it.”

“Honesty?”

“No, acting. I was in
The Walking Dead.
Took them three hours to get the zombie make-up on and then I was on screen for four seconds before Andrew Lincoln shot me.”

“It’s a tough ballgame, sweetheart.”

“Being a zombie?”

“No, being an actress.”

“’Tis true.” Sounding Irish again. “Wanted to try for
Game of Thrones
, but they shoot it in the north of Ireland, and there’s no fookin’ way I’m going back there.”

They were about to kiss—Larry’s tongue was halfway out of his mouth like a horny frat boy—when she moved away, strutting over to get a bottle of coconut water. What producer in Hollywood didn’t have an office stocked with coconut water? Obviously she wanted him to get a good look at her ass. And he got a good look all right. It was a great ass—wide but not flabby like Bev’s. With all the dieting Bev did, and all the Pilates and gazoomba or whatever the hell it’s called, Larry didn’t know why she couldn’t get her ass in shape. Didn’t she know that cellulite wasn’t allowed in L.A.?

Still turned away, she said, “It’s probably a blessing I didn’t do
Game of Thrones
, I would’ve been miscast.”

“Yeah?” Larry said. “How’s that?”

Now she turned back toward him, went, “I could be a great femme fatale.”

“I bet you could,” Larry said. Yep, definitely getting liftoff—the L-Rod shuttle is preparing to launch—ten…nine…eight…—roger that. He went, “I’ll tell you what. You can stay on, working for me, and I’ll give you the femme fatale role in
Spaced Out
. I’ll introduce you to Tom and the people at Fox.”

“Oh, please,” she said, more angry than flirty. “
Spaced Out
isn’t getting made, it’s not set up at Fox, and certainly not with Tom Fookin’ Selleck.”

The lilt wasn’t so sexy anymore.

“What makes you so sure?” Larry asked.

“It’s called Google,” Brandi said. “If it was really a hot project there would be something about it online.”

Fucking Internet. It was impossible to keep a good lie going these days.

“Not necessarily,” Larry said.

“You don’t have to bullshit me anymore,” Brandi said.

Coming clean, he said, “Okay, smarty pants, so if you know
Spaced Out
is dead, why’d you agree to work for me?”

“Maybe it’s because I like you.”

Larry wanted to believe this lie.

“You’re full of shit,” he said.

“Maybe,” she said, “but not any more than you.”

He had to smile. She was moving toward him again, eyes aimed at his lips.

“What if I told you I could get you the next big thing,” she said. “The TV project you’ve been dying for, that could take you to the next level, put you on the map?”

“I’m the producer, you’re the blond bimbo. I’m supposed to be promising you this shit, not the other way around.”

“You want to hear it or not?”

Oh no, she wasn’t going to pitch him, was she?

“It’s
Breaking Bad
meets
Pulp Fiction
with an Irish twist.”

Yes, she was.

“Sounds like a hit,” he said.

“Oh, it will be,” she said. “It has it all. Violence, action, humor, sex. Lots and lots of sex.”

“Okay,” Larry gave in. “What is it?”

“It’s called
Bust
.”

“
Bust
?” Larry said, as he felt hers pressing up against his chest. “Wait, I read about that in the trades the other day, didn’t I? It’s the book written by some American girl and a Swedish guy.”

“That’s the one,” Brandi said.

“This is your pitch?” Larry laughed. “The hottest project in town? How’re you supposed to get me in on that?”

“Let’s just say I know how to get things done.” She finally kissed him. Then she reached into his boxers and grabbed L-Rod with a strangler’s grip and smiled, but not happily, and went, “Why, what have we here?”

* * *

Larry got home to his place in The Canyon at around five-thirty and was planning to take a hot shower—always a good idea after banging another woman; wives, fuck, they were like bomb-sniffing dogs when it came to pussy—and then, after a couple brews and some fast lines, he’d try to figure out how to use his Kindle, get a copy of this
Bust
book. Wait, what was he thinking? He was a Hollywood producer, he didn’t actually read. He’d find some reviews, or maybe there were Cliffs Notes.

But when he got in the door he got a slap in the mouth. Managed to see Bev tied to a chair—weirdly his first thought was,
Shit, and she never lets
me
tie her up
, and then a kick in the balls put him on his knees.

When that pain subsided, he looked up at two guys. No masks.

Uh-oh.

One was so thin he was practically see-through, tattoos up his arms like the fucking Sunday comics, wearing a black T with the words:
NO SHIT SHERLOCK
.

The second was as wide as his partner was thin, was something Spanish, not Mexican—Larry, like all Angelenos, knew his Mexicans.

The skinny guy went, “Hey Larry, we’re Mo and Jo. I’m Mo.”

Mo had some kind of hick accent. Southern, not Texas, maybe Florida. There was something wrong with his speech so it sounded like one of the Waltons with nerve damage.

“Hey, Jo,” Larry said to the Spanish guy. “If your name was Curly we’d be the Three Stooges.”

Going for a laugh to lighten to the situation, but getting a dumb deadpan glare instead.

“Jesus, how old am I?” Larry said. “Doesn’t anybody even remember the Three Fucking Stooges? Come on, didn’t you even see the piece-of-shit remake? I wanted my buck twenty-nine back from Redbox.”

Mo kicked Larry in the gut and Jo slapped him in the face as Larry went down.

Keeled over, Larry caught a glimpse of Bev bound to the chair. Oh yeah, he’d seen that look before and knew that there would be hell to pay. Even if Larry talked his way out of this, figured out a way to get the guys to leave the house, he wasn’t sure he’d be any better off because his wife might kill him herself.

When Larry got some breath back, he choked, “The fuck are you, the Odd Couple?”

Jo took his turn at bat and knocked out Larry’s dentures, said

“Need to focus, ol’ man, he just told you our names.”

Definitely not Mexican. Cuban? Toothless now, he mumbled, “What yah want, asswipe? There’s nothing in the house, no valuables. If you want to pay some credit card bills, be my guest.”

More glaring from Bev. Shit, she was scarier than Mo and Jo. He knew if she wasn’t bound and gagged she’d be tearing into him, going, “Why’re you joking around with them? You
trying
to get me killed?” Always criticizing him, taking the opposite point of view.

Mo moved over to the bookcase where an open Sam Adams was resting, took a large swig, belched, said, “This shit is good.”

Sam Adams? Larry drank Schlitz. Who the hell had been to the house drinking Sam Adams? Wait, was Bev
cheating
on him?

Then Mo crouched down, almost friendly, close to Larry’s ruined mouth, said, “You owe our boss seventy-five large, not including the vig.”

Larry managed to move into a sitting position, said, “Fucksake, why didn’t you just ask instead of all this
Get Shorty
nonsense?”

Jo asked, “Who’s Shorty?”

Mo laughed, said, “You see, Larry, you see what I have to work with?”

Larry thinking,
There’s a .357 Magnum in a drawer near where the brew had been resting.
If he could make his way over…

Mo said, “Lookin’ for this shit?” and dangled the Magnum off his pinky.

Fuck.

Then Mo sucked on the end of the bottle, making annoying noises, asked, “Where’s the cash at, my man?”