Pimp (7 page)

I admire a man who can throw a saddle on a gift horse.
H
OUSE OF
C
ARDS

Joe Miscali had started out of the 1-9, back in the day when a cop wasn’t too pushed on procedure. Meaning you could beat the livin’ daylights out of a perp and not have to justify it.

He was almost a caricature of the beat cop. OD’ing on jelly doughnuts, caffeine way beyond ulcer alert, stomach bulging against his shirt—white of course, and soiled.

If he’d read books, he’d have read McBain. Though not Irish himself—he was 100 percent Italian—he had adopted the code of the Irish cops. Summed up in three basic tenets:

Fuck ’em

Fuck ’em twice

Fuck ’em all

Life had never been good for Joe, but it had been worse lately. He’d recently had his second quadruple bypass in three years, his ex-wife was engaged—to a fucking opera singer—and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a bust.

On top of all this, he was depressed, popping Prozacs like sucking candies.

He was off his game in every way possible and it wasn’t like he deserved it. Rumors were going around that he was getting soft in his old age—fifty-four now, thinking about taking an early retirement package next year. He hadn’t minded the talk when he was the star of the department, had all the street cred. But lately he’d lost his edge and everything was going steadily to shit.

Joe carried a Glock but hadn’t actually fired it on duty in years. Like a lot of Homicide cops, he arrived after the deed was done. But he dreamed of using it, on Max Fisher.

Years back, he’d gone on a routine wife-murdered call with his ex-partner, Kenneth Simmons. Little knowing they were about to embark on a crusade that would end with Kenneth six feet under and Joe wishing he was down there with him. The husband, Max Fisher, was the killer. No freaking doubt. But as it was to be with all things Fisher, it was complicated.

Not least by a psycho named Dylan. A stone-cold Irish freak, ex-IRA madman who, get this, dabbled in poetry, and, oh yeah, murder.

Enter stage left the femme fatale, Angela Petrakos. She would by turns enchant, infuriate, and intimidate Joe. But, fucking Fisher, he was the one who’d haunt Miscali forever. He was the fuck-up that started Joe’s downward spiral. Joe had gotten bad info on a drug deal and while he had half the NYPD staking out a location in Staten Island there’d been a bloodbath in Queens. Okay, it wasn’t as bad as Clinton missing Osama, but it had been his personal shitstorm. He could have gotten Fisher that day and saved dozens of lives, but instead the ass-clown got away and went on to kill again.

It seemed like it was over when Fisher went down for first-degree murder, got shipped up to Attica for thirty-to-life. But then came the news of the prison break, and that Fisher was missing. A manhunt ensued, but it seemed like Fisher had vanished. Some presumed he was dead, may have even been killed by a member of his own crew. Joe hoped a body would be discovered, maybe Fisher had even offed himself. But, nope—no body, no Fisher. He was convinced Fisher was still out there and would someday, somehow bite him in the ass again.

And the case was still open. There were occasional reports of Fisher sightings, leads in Phoenix, St. Louis, Florida, various parts of Mexico, even one in Thailand. The most credible was the sighting in Florida, Boca. Joe had flown down there on the NYPD’s dime, only to discover that “Fisher” was actually Donald Goldenberg, a divorce attorney. Miscali wound up using Golden-berg to handle his divorce, figuring he could do worse than a Jewish lawyer from Boca. Figured wrong as Goldenberg bungled the case, costing Joe thousands. Joe blamed Fisher for this, too.

Joe’s C.O., tired of the Fisher obsession, barked at Joe, “Get the fuck over this and go catch me some rugheads.”

Like that would happen.

* * *

Joe Miscali was about to knock off his shift when his new partner, Leonard, hollered, “Got us a live one.” Paused. “Well, a dead one actually.”

Joe was bone weary, sighed, “No one else catching?”

They went up to Harlem. The beat cop led Joe and Leonard to the scene. A busty black chick, a three-time loser named Precious Orange, got her brains blown out in the shower.

NYPD’s version of Dexter was there, said, “Looks like it was Norman Bates with a Heckler.”

A few minutes later, they got a call from Brooklyn, as it looked like the same weapon had been used in a mass drug-related shooting in East New York.

Leonard said to Joe, “Guess we’re going to sunny Brooklyn.”

Joe groaned.

Leonard drove an old Crown Vic that he seemed to think was some souped-up shit and drove accordingly, siren playing, said, “Man, I never tire of this shit.”

The crime scene was a blitzkrieg of cops, civilians, CSI, more cops.

And it being Brooklyn, a hotdog vendor.

Joe was brought up to speed by the on-site guy who said, “We’re hearing PIMP.”

Joe looked over a heap of bodies, asked, “A pimp took out all these guys?”

The guy shook his head, explained. “It’s a drug. The new kid on the block—well, all over. PIMP is the new drug of choice for the five boroughs.”

Joe watched as Leonard ambled over to a basketball court and shot the breeze with the kids gathered there, then walked quickly back, said, “Joe, how you feel about hitting Williamsburg?”

“Why, you run out of wool caps and funny glasses?”

Leonard didn’t get it, said, “Got a whisper a dealer is on the corner there, with all the PIMP you can handle.”

They blasted over there, Leonard hooting and yapping, making Joe’s head ache even more. They scooped up the dealer, who was indeed on the corner as reported. Leonard, no frills, picked the kid up, threw him in the back, the kid going, “The fuck, yo?”

Drove to a quiet alley and shook out the kid’s cargo pants, packets of dope spilling on the ground, the kid shouting, “Not mine, ain’t never seen this shit before.”

Leonard made sure no iPhones were around, then gave a slap to the side of the kid’s head, not hard but sufficient.

Joe grabbed the kid, shoved him against the Vic, said, “I’ve had me a long day, my freaking head is like, about to explode, so if you want to walk from this, tell us who the main guy is.”

The kid, already street legal, said, “Might need that in writing, mothafucka.”

Leonard said, “Of course.” Kneed him in the balls, said, “Can you read the small print?”

The kid didn’t have a whole lot, had only once seen the main man, said, “He looks like that dude in
Hunger Games
.”

Leonard looked at Joe who tried, “Donald Sutherland?”

Nope.

Then the kid said, “He got like an Oscar for playing a faggot.”

That was lost on them.

The kid sighed, dumb fucking cops, then said, “Hey, the dude like OD’d, you know, it was in the news an’ shit.”

Joe went, “Heath Ledger?”

“Damn,” the kid said. “Don’t y’all got cable or all you white people just be watchin’ Netflix?” Then he got it, spat, “Hoffman, with like a cat’s name before it.”

Leonard, delighted, said, “Sylvester?”

“Fuck, man,” the kid said. “Y’all be on PIMP like all the hipsters?”

Then Joe said, “Seymour.”

The kid went, “Duh.”

Joe made a note of this, his gut churning. This whole case was bringing up a familiar sick feeling, but he wasn’t sure why.

They got in the car, threw the dope in the trunk. The kid moaned, “Hey, you can’t leave me without my product an’ shit.”

Joe said, “You’re right, here’s something you can sell,” and flipped him a rusty St. Christopher medal he’d found on the street.

Leonard cackled and as they drove off, he said, “That was like, low, man.”

Joe nearly smiled, said, “What can I tell you? I’m a piece of work.”

* * *

A couple weeks later, the suspect was still at large in the Harlem and Brooklyn shootings, and the Commissioner was coming down hard on the whole force, demanding an arrest. Joe was regretting his fifth coffee of the day, his gut felt like something putrid had curled up in there and died. He did what you do, began to chew on a jelly doughnut, mix it up.

Leonard sat on the edge of his desk, said, “You see the cooler of brews the new next-door tenant sent by?”

Joe, uninterested, went, “New tenant, huh?”

“Yeah, he’s throwing a little shindig for some movers and shakers, asked us to drop by, grab some eats.”

Joe smirked, said, “Partiers kissing ass with hot dogs so we don’t bust ’em, eh?”

Leonard stood, pushed, “Joe, c’mon, don’t be always hardcore, lighten up. Me and the guys going over there now, why not tag along?”

“Can’t see how it could in any way be of interest to me.”

Joe didn’t go.

A few hours later, Leonard came back, could barely stand.

“How was it?” Joe asked.

“Fuckin’ great, my main man.” Leonard tried to give Joe a high five, but missed, stumbled. Then he regained some balance and slurred, “Never saw the host though. Wall ta wall people in d’ere.”

Leonard already had his dick in his hand, on his way to the bathroom.

When Joe left, the party was still raging, hip-hop blasting. A party like that, right across from the precinct? Joe didn’t know who the host was, but he knew one thing—the cocksucker had some pair.

All of us that started the game with a crooked cue, that wanted so much, and got so little, that meant so good and did so bad. All of us.
J
IM
T
HOMPSON

Larry got a smarmy doctor, Dr. Hoff—The Hoff, he called himself—to make a house call. Hoff was at one time attached to a major studio until he, um,
overprescribed
to a
Batman
actor and the guy bought the farm. Now he supplied Larry and other players in the biz with an abundance of scripts, and not the Final Draft variety.

Hoff examined the gunshot wound, went, “Not serious.”

Larry wanted to wallop him, said, “Not fucking serious for
you.
It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

A pause as they both knew this meant, Vike.

Hoff, wanting to at least feel appreciated, said, “Gunshot wound, you know I’m supposed to report this.”

Larry slapped him on the side of the head, said, “Yeah and I’m supposed to helm the next
X-Men
but like that’s gonna happen.”

Hoff handed him a couple of scripts, asked, “You going to report it?” He looked around, asked, “And, by the way, how’s your wife? Haven’t seen the little woman in a while.”

Something in his tone whipped Larry’s head around. He snapped,

“What’s that mean?”

Hoff sighed, went, “Well, it’s called manners, or even consideration.”

Larry took a long moment, wondering,
Is the Hoff fucking my wife?
Did they have a fight, a falling out, leading to the kidnapping? One time—maybe three months ago—he recalled Hoff calling his house, Hoff sounding surprised when Larry picked up.

“But why did you say you haven’t seen in her a
while
?” Larry asked.

“Because I haven’t?” Was Hoff confused or pretending to be confused?

“But you made a point of it. So I’m wondering why that is. If I haven’t seen somebody in a while I ask, Hey, how you been? I don’t make a point of saying it’s been a
while
.”

“I…I’m not following.”

“You drink Sam Adams, Doc?”

“What?” Hoff asked.

“Sam Adams. It’s a beer.”

“I know it’s a beer. Why do you care what kind of fucking beer I drink?”

“Hey, manners, Doc, manners,” Larry said.

“I don’t drink beer,” the doctor said.

Lying? Yeah, probably. Larry knew the face of a two-shit liar. He saw it in the mirror every morning.

Larry stared at him, went, “You know anything about two guys, Mo and Jo?”

Hoff squinted, went, “Who?”

“Mo and Jo. You know, as in bad mojo.”

The doc gathered up his stuff, muttered, “Story of my life.” Then added, “Better double on the Vike. I don’t wanna know what happened to you, but it’s fucking with your head.”

That evening, Larry, coasting on a Vike, called Brandi, said,

“Come by my place.”

She was surprised, asked if his wife minded.

Larry giving a bitter laugh said, “She’s got a whole load of other shit on her mind.”

When Brandi arrived, she was dressed in Lindsay Lohan mode, i.e., almost nothing and strutting it. Larry had wrangled some of the blue magic pills from the disgruntled doc and was indeed The Rod.

After the third round, she said, “Now that’s A-list baby.” She cooed and purred and added, “You’re the Hollywood sign, sugar.”

He poured them some lethal shots of tequila, said, “So
Bust
, what’s the story?”

“I already told you.”

“Tell me again. I’m a movie producer, I have fucking A.D.D. You think I pay attention to a pitch the first time around?”

She outlined the plot, about Max Fisher and Angela Petrakos, the drug dealing, the serial killing, the prison break. “It’s got it all. And best, it’s true.”

“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with these people?”

Brandi glared at him. “I thought you wanted crime stories.”

Larry shrugged. “Does she have to be half-Irish?”

“What do you have against the Irish?”

“I don’t know, but I think she’d be sexier if she was, I don’t know, Spanish. Maybe we could attach Salma Hayek.”

Larry didn’t care about the story, only the box office numbers, but he, yeah, okay, he wanted a shot at banging Salma Hayek.

“She’s Irish and she’s staying fookin Irish.” Don’t-fuck-with-me tone.

“Okay, baby, okay,” Larry said, not wanting to fuck with her. “Okay, so how’m I supposed to get the rights?”

Brandi smiled, the hook, said, “First off, my name isn’t really Brandi Love.”

“Somebody in Hollywood with a fake name, wow, shocking. What, you think my name’s really Larry Reed?”

“What’s your real name?”

“Laurence Olivier Horowitz. No, shit, my mother was a big Olivier fan, loved him in
Carrie
, not the
Carrie
you’re thinking of, another fucking
Carrie
. Me, named after a B-flick. Shoulda known, right?”