Pimp (8 page)

“I don’t get it,” Brandi said. “So why don’t you use the name Laurence Olivier? If my name was Marilyn Monroe or, fook, Marilyn Manson, I’d fookin use it.”

“Thought about it,” Larry said, “but it’s too British. Nobody trusts a Brit in Hollywood—why do you think Piers Morgan got voted off
Celebrity Apprentice
? Besides, Larry Reed, is snappy, it’s cool. When you hear Larry Reed, you think Lou Reed. It’s called subliminal influence. I’m serious, don’t laugh. A name says a lot about a person.”

“Well, I’m afraid my name isn’t the only thing I lied to you about,” Brandi said.

Here we go. After his last girl on the side said that to him he wound up having to go to the Hoff to treat a bad case of syphilis.

“You don’t have syphilis, do you?” he asked. “’Cause I don’t think you get immune to that, like chicken pox.”

“Nope, no syphilis,” Brandi said. “That I know of anyway. But I hope you’ve had genital herpes.”

Was she joking? He couldn’t tell. He forced a smile, hoping so.

“But it’s my background I haven’t been entirely truthful about,” she went on. “It’s true I’m an actress, but I’ve mostly done porn, and there’s a reason why I changed my name, and it wasn’t for my acting career. At least not initially.”

Larry, still thinking about herpes, wondering if that’s why L-Rod had seemed kind of itchy this morning, couldn’t follow what she was saying.

“Okay, okay, so who are you?” he asked, agitated.

“Angela. Angela Petrakos. And don’t let the Greek exterior fool you, I’m like one of those Oreos they serve on St. Patty’s Day—green on the inside.”

The fuck was this crazy chick talking about?

“Am I supposed to know an Angela Petrakos?” Larry asked.

“Have you been listening to a fookin’ word I’m saying?
Bust
. I’m the star of
Bust
, that fookin’ book by Stiegsson and Segal, it’s all about me. It’s my life. Max Fisher, you might know him as The Max, is my ex. But that’s another story. Or part of the main story, depending how you look at it.”

“Hold up,” Larry said. “You’re saying you’re a
character
in this novel?”

“It’s not a novel, it’s my life,” Angela said. “These people, these writers, are fookin’ criminals, they stole my life. I deserved that money, it’s mine, fookin’ mine. Fook, the pain I’ve met falling for the wrong men—Max Fisher, Thomas Dillon, Slide—yeah,
that
Slide—Sebastian, Rufus—and I’m not getting’ a fookin’ cent of it?”

“Okay, back up, back up,” Larry said. “I wanna make sure I’m getting this straight. You’re in this book so you think, what, that entitles you to a piece of the TV show?”

“Not just a piece,” Angela said. “A fookin’ chunk.”

“Sweetheart, that’s not the way it works,” Larry said. “The producer, I remember now, I think I saw in the trades, it’s Darren Becker. He probably optioned the book or, knowing Darren, purchased the rights outright.”

“I don’t give a shite who purchased them,” she said. “Where I come from in Ireland we pay in cash and possession is eleven tenths of the law.”

Larry shook his head, as in,
Did I need this shit today?
and said, “I don’t need this shit today.” Added, “I don’t think you get the way things work in this town, sweetheart.” Talking down on purpose to the ditzy broad. “This isn’t fuckin’ Bollywood where they fuck buying the rights and steal the damn book. If Becker has the rights to the book now, it’s his, he owns it. No one else can make it except Darren Becker.”

Larry went to sit where his favorite club chair, the one from Crate & Barrel, had been, and fell onto his ass.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I think I broke my hip.”

“Only thing you’ll break is my eardrums with yer whining,” Angela said. “Get the fook up, ye wimp.”

She was psycho and bitchy as hell but, yeah, he was kind of into it. She’d look good in some tight black-leather getup, holding a whip.

”Up,” she barked. “You need to help me with this situation.”

Larry struggled to his feet and said, “I have another situation here, a little more important than making a TV show. As you noticed, my wife isn’t home.”

“Yeah, I noticed your wound before, too,” Angela said. “Figured you offed the cow.”

Was she kidding?

“She was
taken
,” Larry said, “and unfortunately I’m not Liam fuckin Neeson, or his stunt man, so I can’t exactly hunt down the guys that did it.”

“Who took her?” Angela asked. She seemed comfortable, like she was in her element, talking about kidnapping.

“Mo and Jo,” Larry said.

“Like the Three Stooges?”

“It’s two people, not three, and there’s no Stooge named Jo.” Was he seriously having this conversation? “Actually I think my doctor might be in on it.”

“Your doctor?”

Larry grabbed the empty bottle of Sam Adams and said, “See this? This is evidence. I think she was fucking somebody behind my back.”

“Your doctor.”

“Probably.”

“And I thought I attract the crazies.”

Ignoring this, Larry went. “They want seventy-five K and I think these guys are serious. I’m worried they might be raping her as we speak, and I’m broke, have nada, ziltch, bubkis. I put up a good front with my whole aura of being a high-flying producer, but I’m behind on my office rent and home mortgage, have credit card debt up the wazoo. There’s no way I can come up with that kind of cashish.”

Angela sat in a leather chair, put her feet up on the ottoman, expanded her chest, and said, “Well, it sounds like you need a piece of
Bust
then, don’t you?”

An idea was hitting Larry—maybe crazy enough to work.

If he could get his eyes off her tits he might even be able to verbalize it.

Finally he said, “What if you went to Darren Becker’s house? Darren’s a player. If you get close to him maybe we can blackmail him, that’s the way anything gets done in this town.” Then he shook his head. “Ah, fuck, it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Darren’s gay, or at least partly gay. I saw him at one of Bryan Singer’s pool parties.”

“What were
you
doing at the party?”

“I was just, um, experi…never mind. But I guess the question is, could you seduce a half-gay guy?”

“Not a problem,” Angela said. “A few weeks ago in the bathroom at the Chateau Marmont I scored with Bret Easton Ellis.”

Thinking about it more, Larry knew what to do. Larry had known Darren forever. Darren had had a few sex scandals over the years; he’d gotten out from under them, but he didn’t need any more bullshit on his plate. Larry could see him going for this.

“If the seduction doesn’t work, just tell him who you are—Angela Titcockass, or whatever the fuck it is. If you threaten a lawsuit, going to the trades, he’ll freak and agree to go into business with us. You get me attached as co-exec of
Bust
and then I can sell a percentage of the film, points to private investors. With a little luck I can drum up enough to get my wife back.”

“This sounds great,” Angela said, “but why do you need me? Why don’t you blackmail him yourself?”

“Me and Darren Becker, let’s just say we have a history,” Larry said. “In other words, I think you’ll make a better impression.”

“Okay…” Angela said. “But you’re forgetting one thing.”

Larry was confused.

“Hello?” Angela said. “My role?”

“Oh, you’ll get a part on the show, sweetie, don’t worry.”

“If you think I’m going to go over there, seduce this fookin’ guy, for a
part
, you’re mad. I’m a player, goddamn it, not a whore. Well, I have been a whore—but not anymore, I’m a Hollywood player now, and ya better get used to it, I’m co-executive producing with you, Larry.”

“Whoa, baby, take it easy there, using your brain like that, you might pull something.” He smiled, loving how fucking witty he was, making a crack he’d made thousands of times before. Then said, “What do you know about producing, sweetheart?”

“After spending a few days with you, I apparently don’t have to know much. At least I know how to turn on a fookin’ PC.”

“Okay, okay, you can produce, you can produce,” Larry said, just wanting to shut her the fuck up, the Irish accent grating on him. He figured they could deal with it later and he’d rip the dumb bitch off on the points. He’d drop her down to associate producer, or the ultimate bullshit, co-producer.

“That’s not all,” Angela said. “If I’m going to sleep with him I’m going to star in the show too. No one can play Angela better than me.”

“Honey,” Larry said. “Producing’s one thing, but I have no control over the casting, that’s up to the studio and the network.”

“A moment ago you were promising me a part on the show!”

“
A
part, sure—not the fucking lead. I can get you an audition, but that’s it.”

“You mean I have to audition to play myself?”

Larry smiled, went, “Welcome to Hollywood, sweetie.”

Women can be tricky.
N
ORMA
B
ATES

In the cab to Darren Becker’s house in the Hollywood Hills, Angela was dressed in a black faux-leather short skirt, white silk top, and black-patent drill heels, and felt almost like in the glory days of real hotness. A surge of confidence was aided by a few fast lines of coke. Time to manipulate and seduce.

“Fookin A,” she said, an in-joke to herself, a dark legacy from the days she first encountered Max Fisher.

Phew-oh, a time that was. A blend of hot sex, wild schemes, and of course Dylan. Ah, the mad Mick. If he was capable of loving anything save his shitty poetry, it might well have been Angela. Too many years, too much poverty, too many escapades had blotted out the negative side of the crazy Irishman, so that now she tended to color him as
a lovable scamp
—a psycho scamp, but lovable. It was one of the myriad lies she sold her own self just to keep some semblance of sanity. And all the years of utter mayhem that slid down the pike after—jail in Greece, a savior who was a dead ringer for Lee Child, and then being shot in Canada by the dead ringer…

Drink Canada Dry
. She had sure tried to.

Literally at death’s door, she had been rescued by a mammoth guy who made his living pretending to be Bigfoot. And she’d thought,
Once, just fooking once, couldn’t Brad Pitt be in her rescue
, but no, the freaking luck she had, she’d gotten Bigfoot.

He took her to a local hospital with a story of how a Bigfoot hunter had shot at him, but hit her instead. They had to remove one of her lungs, but in the end it was the Bigfoot guy who really took her breath away. He was such a sweet guy and, silver linings, he was big in other departments—turned out the big feet, big cock adage was true—and she almost forgave the insanity of being shacked up with an urban legend. It may even have lasted for a time but wouldn’t you know, the guy was so convincing that a mild accountant from Toronto bagged him on a slow weekend.

On the phone to his wife yelling, “I tagged Bigfoot.”

She going, “Try tagging your big mouth.”

So Angela, sighing anew, took the stash of cash Bigfoot had amassed and went to London. She hadn’t been charged with any crime, no one knew she’d helped Max and his gang escape from prison, so she was free and clear, bought a one-way ticket for London.

One-way because she knew there was a good chance she’d wind up in jail her own self.

She was hunting for Sebastian, Lee Child’s psycho double. After he’d shot her, and she was lying on the ground at that gas station, bleeding out, she’d remembered how in bed, when they were in love in Greece, he’d once called her an “Irish guttersnipe.” He’d said it in a sexy way, as in, “Take in every inch of me, you bloody Irish guttersnipe!” and admittedly it had excited her when he was, as he used to say, rogering her—but, as far as Angela was concerned, relationships were all fun and games only till you lose an eye…or a lung. In other words, when somebody shoots you, the game shifts from romance to vengeance. She promised herself that if she survived she wouldn’t rest until she hunted him down, killed him like one of the quails he’d claimed he’d shot, growing up in the English countryside. Was it true? Who knew what was real and what wasn’t with Sebastian? The man had more stories than Joran van der Sloot.

After months of traveling around England, sick from the food, she had no luck finding Sebastian and her cash was dwindling. When you’re down and out in London, unless you are George flipping Orwell, all you get out of it is utter desperation. Angela had a bedsit in Earls Court. It has been written that those whom God forsakes are given an electric fire in Earls Court.

Amen to fucking that, Angela would have said, but her mouth was full of Asian dick. Not by choice but for money, a low-level porno, shot by Russians for the Chinese market. Gawd, don’t you love the free economy?

The Russian director was shouting, “Brandi, look like you love dis ting!”

Yeah, they’d named her Brandi Love, she could put a little smiley face on the
i
if she wished. She made enough money to get by, shooting a series of these, featuring “Brandi with Ginger.”

Ginger wasn’t Ginger, and maybe not even female, but for art, hey, who cares? What Ginger had was a supply of coke which got them through most of the shoots. Angela wanted to go to L.A., take her newfound acting talent mainstream. She had the chops, and if Glenn Close could still cut it, hell, she had a shot her own self.

Ginger managed to get her a passport but alas put Brandi Love on it. When Angela had enough cash put by, she stole Ginger’s purse, thus netting a cool grand and a haul of coke.

The experience with the porn shoots got Angela thinking about a career in film and TV. She’d always wanted to act, and don’t they say all actors are great liars? If there was one thing she was good at…

So it was sayonara London, hello L.A.

On the flight out of Heathrow, she thought about Ginger, whom she’d liked—but not enough to really give a fuck.

At passport control, the official had seen number two of the
Brandi with Ginger
series and, starstruck, said, “Never met a real porn actress in the flesh. Wouldn’t’ve thought you girls use your real name.”