Pimp (9 page)

Angela, barely able to credit her luck with this schmuck, cooed, “Bet you’d like to play Ginger’s part…”

And was waved through, thinking,
Sex flies
.

Like so many before, Angela arrived in L.A. with big dreams and a big bust, but when your tits sag you can get surgery—not much to do for a fading dream.

The first few weeks in town were the same old, poverty, bad dire sex and desperation. Killing time when cash was so low became an art form. Plus, she still had to stay hip to the scene if she was to lure a guy with serious clout. One evening she was so desperate she even went to a bookstore reading, the last refuge of the penniless and the deranged. It was for a mystery writer named Bob Steel. Quite a respectable crowd had showed, which suited Angela, but she had to wait until after for the wine to be served, so they could flog more books.

Bob was a card, as in hilarious. Angela knew this as Bob said so, twice. He then thanked

His wife

His agent

His publisher

His typist

His gardener

His neighbors (named them all)

And just about all of his high school.

Oddly none of the above had been able to tear away from busy schedules to attend.

Then he read the first five chapters of his book, titled
Steel or Die
. The blurb by some Irish guy said he was the new Lee Child, and even just hearing that name again gave her shivers. The chapters were long and Angela felt Child had no immediate cause for concern. When it was finally over, Angela rushed to the wine table and downed two cups of some putrid plonk, appropriately served in the little plastic cups used for urine samples. Looked to see if there were any eats and came face to face with Bob.

He seemed overjoyed to meet her, gushed, “So, how did you like the book?”

“Riveting,” Angela said.

He filled her cup, leering slightly, said, “My Amazon rating is seven hundred ninety-eight thousand and the book has only been out a few months.”

Angela figured she needed two more cups of the awful wine to help her sleep, so asked, with absolutely zero energy, “Got any movie interest?”

His eyes widened. “You think it would work as a film?”

“No doubt.”

Then he frowned, went, “Thing is, I don’t know if I should go with the straight movie deal or hold out for a TV show.”

She managed, “Be sure to keep control of the character, I mean, a creation like Steel, they will all want a piece of him.”

He was nodding furiously, then said, “I think maybe I’ll do fifteen in the series, then go for a standalone.”

Jesus, she thought, said, “What the world is crying out for.”

Angela didn’t buy Bob’s book, but another book caught her eye—a towering pile of a new book called
Bust
, published by Hard Case Crime. Angela was familiar with Hard Case. Years ago, when she was Max Fisher’s executive assistant—didn’t those days almost seem quaint?—she needed some cash and posed for one of the covers. She liked the cover of
Bust—
an image of a camera and a surprised old guy and a sexy woman in the lens. The scene seemed familiar somehow, but she wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t planning to read the book but, fuck it, she bought it.

Bob followed her out of the store, going, “Wanna go for some brewskies? I’m paying for my own tour but, hey, long as we discuss the book, beers are tax deductions, right?”

Later, in a side street, as he anticipated a BJ, she kneed him in the balls, took his wallet, said as she weaved away, “Deduct that.”

Sadly, Angela was making more from these hustles than she was from her acting. Aside from a half-day shoot in
The Walking Dead
and a few lines in a dreadful revival of
A Long Day’s Journey into Night
—they wanted her for her American/Irish accent—she hadn’t gotten any work at all. Money tight, she had to work part-time for an escort service. She didn’t mind the screwing—compared to Russian/Chinese porn it was like free money—but the insults got to her. Guys thirty years older than she was, calling her a MILF? It made her think of her own long day’s journey into what was shaping up to be a cold, bitter night.

Then, on yet another sun-filled morning in L.A., Angela was at her local Starbucks near the strip. Behind her was a long-haired guy with hip shades. She wondered if Starbucks had mass-produced this guy and planted him in the corner of every branch. Going for that hip draw of,
Hey, you too can be a writer
.

When the guy left, giving her a radiant smile that said,
Yeah, we both know I’m hot to trot
, Angela noticed he’d left behind a copy of
Variety
.

She had begun to flick idly when she saw a big announcement of a major TV deal for a hot new bestseller,
Bust
. She remembered it was the book she’d bought, so she read on.

“Jaysus wept!” She shouted so loud the other writers in the store looked up from their laptops to see what the fuss was about.

Angela read the story at least ten times, to make sure she wasn’t missing anything. But she wasn’t:
Bust
was
her
story. Paula Segal, that little tramp from New York, had teamed with some Swedish writer to write the book, which was now being “fast-tracked” for a TV series. Lionsgate was the studio and a guy named Darren Becker was the Executive Producer. It was like a feckin’ nightmare or a joke—a joke with no punch line.

Later, Angela read more about the project online. There were rumors that Ethan Coen would write the pilot and David Fincher would direct, and she watched a video on YouTube from
CBS Sunday Morning
of the Swedish guy—can you believe that fookin’ name?—Lars Stiegsson. Angela had heard about him from Ginger; he’d once had a notorious legendary rep in the porn industry, but she’d had no idea that he was a crime writer. Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, seemed like you could throw a dead cat and hit a crime writer these days. Watching the interview, Angela tasted vomit as Stiegsson tearfully told his story of how Stieg Larsson had ripped off his whole career and how fulfilling it was to now, years later, finally hit it big with
Bust
.

Angela read the book in one setting, amazed at how well Paula, that cunt, and the Swedish pornographer had captured the entire story. It was all almost exactly the way it had happened. A few names had been changed, some of the dialogue had been altered, but the major events were all there. In particular Angela loved the chapter where she tried to dissolve Dillon’s body with Drano in her Gramercy Park studio. Angela felt they’d really captured the psychosis, delusion, and rage that had been boiling inside her at the time. She read these passages aloud, feeling like she was back there, living it.

While Angela admired the novel, the reality of the current situation was setting in—Angela was a third-rate escort, sucking off the dregs of Hollywood, and Segal and Steigsson were making millions on Angela’s life story.

She had to find a way in.

* * *

A few days later, at a dull party in Santa Monica thrown by Charlie Sheen’s dogsitter who, of course, was also a screenwriter, she met an old, sleazy producer, Larry Reed. Hard to find one of those in Hollywood, right? She hoped he could help her get an in on
Bust
, or thought at the very least he’d be an easy score. She’d work for him for a while, suck him off a few times, then rob him blind.

It seemed to be heading toward the “rob him blind” option until he invited her to his place and told him a crazy story about how his wife had been kidnapped and he badly needed money—the sort of money
Bust
could give them both. He came up with a crazy, desperate plan to get in on the deal. While Angela didn’t give a shite about Larry Reed, or his kidnapped wife, she thought it was worth a shot. She had a feeling that this was her last shot. It was
Bust
or bust.

* * *

Angela arrived at Darren Becker’s, the driver letting the fare slide in return for her fake phone number.

It was quite an estate, had to be twenty rooms. Tall bushes, a brick pathway leading to the house, a Merc and Caddy in the drive, probably for show. There was probably a pool, guest house in the back, maybe Kato living there. Angela wondered what movies this guy had done to get a set-up like this. Darren Becker. She’d never seen the name before she’d read that
Variety
article. But he had to be somebody, somebody worth getting close to.

Rang the bell and Christ, heard
Tubular Bells
, who the hell even knew what it was outside of Irish writers. The door opened to a surfer dude, seemed to be in his early twenties, with a mop of shaggy blond hair, cut-offs, and washed-out blue eyes. Thrown for a moment, she faltered, “Um…Darren Becker?”

One-hundred-watt smile and, “Was me when I woke up.”

She was thinking, the wonders of cosmetic surgery, and said, “Larry Reed sent me over to discuss a terrific movie opportunity.”

The guy seemed like he wasn’t totally up to speed—with anything—said, “Well, let’s get your sexy self inside.”

And, no fooling around, she went for it, going, “Wouldn’t mind your own sexy self inside me.”

Took a moment for this to sink in, then the grin again and, “Works for me.”

Right there in the hall, they got to it and moments before the, um, bell tolled, she heard, “The fuck is this?”

A man in his late fifties coming down the impressive stairway, dressed like, yeah, a movie guy. Shades hanging from the collar of the white angora sweater with rolled-up sleeves, the de rigeur outfit for moguls of a certain vintage.

The guy underneath her, managed, “Dad!”

She thought, “Oh fuckit.”

Managed to stand, get her clothes in some sort of order, said, “Mr. Becker, I admit I thought if I could charm the son, I might actually seal the deal with the dad.”

Becker considered, obviously thought this was horseshit, said, “This is horseshit,” and had his cell out.

“Who are you calling?” Angela asked. “The police?”

“Worse for you. Private security. Ex-Oakland Raiders.”

Okay, a setback, but Angela was sometimes at her very best at these moments of imminent unraveling. She rushed, “I look familiar to you?”

Angela didn’t think the call had connected yet.

“What?” Becker asked.

“My stage name is Brandi Love, but my real name is Angela Petrakos.”

Becker was squinting. “You audition for me?”

“Hello, I’m in the fookin’ book you’re producing. Is the cliché real? Doesn’t anybody read books in L.A.?”

“Honest answer? I haven’t read a book since
The Firm
in 1991. When you make it as a producer you hire people to read for you. It’s called coverage.”

“Well you’ll cover your eyes when you hear this. The book is based on me, my life, and if you produce it, it’s slander. I’m lawyered up.”

She was throwing all the
Law & Order
she could think of at the guy.

But it didn’t seem to be working because Becker said, “Good, you’ll need a team of lawyers to get out of this. Too bad for you Marcia Clark’s writing mystery novels these days.” Into his cell, Larry went, “Hey, yeah we have a situation here…” He was right up in her face now, but said to his son, who was still bottomless, “Go fuck some waves.” He waited until the son had slouched away, then into the phone he continued, “Yeah, there’s a woman at my place, she broke in and she won’t—”

“A Bryan Singer pool party ring any bells?” Angela asked.

Becker was staring at her, slight look of uncertainty, then granite. “Don’t know what you’re referring to.”

Angela heard a voice on the phone, a woman saying, “You still there? Mr. Becker? Mr. Becker?”

He ended the call.

She pushed, “Oh a very wild party, back in the day and the photos, damn, they are…loaded.”

He considered a bluff, stonewalling, then caved, asked, “Whatchya drinking?”

He poured her a Jameson, straight, and a Bud Light for himself.

As he handed her the drink, she glanced at his hand, the one with the thick wedding band, and said, “You don’t want your wife finding out about your pool party days, I’m sure.”

“Actually my husband Ron gave me that ring,” Becker said. “I’ve been divorced from my ex-wife Ellen for twelve years and honestly I don’t give a shit what you know about me and Bryan Singer. You wouldn’t believe how many A-listers were at those parties. It’s like prohibition days in Chicago when the Mayor was drinking with the rest of the town at the speakeasy.”

“Last I heard, fucking underage boys is against the law,” Angela said.

“Can’t be proven,” Darren said, “but I don’t want to waste my valuable time and resources defending myself against false allegations. I’m sure you don’t need big legal bills in your life either. And heaven knows I don’t need any hiccups in
my
life right now. I’m doing everything I can to make
Bust
happen.”

Angela knew he was playing it cool, not wanting to let on, but he was terrified.

“Sounds like you want to make a deal,” Angela said.

“Depends,” he said. “What’s in it for you?”

As they say at Hard Case Crime—time for the Money Shot.

Angela said, “You bring me and Larry Reed on board as producers and you have my word, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Darren waited then said, “You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”

Angela downed the Jameson like a marathon runner downs water, then headed toward the door, “I’d keep my eye on the headlines if I were you.”

“Okay, let’s relax here,” Darren said, cutting her off. “No need to threaten each other. There’s always the middle ground, right?”

“Nope, no middle ground,” Angela said. “I’m in or my next visit’s to Nikki Finke.”

“There’s no way I’m going into business with that loser Larry Reed. The whole town knows he’s poison, the
Cooler
of movies. He hasn’t had a hit since that Janeane Garofalo rom-com in the nineties.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Angela asked.

“I’ll work with you, but not Larry. That’s my final offer.”

Angela thought it through for maybe two seconds. Cut Larry out? Why not? The bastard had been ready to fire her yesterday, kick her guttersnipe arse to the curb, till he needed her, of course.