Ken Bruen - Pimp

Miscali was all attention, moved right into Bill’s face, pushed, “Mo? What’s that story?”

Bill, knowing he couldn’t take it back, went on a mad whim, went, “ Love the suit.” And the tiny voice in his head snapped, “Bill... Bill , what the hell are you doing, you don’t want to antagonize this guy.”

But he did, he truly did, and added, “In that outfit, you’d be a natural on Jerry Springer.”

Let the insult hover. Miscali eyeballed him, his face red, a mix of shame and rage entwined. He said, “Think you and me, pal, we might take a run down to Hollywood South, drop you in a cell with some Crips, give you some material for the...” Indicated the screen. “... screenplay .”

The contempt that had just been dripping before leaked all over that word, and then the knife was out and with a Red Bull-fueled ferocity and speed-induced grunt, the blade was above Miscali’s groin and was cutting, moving fast, shredding, all the way up to the cop’s throat. Miscali let out a howl of sheer and utter shock, and Bill stepped back as a literal geyser of blood shot into the air, splattered his newly art deco’ed ceiling. Then with a slight whimper, the cop collapsed in a bloodied mess on the floor.

Bill muttered, “Holy fuckin’ shit.” Then, to an unseen audience, “Did you catch that?”

Bill blacked out for a few hours but came to, hours later, in a junk-filled lot in downtown L.A., Miscali’s feet sticking out of a nearby dumpster. Jesus Christ, Bill hoped nobody had seen him come down here. Fuck it, he decided, he had to trust his unconscious mind. It was what had gotten him this far, as a writer and as a killer, and it would take him the rest of the way to the top.

As Bill slunk away, he thought of Miscali’s Macy’s bargain shoes sticking out like a beacon, hearing Hannibal Lecter’s line to Clarice about her footwear, and he whispered — to himself, to the world — “No fucking doubt, I’m movie literate.”

Fantastic news! Angela had accepted Sebastian’s friend request and posted a smiley face on his page with:

BRANDI LOVE: Great to hear from you, Sebs, been way too long!

He knew she wouldn’t be able to resist his British charm. He IM’d her:

SEBASTIAN CHILD: I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist my British charm!

Rather long pause, then:

BRANDI LOVE: What can I say? Love has no logic.

SEBASTIAN CHILD: So I gather you’re willing to let bygones be bygones, my Love? (pun intended)

BRANDI LOVE: You know how I can’t resist a Brit with wit.

He was trying to think of the perfect, well, witty response to this, when he got:

BRANDI LOVE: When I can see you? There’s so much I want to say.

A moment later, it was

BRANDI LOVE: Is now too soon?

Squeezing his legs in an incompetent attempt at tempering his suddenly burgeoning excitement he typed:

SEBASTIAN CHILD: Not soon enough!!

Sebastian, driving in the latest car he’d nicked on his way to the rendezvous — fittingly a Cougar — was elated. Not only was he eager to give Angela the fuck of her life, he was equally overjoyed about the dollar signs in his future. His stalking of Becker hadn’t panned out, but he’d found a way in to Bust nevertheless. If he wasn’t the most resilient, most resourceful man on the planet, he wanted to meet the man who was.

The meeting spot was a dreary motel on the outskirts of town in God knows where. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why she’d suggested meeting in such a remote locale; he assumed it was because she was anticipating a night of uncontrollable ecstasy and wanted to do it in a suitably lurid venue.

She’d IM’d him a room number as well, and he knocked.

When he saw her there, in practically nothing save a lacy garter, it seemed as if no time had passed. They could’ve been back at Santorini, locking eyes and fates for the first time.

He was pressing her up against the wall, kissing her madly, saying, “I don’t know why I shot you. I need you so desperately. I must’ve been insane.”

Was this a dialogue from an old film? If it wasn’t, it should have been. One of those gothic stories by a Bronte that he could’ve written himself if he’d been alive then and put quill to paper.

He ravished her so many times he lost count.

In their blissful exhaustion he whimpered, “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. How’ve I lasted these years without you?”

Then Angela said, “If you want to prove your devotion to me, and redeem yourself for what you did, you’ll do one thing for me now.”

“Anything, darling,” Sebstian said, wanting her again, feeling once again as if he were in that Bronte story. “Just say it.”

Sebastian had to pinch himself: everything was going to be fucking hunky dory. He actually said that aloud, not realizing that nobody had used that expression since Bowie was young.

Google Earth, God bless ’em, provided directions to Darren Becker’s house. The small matter of a weapon. He’d gone to a seedy dive off Wilshire, a place where you could buy weapons, dope, and passports. Sebastian could fall in love with this town.

A weasel of a guy slipped onto the stool beside him, asked, “You a Limey?”

Sebastian was gobsmacked. Really now, who since Terence Stamp used limey ? It was like pre-Hugh Grant hooker days. Sebastian squared his firm jawline, his mother used to say “Boykins, it’s your best feature.” Dear old Mum, batshit now, thinking she was the Queen Mum, and legless before noon. Sebastian looked at the guy, straight from central casting as a bad un. Sebastian moved his accent up a notch, not too much, like an oar length at Henley Boat Race. Ah, those were the days, straw hats, strawberries and cream, fair damsels in white flimsy dresses and croquet in the background. Sebastian had never been within a fart of that event but saw his Merchant Ivory movies. He intoned, “My good fellow, might one tempt a chap to a libation?”

Too much? A tad. The guy who, get this, was wearing a Lance Armstrong bracelet — really, man? The guy went, “The fuck is a libation?”

Yeah.

Long story mercifully edited, Sebastian scored a .9MM and a bag of the new wonder dope, PIMP. Now dressed to assassinate, sweating in black track gear and watch cap, he fingered the nine, a surge of sheer joy, adrenaline, and down-home psychosis shooting through his veins. PIMP rules.

His mind was tick-tripping like a demented cheap watch. He flashed through the first killing he’d done, the details blurred by the drug and only a false elation and a blend of rush and terror lingering. He moved the nine to his left hand, muttered, “You are better than Tim Henman, you are the Federer of murder.”

Giggled.

And like a comic-book character, slapped his hand over his mouth, banging his recently capped front teeth with the gun barrel. Spat, “Shit hurts.”

Then the front door opened and there was Becker, letting a Lab off a leash, urging, “Good boy, go water the garden,” and Sebastian, in a sudden wave of PIMP-induced ferocity, leapt from the bushes, screaming holy heaven, screaming, “Water this, you wanker.”

Missed with the first two shots, as Becker, transfixed, went, “Wanker?” Then, “It’s you — from the health club!” and the third shot went through Becker’s mouth, hurling the back of his head against the stucco Spanish door frame.

Sebastian stopped, “Holy fuck, Jesus, sorry ’bout that, I mean...” and let off two more rounds, taking Becker’s legendary groin to Ensenada and parts west.