Ken Bruen - Pimp

“Okay, let’s cut to the chase,” Paula said. “Is Bust dead or not?”

“Absolutely not,” Donna said. “Lionsgate is one hundred percent committed to the show with or without Bill Moss. Brandi Love and Sean Mullen are co-executive producing now. I don’t see anything listed for Sean Mullen on IMDB, but Brandi has vouched for him, so I’m sure he’ll be great on the project. Everyone is super excited.”

“What about the other executive producers?” Paula asked. “Larry Reed and Eddie Vegas?”

“I haven’t heard anything about them,” Donna said, “thank God. As an agent here said the other day — Larry Reed could turn shinola into shit faster than Steve Martin in The Jerk .”

Paula had thought the world of book publishing was a clusterfuck, but it was nothing compared to this. It was a miracle that any TV shows ever got made.

Paula left an apologetic note for the maid and then rushed off to meet with Angela and this Sean Mullen at Darren Becker’s old office.

When she arrived she saw Angela with the ugliest, most bloated version of Philip Seymour Hoffman imaginable, with red hair and a red beard. He looked like a ginger version of George R. R. Martin.

But the disguise didn’t fool Paula.

“Oh my God, it’s you,” she said.

“In the flesh, sugar tits,” Max said.

With a rush of emotion, Paula went to Max and hugged him tightly.

“This is surreal,” she said. “It’s like you came out of my brain or something. My book’s coming to life.”

“Hey, easy with my fiancée,” Angela said. “We Irish girls can get jealous, you know.”

“Wait,” Paula said. “You two are...”

Angela stuck out her hand, displaying a massive diamond, and went, “Yes, engaged, and not with a fookin’ claddagh ring. It was Darren’s ex-wife’s, God bless both of them, and God rest Darren.”

Paula was dazed — the events of the morning hitting her. “I’m dizzy,” she said. “I think I should sit down.”

“Here, take one of these,” Max said.

He gave her a little pill, something white, looked harmless as a Tylenol.

“What is it?”

Max smiled, said, “It knows how to take care of you.”

Angela handed her a cup of water and she swallowed the pill.

“Does anybody else know that you’re Max Fisher?” Paula asked.

“Not anybody currently living,” Max said.

“A cop came around asking questions, but we got rid of her,” Angela said.

“Even you two can’t pull this off.” Paula was looking at Max. “You’re on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, but number six,” Max said. “What’s up with that shit? Cocksuckers.”

“Still,” Paula said. “You’re taking a big risk.”

“Hey, look how long it took them to find Whitey Bulger,” Max said. “L.A.’s the best place in the world to hide. Everybody has their head so far up their own ass, nobody notices anything.”

“But somebody will recognize you eventually,” Paula said. “I mean, I know who you are. How do you know I won’t go to the police?”

“We’d sue you for defamation of character,” Angela said. “Basing a novel on living people isn’t exactly kosher, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were alive when I wrote it.”

“Would a judge buy that?”

She laughed. “A judge. That’s ridiculous. Like either of you would willingly go anywhere near a courtroom. If people knew who you were you’d spend the rest of your lives in jail. Especially Max.”

“I have the best lawyer in the business,” Max said.

“I know, Darrow,” Paula said. “I put him in Bust .”

Something was affecting Paula’s mood; was it the pill Max had given her? She couldn’t tell if she was aroused or angry, didn’t know if she wanted to fuck somebody or kill somebody. All she knew was that suddenly she felt fucking great.

“Can I have another one of those?” she asked.

“Anything for my favorite writer,” Max said.

Paula swallowed another pill, went, “So what does this all mean for Bust ? Who’s going to write it?”

“First of all,” Angela said, ducking the question, “so sorry about Kat and Lars. We heard about it through the grapevine. If it’s any consolation, Lars makes the worst porn I’ve ever seen and he’s hung like a peanut. I know they’ll bomb out in Sweden.”

“That’s okay, I already have a new co-writer for the novels,” Paula said, “and I want to make out with you. Wow, Jesus, I don’t know why I said that. I feel like it’s not me who’s talking, like something’s taken control of me... So, wait, about a new writer for the pilot to replace Bill Moss...”

“Our first idea was Bret Easton Ellis,” Angela said. “Author of my fave fookin’ book ever, American Psycho , and also the giver of A-list cunnilingus.”

Paula assumed this second part was a joke.

“But unfortunately Bret can’t do it,” Angela said. “Something about how he’s too busy writing a show about a stalker for Showtime.”

“So who’s next on the list?” Paula asked.

“One of the hottest writers in the country right now,” Angela said, “though not thus far known for her screenwriting, she’s immensely qualified for this project.”

Was it the pills Max had given her or was Paula getting thisclose to an orgasm? Paula had an urge to reach out and grab Angela’s breasts, so she did.

“Sorry,” Paula said. “I... I... I don’t know...”

“It’s okay,” Angela assured her. “I’ve been felt up by worse.”

“Who?” Paula asked.

“Well, one of them is in this room.”

“Fuck you too, sweetheart,” Max said.

Max and Angela kissed.

“No, I mean, who is this hot writer?” Paula asked.

“You,” Angela said. “We want to hire you, Paula.”

Paula writing the TV pilot? It was ingenious; after all, who knew more about Bust than her? Angela was the sexiest woman Paula had ever seen and she didn’t give a fuck about Kat.

“You can pick up where Bill left off or you can write it from scratch,” Angela said. “We have total faith in your abundant talent.”

“I’ll show you some abundant talent, bitch,” Paula said, and kissed her.

Her awful morning was a distant memory.

Thanks to those little white pills, life was all good.

“Make it real,” Larry said.

“Bill Moss is gone.”

Larry, in his car, in traffic in downtown Hollywood, didn’t even know who the fuck was calling, said, “Who the fuck is calling?”

Larry had been supposed to meet Eddie Vegas at a strip club, to update him on the project. Larry didn’t have an update — fucking Darren and Angela had kept him out of the loop — but he had some good bullshit prepared.

Then this call from a private number.

“Lionsgate told Eddie he’s not a producer anymore,” the voice said. It was a guy — old, a smoker, or both.

“I don’t know who I’m talking to,” Larry said.

“Make this right,” the guy said, and clicked off.

“You there? You there?” Larry said, feeling like some idiot in a movie who says, You there? You there? even when it’s obvious he’d been hung up on.

“Fuck me!” Larry screamed.

He called Becker’s various numbers — got voicemail at all of them. Same when he tried to reach Angela. All the execs at Lionsgate were either out of the office or in meetings.

Cut to an hour later — Larry arrived at Becker’s office in West-wood. The kid at the door tried to stomp him as he stormed into Becker’s office. But Becker wasn’t there — just Angela, alone.