Ken Bruen - Pimp

“Sorry, I’m in meetings,” Angela said.

“Meeting with who?” Larry said. “There’s nobody here.”

“I’m busy, Larry.”

“Yeah, too busy to answer the phone,” Larry said.

“I learned how to produce from the best.” Angela smiled.

“Look,” Larry said. “I’m just here to resolve a little misunderstanding. Lionsgate’s telling my producing partner that he’s not on the project anymore, do you know why that is?”

“Maybe because he isn’t,” Angela said.

“Huh?”

“Bill Moss quit the project, so since he’s out, you’re out, and your friend’s out as well.”

Knowing he was fucked, that this would never fly with Eddie Vegas, Larry said, “Quit? What do you mean quit? He can’t quit.”

Angela smiled, bust fully expanded, and said, “Welcome to Hollywood, sweetie.”

Larry knew he had officially passed his expiration date and it was time to get the fuck out of town. He went home, packed a suitcase, and returned to his car. As he was getting in, he felt a gun against the back of his head, heard:

“Goin’ somewhere?”

It was the guy from In-N-Out Burger who looked like Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

“Make a sound, it’ll be your last,” Nolte said.

He led Larry into the back of a black sedan. There were two younger guys in the car, up front.

When the car started moving, Larry said, “I didn’t call for a car service, but it’s nice of you guys to take me to the airport.”

Larry going for humor to lighten the situation, the way the victims at concentration camps told jokes to distract themselves from the horror. Anyway, that’s what he’d heard.

They went up to the hills, not far from the Hollywood sign.

“Get out,” Nolte said.

Were they going to shoot him here? Larry was ready to start begging for his life, when he noticed another car, a BMW, off to the side. Eddie Vegas got out of it. He was in jeans, a white T-shirt, a black blazer. He looked sharp.

“You look sharp,” Larry said to him.

“You got my money?” Eddie asked.

“Is that what this is all about?” Larry said. “Jesus, why didn’t you just say so instead of sending half of 48 Hours to come get me?”

“You got the money or not?” Eddie said.

“I don’t have it yet ,” Larry said. “But I’m working on it.”

“Sorry, ain’t good enough, man.” Eddie took off his blazer and handed it to Nolte. Said to Larry, “I told you, you had two strikes, and I told you Eddie Vegas don’t strike out.”

“You didn’t strike out, okay?” Larry said. “You got a foul tip. You’re still alive.”

“I ever tell you how I got the name Vegas?”

“’Cause you like to gamble?” Larry asked.

“No, I hate fuckin’ gambling,” Eddie said. “I got the name Vegas ’cause one time in Vegas when I was coming up, I had to deliver some product to a warehouse and the deal went bad. Guy I was with got blown away, my gun, shit ran out of bullets, but I fought, you know how? With my bare hands. Killed six guys with my fists. Mano a mano is the way I like to do shit. Keeps it more personal.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Larry asked, as the first punch connected with his face and something cracked, probably his jaw. Nolte and another guy held Larry up, as Eddie continued to assault his face like a punching bag.

“P-please,” Larry said through a mouthful of blood. “M-make it quick.”

Eddie didn’t. But eventually the pain went away and numbness set in. Larry couldn’t believe this was how he was going to check out, never getting that big hit. He’d always thought his luck would turn eventually, but the credits were rolling, and he was looking for his name, but it wasn’t there. There were other names, and then he couldn’t remember what his name was, what he was searching for.

Then the credits stopped rolling altogether, faded to black.

It had been a long time — what, couple months? — since Eddie Vegas had taken somebody out with his hands and it only got him warmed up. It was like when you get a blow job but it ain’t enough ’cause a few minutes later you want another one.

Maybe Larry Reed was gone, but that didn’t mean the debt was dead. Eddie didn’t care how many Hollywood putas he had to take out, he was gonna get his money back.

So Eddie was at the house in Brentwood, banging on the door, going, “Sean Mullen. Yo, Sean Mullen, open the fuck up!”

Eddie’s boys were in the car; he’d told them to hang out there. He was cool, he’d said. He wanted to do this one alone.

Brandi Love, one of the other producers of — what the fuck was the show called? Bust , yeah, Bust — opened the door.

“Look who it is,” Eddie said. “One of my co-executive producers. The chick who used to make pornos, which is a good thing, cause it means you used to gettin’ fucked.”

“Sorry,” Angela said, “I think you have the wrong address.”

Bitch tried to slam the door in his face. Yeah, right. He pushed it open hard, almost knocked her down. She was lucky he didn’t turn her face into hamburger meat, and maybe he would when he was done with Mullen.

That’s when a guy came over. Ugly, big, fat, red motherfucker with a beard. He was in some kinda black silk kimono with dragons spitting shit on the sleeves. Man looked like Mickey Rourke with red hair on the most fucked-up day of his life.

Guy went, “What’cha carrying, dude?”

Dude? Shit, who was this white boy? If it was Mullen, soon he was gonna be a dead white boy.

“You Mullen?” Eddie asked.

“You a wetback cunt?” guy said.

Did he have some accent? Yeah, sounded British or Irish, Eddie could never tell that shit apart.

“You think you tough, huh?” Eddie said. “That, or you the dumbest-ass motherfucker in Los Angeles.”

“If it’s multiple choice, I pick A,” the guy said.

Eddie had to smile, what else was he gonna do? Some dumb foreign fuck off the boat didn’t know who he was talkin’ to.

The guy went to the drinks cabinet, started making a pitcher of margaritas. Serious? Eddie couldn’t say anything — this shit was too funny, he had to see what happened next. Brandi was standing there too. Wait, was she fucked up, on something? Eddie thought so. Man, these movie people, they’re fuckin’ crazy.

He watched the guy pour two drinks, handed one to Eddie, went, “You didn’t answer my question?”

“I ain’t no cunt,” Eddie said.

“No, about what you’re carrying,” the guy said. “You packing a Heckler ’n Koch, a Nine, or the prissy cop shit, a Glock?”

Jesus Christ. What a fucking moron. From now on, Eddie was only gonna invest in movies if his own kind was in charge. He was gonna give Jimmy Smits a call.

“You really wanna see my piece?” Eddie asked.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the guy said and he took out his, looked like a Browning.

Then the crazy white nigger put two rounds in the ceiling.

Eddie jumped a foot, going, “The fuck, man, chill.”

Then he was lookin’ down the barrel of the gun at the fat man’s face.

The guy asked, “What do you want, asswipe?”

Shit, they was both fucked up. On coke? Nah, somethin’ harder.

Eddie had enough, went, “I’m a patient man...” and had his own piece out, aimed at the guy’s head, “...till I’m not.”

Brandi pulled a gun out of her garter or some shit and aimed it at Eddie.