Ken Bruen - Pimp

So Larry went around town, telling people “Travolta’s on board,” but it didn’t open the doors he’d expected. Travolta had had more comebacks than Brett Favre, couldn’t he go to the well once more, paint on some more hair, do the combover like that kid in American Hustle ? He went from meeting to meeting and rejection to rejection and it was getting to be a chicken-and-egg type situation. You can’t score when you’re desperate — every guy who’s ever been to a hotel bar knows this — and desperation oozed from Larry Reed. His marriage to his third wife Bev had been shitty for years, but now it was on life support. One night in the kitchen she screamed at him, “I can’t take you anymore, just looking at your old, ugly face depresses me!” Larry had let a comment fly about how she wasn’t exactly a pleasant sight either, and that after all the sun damage she’d gotten they should cast her as the next Leatherface, but he got her point. He was a big downer, was even bumming himself out. What had happened to that ol’ Larry Reed pizazz? Life just didn’t have the spark that it used to have.

But Larry didn’t give up, kept pitching Spaced Out around town. He thought his big break was on the horizon when Tom Selleck’s people had interest. It was about time for a Selleck comeback. So he set up meetings around town. But the plans for world domination hit a snag when he advertised that he had Tom attached. People assumed he meant Cruise or Hanks, and Larry would say, “No, the other Tom. Selleck’s been on the sidelines for a while, but he’s ready to finally blow up in his old age. He’s going to be the male Betty White, he’s going to bring back the mustache.”

Larry’s pitch went nowhere. He got the Moss kid to do a bunch of free rewrites — God bless non-Guild writers — trying for a tone change. In one draft, it was a horror picture. In another draft it was a bromance. Larry hadn’t seen any of those bromances himself — didn’t know Jason Segal from Seth Rogen — but fuckit, they were selling.

Well, all but his, apparently. He finally dropped the Spaced Out project, deciding that the problem wasn’t him or the project, it was that movies were dead. He needed an in to TV, every schmuck knew the big bucks were headed that way. But how did you get into TV if you didn’t kiss ass and bullshit your way in? His motto was based on a line he stole from Bob Redford in Spy Game , “If it’s between you and him, send flowers.” Lar had one way or another sent a shitload of flowers.

Now in his West Hollywood office, he stared at the blonde on her knees, doing her best to get him off. The blue wonders were not weaving their magic and he pushed her aside, went, “Eh, fuckit, I’m too creative today to come.”

The woman, definitely the wrong side of thirty-five, was relieved, got to her feet and delicately wiped her mouth in a way she hoped came off as sensual. She said, “You are nearly too much man for me, baby.”

That lie hovered over them, fighting to find some level of entrance. He lit an Arnie-size cigar, asked, “That a trace of an Irish lilt I’m catching?”

He thought he heard, “That’s the very least of what you been catching,” and he went, “What’s that?”

She smiled, said, “I said I’m from back east, but thanks for asking.”

Was he detecting sarcasm? The woman, Brandi Love, was an actress, of course. He’d met her a few nights ago at some party when she’d spilled a drink on his lap and said, “Allow me to wipe you off.”

He liked how she’d delivered the line — sexy, yeah, but sincere.

She was Larry’s type — not too old, with a big, high rack — so he gave her his usual BS about how he was a “top producer” and needed an executive assistant “to help out at the office,” and then he promised her a role in a hot new project, Spaced Out , which — bullshit flying now — was “set up at Fox.”

As usual, the dumb wannabe had bought all of that crap.

“You can go home early today,” Larry said, “and you don’t have to come back tomorrow. No offense, but I don’t think this arrangement is working out.”

“No worries,” Brandi muttered. “I’ll just poison you.”

“What’s that?” Larry asked.

“I said it was a pleasure working for you,” she said, smiling.

Larry shook his head, thinking, Psycho actress in L.A.; big surprise there, right? She was probably addicted to yoga, in A.A., had stalked all of her exes. He sat at his desk, tried to log onto his PC. Shit, these damn machines. He knew how to send email and do that video chat shit, what was it called? Hyping? Yeah hyping, he was great at hyping, but how the hell did you turn the thing on?

“Shit,” he said. “Goddamnit. Fuck. Fuck the hell outta me.”

“Need some help?” Brandi, at the door, asked.

“No, it’s okay.” He pressed something; nothing happened. “Goddamn piece of shit.”

“You seem a wee stressed,” Brandi said.

There was that lilt again.

“Excuse me?”

“Stress, anxiety,” she said. “After all, most ED is caused by stress. I mean, I’m sure you don’t have a physical problem.”

“Whoa, whoa, look here, sweetie.” Larry smiled with his new dentures. “Let’s make one thing clear, I don’t have any problems in that department. The L-Rod goes to the top floor if you get my drift.”

“It’s on the right.”

“What?”

“The switch. It’s right there on the right.”

Larry pressed the button — shit, it was right there the whole time — and the computer booted up.

“Thanks,” Larry said, “normally I don’t have a problem turning it on.”

“Are we talking about the computer or your cock?”

She said it matter-of-factly, really asking. The kid had spunk; he’d give her that.

“Computer,” he said.

“Thought so,” she said.

Wait, was this all a put-on? Larry was usually great at reading people — it was how he’d gotten to where he was in this biz — but with this chick it was impossible to tell.

“It’s because of my profession,” he said. “When you’re a big-time producer, it’s hard to be — what’s the word I’m thinking of — attentive to detail. That’s not a word, but you get my point, sweetie. I’m always producing, twenty-four/seven, plotting in my head.”

“Right, because you’re feeling so creative today.”

“Exactly,” Larry said. “Exactly.”

“Well, I should be going,” she said.

“Wait,” Larry said, like Travolta’s character would have said in Spaced Out. Wait , when the alien’s about to leave the spaceship, after they have their falling out in act three.

Brandi, like the alien, turned back.

“You seem like a good kid,” Larry said. “Got more brain on you then most of the girls I usually hire. Anyway, I’m sorry for being a prick. I’m usually not such a prick.”

“Oh, I’m not sure that’s not entirely untrue,” she said, smiling.

Larry smiled with her though he didn’t know what she’d just said.

Then he said, “And, yeah, you’re right I am kind of stressed out today.”

“What’s stressing you, baby?”

Jeez, now she was a combo Dr. Phil and his shrink. Two hundred bucks a week and where had it gotten him? He still had daddy issues, still couldn’t get a fucking movie greenlit.

“I’m looking for a TV idea,” he said.

“That’s smart,” she said.

“Right, I know it’s smart.” Larry said, feeling good about himself, who cared if she was bullshitting him? “I mean, I feel like I’ve been wasting my time, fartsing around with movies.”

“You mean like Spaced Out ?”

Remembering he’d lied to her, he said, “No, I mean that one’s coming along, I’m just talking in general. You go to a water cooler today, what’re people talking about? TV shows. Not movies. It’s Game of Thrones, Homeland, Breaking Bad , binge watching. Old days there were thirteen channels of shit to choose from, now I don’t know what’s goin’ on with streaming, downloading. You heard of Hulu?”