Ken Bruen - Pimp

“Yes,” Brandi said.

“Fuck, I need to get up on this shit,” Larry said. “Every day there’s a new term to learn — hashtag, selfie, downloading, uploading. It’s a different world out there, and Larry Reed’s been in the backseat for too fuckin’ long. It’s time to take the wheel, baby.”

He felt like he was in the third act of another movie — not Spaced Out , but that coming-of-age movie he was trying to get off the ground maybe ten years ago, about the high school kids who live on a sailboat for a summer. That line was in the script — It’s time to take the wheel, baby — which, come to think of it, didn’t make any sense because they were on a fucking sailboat. No wonder that piece of shit never got off the ground.

“Maybe I can help you, Larry?”

She was doing that sexy thing with her lips, like Ginger from Gilligan’s Island .

“I know how to turn on a damn computer,” Larry said.

“No, I mean, in other ways.”

Yep, she was flirting, and what’s this? A little liftoff action from L-Rod?

She came up to him, close enough to kiss, but just stood there, letting him smell her.

Larry said, “Yeah? And what about you, kid?”

“What about me?”

She was looking at his lips. Man, she smelled good. Like tulips, even though he wasn’t sure how tulips smelled.

Larry said, “What do you want? You really want to be an actress?”

“Maybe.”

“I like that. Honesty. You don’t get a lot of that in this town.”

“I think I’m good at it.”

“Honesty?”

“No, acting. I was in The Walking Dead. Took them three hours to get the zombie make-up on and then I was on screen for four seconds before Andrew Lincoln shot me.”

“It’s a tough ballgame, sweetheart.”

“Being a zombie?”

“No, being an actress.”

“’Tis true.” Sounding Irish again. “Wanted to try for Game of Thrones , but they shoot it in the north of Ireland, and there’s no fookin’ way I’m going back there.”

They were about to kiss — Larry’s tongue was halfway out of his mouth like a horny frat boy — when she moved away, strutting over to get a bottle of coconut water. What producer in Hollywood didn’t have an office stocked with coconut water? Obviously she wanted him to get a good look at her ass. And he got a good look all right. It was a great ass — wide but not flabby like Bev’s. With all the dieting Bev did, and all the Pilates and gazoomba or whatever the hell it’s called, Larry didn’t know why she couldn’t get her ass in shape. Didn’t she know that cellulite wasn’t allowed in L.A.?

Still turned away, she said, “It’s probably a blessing I didn’t do Game of Thrones , I would’ve been miscast.”

“Yeah?” Larry said. “How’s that?”

Now she turned back toward him, went, “I could be a great femme fatale.”

“I bet you could,” Larry said. Yep, definitely getting liftoff — the L-Rod shuttle is preparing to launch — ten... nine... eight... — roger that. He went, “I’ll tell you what. You can stay on, working for me, and I’ll give you the femme fatale role in Spaced Out . I’ll introduce you to Tom and the people at Fox.”

“Oh, please,” she said, more angry than flirty. “ Spaced Out isn’t getting made, it’s not set up at Fox, and certainly not with Tom Fookin’ Selleck.”

The lilt wasn’t so sexy anymore.

“What makes you so sure?” Larry asked.

“It’s called Google,” Brandi said. “If it was really a hot project there would be something about it online.”

Fucking Internet. It was impossible to keep a good lie going these days.

“Not necessarily,” Larry said.

“You don’t have to bullshit me anymore,” Brandi said.

Coming clean, he said, “Okay, smarty pants, so if you know Spaced Out is dead, why’d you agree to work for me?”

“Maybe it’s because I like you.”

Larry wanted to believe this lie.

“You’re full of shit,” he said.

“Maybe,” she said, “but not any more than you.”

He had to smile. She was moving toward him again, eyes aimed at his lips.

“What if I told you I could get you the next big thing,” she said. “The TV project you’ve been dying for, that could take you to the next level, put you on the map?”

“I’m the producer, you’re the blond bimbo. I’m supposed to be promising you this shit, not the other way around.”

“You want to hear it or not?”

Oh no, she wasn’t going to pitch him, was she?

“It’s Breaking Bad meets Pulp Fiction with an Irish twist.”

Yes, she was.

“Sounds like a hit,” he said.

“Oh, it will be,” she said. “It has it all. Violence, action, humor, sex. Lots and lots of sex.”

“Okay,” Larry gave in. “What is it?”

“It’s called Bust .”

“ Bust ?” Larry said, as he felt hers pressing up against his chest. “Wait, I read about that in the trades the other day, didn’t I? It’s the book written by some American girl and a Swedish guy.”

“That’s the one,” Brandi said.

“This is your pitch?” Larry laughed. “The hottest project in town? How’re you supposed to get me in on that?”

“Let’s just say I know how to get things done.” She finally kissed him. Then she reached into his boxers and grabbed L-Rod with a strangler’s grip and smiled, but not happily, and went, “Why, what have we here?”

Larry got home to his place in The Canyon at around five-thirty and was planning to take a hot shower — always a good idea after banging another woman; wives, fuck, they were like bomb-sniffing dogs when it came to pussy — and then, after a couple brews and some fast lines, he’d try to figure out how to use his Kindle, get a copy of this Bust book. Wait, what was he thinking? He was a Hollywood producer, he didn’t actually read. He’d find some reviews, or maybe there were Cliffs Notes.

But when he got in the door he got a slap in the mouth. Managed to see Bev tied to a chair — weirdly his first thought was, Shit, and she never lets me tie her up , and then a kick in the balls put him on his knees.

When that pain subsided, he looked up at two guys. No masks.

Uh-oh.

One was so thin he was practically see-through, tattoos up his arms like the fucking Sunday comics, wearing a black T with the words: NO SHIT SHERLOCK.

The second was as wide as his partner was thin, was something Spanish, not Mexican — Larry, like all Angelenos, knew his Mexicans.

The skinny guy went, “Hey Larry, we’re Mo and Jo. I’m Mo.”

Mo had some kind of hick accent. Southern, not Texas, maybe Florida. There was something wrong with his speech so it sounded like one of the Waltons with nerve damage.

“Hey, Jo,” Larry said to the Spanish guy. “If your name was Curly we’d be the Three Stooges.”

Going for a laugh to lighten to the situation, but getting a dumb deadpan glare instead.

“Jesus, how old am I?” Larry said. “Doesn’t anybody even remember the Three Fucking Stooges? Come on, didn’t you even see the piece-of-shit remake? I wanted my buck twenty-nine back from Redbox.”

Mo kicked Larry in the gut and Jo slapped him in the face as Larry went down.

Keeled over, Larry caught a glimpse of Bev bound to the chair. Oh yeah, he’d seen that look before and knew that there would be hell to pay. Even if Larry talked his way out of this, figured out a way to get the guys to leave the house, he wasn’t sure he’d be any better off because his wife might kill him herself.

When Larry got some breath back, he choked, “The fuck are you, the Odd Couple?”