Pimp

Two

Larry Reed was old-school Hollywood, i.e., fuck-all talent but lots of chutzpah. He knew the trick was to blackmail the living daylights out of the real players. He looked like Fatty Arbuckle and indeed had similar tastes. Nearing seventy now, he relied on the little ol’ blue pills to keep the L-Rod in gear.

His dick had been working fine of late, but his career was in a tailspin. His last hit had been a Janeane Garofalo rom-com. Yep, it had been that long.

Five years ago he thought he was set for his big comeback. He optioned a pitch for a dollar from some shmuck kid, Bill Moss, who was desperate for a way out of the telemarketing cubicle. Larry talked him into writing on spec, the way a porno producer tells his talent that the first time on the desk is for free and the next time you get paid. You need lots of chutzpah to pull off that line but Bill went for it — hook, line, and sucker. Guys like Bill were morons when it came to the business of Hollywood; they believed that they had talent and that it was only a matter of time until their talent was recognized. This was perfect for Larry because Larry only worked with morons; it was the only way to avoid agents and managers and get pictures made.

But Bill Moss, God bless him, knew how to write. The script was called Spaced Out and the tagline was “Alien meets Forrest Gump.”

The idea was everything you needed for a big hit nowadays — sexy, high-concept, dumbed down — should’ve been a slam dunk.

Should’ve. But this was Hollywood, where there were as many should’ves as there were actresses who’d quit waiting tables to become reiki masters.

The Spaced Out pitch: In the not-so-distant future, an Average Joe with a mental disability is chosen by the space program to become the first man on Mars, but aliens invade his ship and terrorize him. It wasn’t a horror picture, though, it was drama, because it turns out that one alien is a good alien — “Think E.T. meets Judge Reinhold,” Larry would say in the meetings, not realizing that the Reinhold reference made him sound like even more of a dinosaur.

To Larry’s unending dismay and kvetching, he couldn’t get Spaced Out off the ground. It wasn’t like the old days in Holly-wood when you could go to the Foxes or Paramounts with a stable of projects and they set you up in a bungalow on the lot with a fat production deal. Nowadays they didn’t give a fuck about ideas in Hollywood. If you came to them without money and attachments you had bullshit.

For a couple of years he’d had John Travolta loosely attached. Okay, okay, so “loosely” meant that he’d discussed it with Travolta’s manager at one of Bryan Singer’s pool parties — yeah, Larry had been into dudes for a while, call it “a phase.” Larry hadn’t gotten an invite, had crashed the party. Hey, Woody Allen says ninety percent of success is showing up, right? When the bouncers were tossing Larry, he’d shouted at the manager, “I want John to be in my movie!” and he thought he’d heard, “Okay, run with it, Lar.”

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?”

“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?”

Jo took his turn at bat and knocked out Larry’s dentures, said

“Need to focus, ol’ man, he just told you our names.”

Definitely not Mexican. Cuban? Toothless now, he mumbled, “What yah want, asswipe? There’s nothing in the house, no valuables. If you want to pay some credit card bills, be my guest.”

More glaring from Bev. Shit, she was scarier than Mo and Jo. He knew if she wasn’t bound and gagged she’d be tearing into him, going, “Why’re you joking around with them? You trying to get me killed?” Always criticizing him, taking the opposite point of view.

Mo moved over to the bookcase where an open Sam Adams was resting, took a large swig, belched, said, “This shit is good.”

Sam Adams? Larry drank Schlitz. Who the hell had been to the house drinking Sam Adams? Wait, was Bev cheating on him?

Then Mo crouched down, almost friendly, close to Larry’s ruined mouth, said, “You owe our boss seventy-five large, not including the vig.”

Larry managed to move into a sitting position, said, “Fucksake, why didn’t you just ask instead of all this Get Shorty nonsense?”

Jo asked, “Who’s Shorty?”

Mo laughed, said, “You see, Larry, you see what I have to work with?”

Larry thinking, There’s a .357 Magnum in a drawer near where the brew had been resting. If he could make his way over...

Mo said, “Lookin’ for this shit?” and dangled the Magnum off his pinky.

Fuck.

Then Mo sucked on the end of the bottle, making annoying noises, asked, “Where’s the cash at, my man?”

“Cash? You must be making a mistake, I’m the last guy on this block who has cash.”

“That’s not what the boss be sayin,” Jo said.

“The boss?” Larry said. “Who’s the boss? Please tell me it’s Tony Danza and this is all some fuckin’ joke.”

“Y’all think you funny,” Mo said.

“Y’all?” Larry asked. “There was only one of me, last time I checked.” Larry smiled.

“That’s what’s goin’ on?” Jo said to Larry. “You laughin’ at us, man? You think we clowns?”

Larry said, “Look, Puerto Rican Joe Pesci, first of all, I don’t know who the fuck you are or what the fuck you want from me. I’m Larry Reed the movie producer, not Larry Reed the millionaire. Second of all, you seem like a smart young fellah, you think I really would keep that kind of dough here?”

Mo raised his hand and Larry flinched. Mo smiled, said, “Relax, man. Trust me, if I really wanted to hit you, you wouldn’t have time to duck.” Then cold cocked Larry, said, “See.”

True enough, Larry hadn’t.

Jo said, “I look Rican to you?” Then, “If you ain’t got the green, we gotta be mean.”

The fuck was he talking about?

This: “We gonna take your wife with us, have us all a party and you can get her back when you bring us the seventy-five K.”

“Bring it. Bring it where?”

“You find out,” Jo said. “And you call the cops, you find your wife in the L.A. River with the rest of the dead fishes.”

He stuck out his long tongue, looked like Gene freakin’ Simmons, and gave Bev a porno style kiss over the bandages, and then he and Mo lifted the chair.

“Whoa, the fuck you doing?” Larry said, upset that they were taking the club chair he’d paid two hundred forty-nine bucks for at Crate & Barrel, then it hit that they were taking Bev away with it. He fought off the thought of, Take the cunt, she’s all yours, and went with, “Hey, where the hell you takin’ my wife?”

He felt like he was in a movie — he was the good guy, the hero with a set of skills. They were fucking with the wrong guy. He was ex-CIA, ex-DEA, ex fuckin’ something.

At the same moment, Jo fired the Magnum and pain exploded in Larry’s thigh. In agony, he looked down at the bloody gash, just glad L-Rod wasn’t harmed.

Then, still like he was in a movie, a horror flick now like the shitty ones he used to make in the seventies, he watched the guys carry his wife out of the house.