Pimp

Twenty-Seven

Took Max a while to get Angela to call him Sean. Like, Sean Mullen.

She laughed, said, “Seriously, take it from a gal who has known an Irish guy.” Paused. “Like intimately, and you have just the worst accent since Dick Van Dyke tried to do Cockney in Mary Poppins.”

Max was pissed on two counts. The accent bit of course hurt his pride — he loved his fuckin’ brogue — and that mention of the Irish prick opened up all sorts of old shit that was best left, well, buried.

He said, “Right, but you, you work it brilliantly as Brandi Love.” His tone leaked sarcasm.

She snapped, “The fuck is that, like a slur?”

He’d done just a wee smidgen of PIMP and was feeling the love, went, “Babe, c’est il est, il est.” He thought this meant It is what it is, but his mangled pronunciation and syntax would have confused even Carla Bruni.

A ring at the door startled them both. Angela shot him a look, went, “It’s Brandi, remember.”

For a mad moment Max thought she was having booze home-delivered.

She opened the door to a tough-looking broad who showed a badge, said, “Detective Gaylin, LAPD, I’m looking for a Sean Mullen,” and tried to see into the apartment.

Angela said, “Oh, of course, come in,” and flashed her mega smile. It usually brought wood but with a broad, who knew?

The cop stepped into the room. Max knew he was sweating and couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot.

Got, “Something funny to you, sir?”

He launched his hand out, offering friendship, dope, love and — yeah, okay — bullshit. Smarmed, “Sure ’tis only me way, us lads, we do be like over-friendly, to a fault, be-Jaysus.”

Max noticed her hand shift — move closer to her holster. If she pulled a gun on him... well, he had his own piece tucked away and nobody beat the Max at quick draw.

Well, in his own mind anyway.

The drug coursing in his blood, on its upward swing, told him, Chrissakes, stop smiling.

And he did, abruptly. Throwing off Gaylin a bit, who checked that her gun was easy to pull.

“I talked to the police earlier,” Angela sold. “Told them all about how that British lunatic Sebastian had been stalking Darren for days, had even gotten a job at Darren’s health club.”

“I’m not here about Sebastian,” Gaylin said. “I’m guessing you are Brandi Love.”

Angela, focused, managed, “Yes, yes I am.” Then added, “Last time I checked.”

Angela and Max exchanged looks, both realizing this was the very worst thing to say when you’re fucking with aliases.

Gaylin absorbed this, then asked Max, “And what sort of freaking stage leprechaun are you?”

Angela, despite the very brittleness of the ground beneath her, had to bite her lower lip to not laugh out loud. Max flashed back to high school now, his friends giggling in the back of the classroom after Max hit their idiot science teacher in the head with a giant spitball.

Sweating profusely, using the best of the Irish he’d learned over the years, he went, “I’m Sean Mullen, from the bould county of Galway, we gave the world Claddagh rings, Aran sweaters and a midlist mystery writer, and you’ll have to forgive me, ma’am, but I got stuck into the oul Jay last night.” His face contorted in horror as he thought maybe she thought Jay was, like, a guy. Recovered, muttered, “That bin like the Jameson, fierce lethal stuff, and speaking of which, would you like a lad to wet your whistle?”

Angela couldn’t contain it, laughed, and added fast, “Sean, you wicked devil, the lady doesn’t know that means, Would you like a drink?”

Gaylin, God bless her, seemed a little freaked by the oddness of this bizarre duo. Went, “Mr. Mullen, are you aware that you bear a resemblance to a fugitive named Max Fisher?”

“Aye, I’m not familiar with the name,” Max said. “We have no Fishers in Galway. Fishing, yes. Me brother’s a fisherman, Declan Mullen. Wonderful man indeed.”

“Did you ever live in New York, Mr. Mullen?”

“Thought of moving me own self there, but what would I do?” Max said. “Tend bar, drive a horse ’n carriage? May not be horses soon in Central Park and then what’s an Irishman to do? Beg Liam for a role in his next movie?”

The PIMP made Max believe his story was getting more convincing, and maybe it was.

Gaylin asked, “Have you seen Joe Miscali recently?”

Max wasn’t expecting this; he thought he’d ditched Miscali in New York.

“Who?” Max asked.

“Miscali,” Gaylin said.

“Aye, love, we have no Miscalis in Galway,” Max said, “alas, but we have swans though. You should come see the swans sometime soon, good on ya, eh?”

Little too much brogue there?

Gaylin said, “So a New York cop, middle-aged guy, beer belly, didn’t come talk to you?”

“No, darling,” Max said.

“Can you please tell us, what’s this all about?” Angela asked.

“A New York detective, Joe Miscali, came to L.A. the other day,” Gaylin said, “and he seems to have disappeared.”

Was it possible that Miscali was off the board? This day was getting better and better.

“So what does this possibly have to do with us?” Angela asked.

“Maybe nothing,” Gaylin said. “But something doesn’t sit right with me about all of this. Miscali went AWOL from the NYPD.” She looked at Max. “His trip to L.A. from New York was unsanctioned. Apparently he was obsessed with Fisher, has had a lot of conspiracy theories over the years.”

“No offense,” Angela said, “but why are you bothering us about it?”

“Miscali thought Mr. Mullen here bore a resemblance to Fisher.”

Max went, “Begorrah, no, not I...”

“Miscali may have had issues,” Gaylin said, “but it seems a bit too coincidental that Darren Becker gets killed yesterday and then Miscali disappears.”

“I’m sorry,” Angela said, “but really. There’s no connection to us.”

“One person dying, one disappearing, and both connected to this TV project you’re involved with. Bust, right?”

Max was staring at hers. For a cop, she had a great rack.

“I already explained about Sebastian,” Angela said. “He’d been stalking Darren for days. Darren said Sebastian confronted him at his health club. Darren was killed by a madman, end of story. Now, maybe you’re right, maybe Sebastian had something to do with whatever happened to that cop, Miscali? But it has nothing to do with me or Sean.”

Gaylin eyed them both suspiciously for a bit longer. When neither showed signs of cracking, she went, “Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Mullen... Ms. Love. If I have any more questions, I’ll be back.” At the door she turned, said, “Oh. Mr. Mullen...”

“Aye?” Max said.

“Would you be open to a taking a lie-detector test?”

“Excuse me?” Angela said.

“It could help clear things up,” Gaylin said.

“Fook no,” Angela said. “What the hell. You have no evidence of anything, except for some story about a New York cop with obvious mental problems. I think you’ve wasted enough of our fookin’ time.”

Gaylin looked pissed off as hell, but reluctantly — what other choice did she have? — left.

When she was gone, Max and Angela laughed for a long time. Max knew Gaylin would be back at some point, and a lie detector could lead to disaster. But for right now PIMP was in control, and he wasn’t going to let anything ruin the ride.