Pimp

Twenty-Eight

When Paula woke up in her room at the Sofitel, she knew something was seriously wrong. She had an awful feeling she hadn’t felt since she’d found that the promised 20,000-copy print run of her last book at St. Martin’s Press had been reduced to 1,000 — all library sales. It felt like she was having a nightmare, but she was definitely awake, her face squished into an extra-firm pillow selected from the Sofitel’s pillow menu.

She turned onto her side, squinting against the California sun shining through the blinds, and noticed that Kat was gone. Then she noticed the note, handwritten on hotel stationery:

Paula had always had a well, issue, with rejection, and this time was no different. She went on a rampage that would’ve impressed Johnny Depp, and it was goodbye extra-firm pillow and practically everything else in the room. Lamps were smashed, chairs broken, LCD TV shattered — Charles at Hard Case was going to flip when he saw the bill. But only one thought was careening through Paula’s brain at the moment — I’m going to be alone forever.

She’d thought that when she’d found Kat her search was over, that she’d found the one. But now her love was gone, she was Katless. Worse, she’d lost her co-writer. Slide, The Max and any future books in her Angela-and-Max series were in jeopardy.

She sobbed into the remnants of her pillow and finally rallied enough to call her agent, Janet Ortiz, in New York. Janet assured her that there was nothing to worry about, that Hard Case already had the cover painted for the next book and writers would be lining up to co-write with her. She texted Paula a jpeg of the painting.

“What the fuck?” Paula shouted. “There’s no redhead in the story. Angela is blonde.”

“So?”

“And what’s she doing, reaching for a...”

“A gun.”

“And Mr. Oblivious sitting there smoking doesn’t notice? What is he, a congenital idiot?”

“He’s distracted by her legs.”

“Who the fuck is he anyway? This is not a scene from my goddamn book! Nothing like this ever happens in it!”

“So what?” Janet said. “Since when has a Hard Case Crime cover ever had anything to do with what’s inside the book?” Then added unhelpfully, “Anyway, how do you know what will or won’t be in the book? You haven’t even written it yet.” Which was, after all, the bigger problem.

“Fuck,” Paula said. “Who the hell is desperate enough that he’d be willing to step into Stiegsson’s shoes? Do you really think you can find someone?”

“Absolutely,” Janet said.

Sure enough, within an hour, Janet called back and said Reed Coleman had interest.

“But isn’t Coleman currently writing with three other people, including Laura Lippman?” Paula asked.

“Yes, but he said he’d dump those projects, even stop writing Robert B. Parker’s books, to get on the Bust bandwagon. And Hard Case says whatever’s okay with you is okay with them.”

Paula liked Coleman’s enthusiasm, and if he was really willing to dump Lippman to write with her... This would be a double-whammy for poor Laura, since Paula knew she was already kicking herself for rejecting Paula’s initial co-writing offer and letting a max opportunity with Bust slide. But she hoped Laura had been around long enough to understand that writing’s a business, and sometimes you have to be the pimp.

“Tell Coleman he’s in,” Paula said.

So things were looking up. Okay, so she’d lost her love, but she’d kept what was dearest to her — her career as a novelist — intact.

Then she got a call from Donna James, her film agent, heard: “Have you been watching the news?”

Staring at the smashed TV, Paula said, “Not today, no.”

“Well, I have bad news and I have bad news,” Donna said, “which do you want to hear first?”

“I’ll take the good news,” Paula tried.

“Sorry, I don’t have any of that.”

Donna told Paula that Darren Becker had been murdered by a delusional man who went by the name Sebastian Child. Sebastian had been killed too, by Becker’s bodyguards. “Beheaded,” Donna said.

“Oh my God,” Paula said. “Sebastian?”

“You know him?”

“Of course I know him,” Paula said. “I met him while Max was in Attica, around the time of the prison break. He looks — well, looked — so much like Lee Child it’s freaky.”

“I see,” Donna said. “Well, with Becker gone, Brandi Love has a new producing partner, named Sean Mullen.”

“Wait, Sean Mullen?”

“You know him too?”

“He was a character in Bust. He disappeared around the time Max was at Attica.” Paula’s mind was churning, trying to figure out what this all meant, if it meant anything.

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” Donna said. “I mean Sean Mullen sounds like a common name.”

Now Paula was panicked. She asked, “This won’t affect the screenplay, will it?”

“That’s the other bad news,” Paula said. “Bill Moss has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Paula was stunned.

“He announced to Lionsgate that he had to exit the project for personal reasons,” Donna said. “An exec went to talk to him about it in person and his bungalow in Venice was cleaned out. He cancelled his phone service, credit cards, Netflix account. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

“Personal reasons sounds like bullshit,” Paula said. “Why did he really leave?”

“You’re a natural mystery writer, aren’t you?” Donna said. “Well, what they’re saying on the news is that Sebastian and Bill might’ve known each other, and Bill had for some reason conspired with Sebastian to murder Darren Becker. I guess it’s sort of like the Tonya Harding and O.J. cases combined.” Donna laughed. “But I think that’s just a theory right now. As they say in the media — the story is fluid. I guess that’s a fancy way of saying they don’t know jack shit.” Donna laughed again.

“Okay, let’s cut to the chase,” Paula said. “Is Bust dead or not?”

“Absolutely not,” Donna said. “Lionsgate is one hundred percent committed to the show with or without Bill Moss. Brandi Love and Sean Mullen are co-executive producing now. I don’t see anything listed for Sean Mullen on IMDB, but Brandi has vouched for him, so I’m sure he’ll be great on the project. Everyone is super excited.”

“What about the other executive producers?” Paula asked. “Larry Reed and Eddie Vegas?”

“I haven’t heard anything about them,” Donna said, “thank God. As an agent here said the other day — Larry Reed could turn shinola into shit faster than Steve Martin in The Jerk.”

Paula had thought the world of book publishing was a clusterfuck, but it was nothing compared to this. It was a miracle that any TV shows ever got made.

Paula left an apologetic note for the maid and then rushed off to meet with Angela and this Sean Mullen at Darren Becker’s old office.

When she arrived she saw Angela with the ugliest, most bloated version of Philip Seymour Hoffman imaginable, with red hair and a red beard. He looked like a ginger version of George R. R. Martin.

But the disguise didn’t fool Paula.

“Oh my God, it’s you,” she said.

“In the flesh, sugar tits,” Max said.

With a rush of emotion, Paula went to Max and hugged him tightly.

“This is surreal,” she said. “It’s like you came out of my brain or something. My book’s coming to life.”

“Hey, easy with my fiancée,” Angela said. “We Irish girls can get jealous, you know.”

“Wait,” Paula said. “You two are...”

Angela stuck out her hand, displaying a massive diamond, and went, “Yes, engaged, and not with a fookin’ claddagh ring. It was Darren’s ex-wife’s, God bless both of them, and God rest Darren.”

Paula was dazed — the events of the morning hitting her. “I’m dizzy,” she said. “I think I should sit down.”

“Here, take one of these,” Max said.

He gave her a little pill, something white, looked harmless as a Tylenol.

“What is it?”

Max smiled, said, “It knows how to take care of you.”

Angela handed her a cup of water and she swallowed the pill.

“Does anybody else know that you’re Max Fisher?” Paula asked.

“Not anybody currently living,” Max said.

“A cop came around asking questions, but we got rid of her,” Angela said.

“Even you two can’t pull this off.” Paula was looking at Max. “You’re on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, but number six,” Max said. “What’s up with that shit? Cocksuckers.”

“Still,” Paula said. “You’re taking a big risk.”

“Hey, look how long it took them to find Whitey Bulger,” Max said. “L.A.’s the best place in the world to hide. Everybody has their head so far up their own ass, nobody notices anything.”

“But somebody will recognize you eventually,” Paula said. “I mean, I know who you are. How do you know I won’t go to the police?”

“We’d sue you for defamation of character,” Angela said. “Basing a novel on living people isn’t exactly kosher, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were alive when I wrote it.”

“Would a judge buy that?”

She laughed. “A judge. That’s ridiculous. Like either of you would willingly go anywhere near a courtroom. If people knew who you were you’d spend the rest of your lives in jail. Especially Max.”

“I have the best lawyer in the business,” Max said.

“I know, Darrow,” Paula said. “I put him in Bust.”

Something was affecting Paula’s mood; was it the pill Max had given her? She couldn’t tell if she was aroused or angry, didn’t know if she wanted to fuck somebody or kill somebody. All she knew was that suddenly she felt fucking great.

“Can I have another one of those?” she asked.

“Anything for my favorite writer,” Max said.

Paula swallowed another pill, went, “So what does this all mean for Bust? Who’s going to write it?”

“First of all,” Angela said, ducking the question, “so sorry about Kat and Lars. We heard about it through the grapevine. If it’s any consolation, Lars makes the worst porn I’ve ever seen and he’s hung like a peanut. I know they’ll bomb out in Sweden.”

“That’s okay, I already have a new co-writer for the novels,” Paula said, “and I want to make out with you. Wow, Jesus, I don’t know why I said that. I feel like it’s not me who’s talking, like something’s taken control of me... So, wait, about a new writer for the pilot to replace Bill Moss...”

“Our first idea was Bret Easton Ellis,” Angela said. “Author of my fave fookin’ book ever, American Psycho, and also the giver of A-list cunnilingus.”

Paula assumed this second part was a joke.

“But unfortunately Bret can’t do it,” Angela said. “Something about how he’s too busy writing a show about a stalker for Showtime.”

“So who’s next on the list?” Paula asked.

“One of the hottest writers in the country right now,” Angela said, “though not thus far known for her screenwriting, she’s immensely qualified for this project.”

Was it the pills Max had given her or was Paula getting thisclose to an orgasm? Paula had an urge to reach out and grab Angela’s breasts, so she did.

“Sorry,” Paula said. “I... I... I don’t know...”

“It’s okay,” Angela assured her. “I’ve been felt up by worse.”

“Who?” Paula asked.

“Well, one of them is in this room.”

“Fuck you too, sweetheart,” Max said.

Max and Angela kissed.

“No, I mean, who is this hot writer?” Paula asked.

“You,” Angela said. “We want to hire you, Paula.”

Paula writing the TV pilot? It was ingenious; after all, who knew more about Bust than her? Angela was the sexiest woman Paula had ever seen and she didn’t give a fuck about Kat.

“You can pick up where Bill left off or you can write it from scratch,” Angela said. “We have total faith in your abundant talent.”

“I’ll show you some abundant talent, bitch,” Paula said, and kissed her.

Her awful morning was a distant memory.

Thanks to those little white pills, life was all good.