Pimp

Thirty

It had been a long time — what, couple months? — since Eddie Vegas had taken somebody out with his hands and it only got him warmed up. It was like when you get a blow job but it ain’t enough ’cause a few minutes later you want another one.

Maybe Larry Reed was gone, but that didn’t mean the debt was dead. Eddie didn’t care how many Hollywood putas he had to take out, he was gonna get his money back.

So Eddie was at the house in Brentwood, banging on the door, going, “Sean Mullen. Yo, Sean Mullen, open the fuck up!”

Eddie’s boys were in the car; he’d told them to hang out there. He was cool, he’d said. He wanted to do this one alone.

Brandi Love, one of the other producers of — what the fuck was the show called? Bust, yeah, Bust — opened the door.

“Look who it is,” Eddie said. “One of my co-executive producers. The chick who used to make pornos, which is a good thing, cause it means you used to gettin’ fucked.”

“Sorry,” Angela said, “I think you have the wrong address.”

Bitch tried to slam the door in his face. Yeah, right. He pushed it open hard, almost knocked her down. She was lucky he didn’t turn her face into hamburger meat, and maybe he would when he was done with Mullen.

That’s when a guy came over. Ugly, big, fat, red motherfucker with a beard. He was in some kinda black silk kimono with dragons spitting shit on the sleeves. Man looked like Mickey Rourke with red hair on the most fucked-up day of his life.

Guy went, “What’cha carrying, dude?”

Dude? Shit, who was this white boy? If it was Mullen, soon he was gonna be a dead white boy.

“You Mullen?” Eddie asked.

“You a wetback cunt?” guy said.

Did he have some accent? Yeah, sounded British or Irish, Eddie could never tell that shit apart.

“You think you tough, huh?” Eddie said. “That, or you the dumbest-ass motherfucker in Los Angeles.”

“If it’s multiple choice, I pick A,” the guy said.

Eddie had to smile, what else was he gonna do? Some dumb foreign fuck off the boat didn’t know who he was talkin’ to.

The guy went to the drinks cabinet, started making a pitcher of margaritas. Serious? Eddie couldn’t say anything — this shit was too funny, he had to see what happened next. Brandi was standing there too. Wait, was she fucked up, on something? Eddie thought so. Man, these movie people, they’re fuckin’ crazy.

He watched the guy pour two drinks, handed one to Eddie, went, “You didn’t answer my question?”

“I ain’t no cunt,” Eddie said.

“No, about what you’re carrying,” the guy said. “You packing a Heckler ’n Koch, a Nine, or the prissy cop shit, a Glock?”

Jesus Christ. What a fucking moron. From now on, Eddie was only gonna invest in movies if his own kind was in charge. He was gonna give Jimmy Smits a call.

“You really wanna see my piece?” Eddie asked.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the guy said and he took out his, looked like a Browning.

Then the crazy white nigger put two rounds in the ceiling.

Eddie jumped a foot, going, “The fuck, man, chill.”

Then he was lookin’ down the barrel of the gun at the fat man’s face.

The guy asked, “What do you want, asswipe?”

Shit, they was both fucked up. On coke? Nah, somethin’ harder.

Eddie had enough, went, “I’m a patient man...” and had his own piece out, aimed at the guy’s head, “...till I’m not.”

Brandi pulled a gun out of her garter or some shit and aimed it at Eddie.

Just what Eddie needed — some fuckin’ Tarantino bullshit, everybody aimin’ guns at each other. Or was that John Fuckin’ Woo?

“Yo, I don’t know what you on, but you both fucked up,” Eddie said. “I gave Larry Reed seventy-five grand to be executive producing a TV show, the next Prison Break. Now Larry ain’t giving me my money back, so if you’re Sean Mullen you got two choices. Make me executive producer or give me my fuckin’ money back in cash, same cash I gave Larry Reed.”

“A man with a gun aimed at his head shouldn’t be making demands,” Brandi said.

Eddie knew he could take the guy out and then take Brandi out too. Ain’t no porno bitch gonna outshoot Eddie Vegas.

He was about to do it, too, when the guy held out his hand — not the one with the gun — and had a white pill for Eddie to take, asked, “PIMP?”

“Oh, shit, so that’s what y’all on,” Eddie said. “Yo, I don’t take that crazy shit.”

“Yeah, well the rest of the country does,” the guy said. “PIMP is the new E, the new Lodes, hell, the new Nirvana, and... ready for this... it knows how to take care of you.”

Eddie had heard that It knows how to take care of you shit on the street, said, “I don’t need no PIMP lesson, man. I need my fuckin’ money.”

“Guess it’s time to fess up,” the guy said. “My name’s not Sean Mullen.”

“Oh yeah, it ain’t?” Eddie thought he was full of shit.

“It’s Max Fisher.”

“What?” Eddie said.

“You know me,” Max said. “You were a co-executive producer of the TV show based on my fucking life.”

Eddie stared at the ugly guy and now he saw it. Under the fat and all that red. Under the surgery scars.

Shit.

“Man, it’s really you,” Eddie said, lowering his gun.

“Yep,” Max said.

Eddie, awestruck, went, “I heard about you for years. Man, you a motherfuckin’ legend on the street. How you broke outta Attica, said fuck you to all them Aryan bitches.”

“Yeah, ’tis been a wild ride,” Max said, talking weird again, with that accent.

Max and Brandi had lowered their guns too.

“Damn, I should be gettin’ your autograph,” Eddie said. “Nobody believe it when I tell them I met Max Fisher.” Then he had his iPhone out. “Can I get a selfie?”

“Sorry,” Max said. “No pics.”

“I get it, I get it, it’s cool,” Eddie said. He was so nervous around Fisher it was hard to talk. Like that time he’d met Ricky Martin.

“I want to make a deal with you,” Max said. “The truth is I’m not only a TV producer, I’m a PIMP dealer. In fact I’m responsible for the PIMP explosion around the country.”

“Wait,” Eddie said, “so you’re tellin’ me that’s what you been doing all this time when the cops are lookin’ for you and you most wanted? You’re dealing PIMP?”

“Yep,” Max said.

“Most wanted and dealing PIMP?” Eddie said. “Oh, shit, that’s cold.”

“I need a guy like you in my operation,” Max said. “If you forget about Bust and the seventy-five grand I’ll give you PIMP distribution rights for all of the west coast. Does that put wood in your chinos?”

Eddie thought it over for maybe a few seconds, then asked, “Will I be like, Scarface?”

Max smashed a glass, cut into Eddie’s face, straight line down his cheek, then cold-ass as shit went, “Yeah, but not as good looking.”