Pimp

Six

Larry got a smarmy doctor, Dr. Hoff — The Hoff, he called himself — to make a house call. Hoff was at one time attached to a major studio until he, um, overprescribed to a Batman actor and the guy bought the farm. Now he supplied Larry and other players in the biz with an abundance of scripts, and not the Final Draft variety.

Hoff examined the gunshot wound, went, “Not serious.”

Larry wanted to wallop him, said, “Not fucking serious for you. It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

A pause as they both knew this meant, Vike.

Hoff, wanting to at least feel appreciated, said, “Gunshot wound, you know I’m supposed to report this.”

Larry slapped him on the side of the head, said, “Yeah and I’m supposed to helm the next X-Men but like that’s gonna happen.”

Hoff handed him a couple of scripts, asked, “You going to report it?” He looked around, asked, “And, by the way, how’s your wife? Haven’t seen the little woman in a while.”

Something in his tone whipped Larry’s head around. He snapped,

“What’s that mean?”

Hoff sighed, went, “Well, it’s called manners, or even consideration.”

Larry took a long moment, wondering, Is the Hoff fucking my wife? Did they have a fight, a falling out, leading to the kidnapping? One time — maybe three months ago — he recalled Hoff calling his house, Hoff sounding surprised when Larry picked up.

“But why did you say you haven’t seen in her a while?” Larry asked.

“Because I haven’t?” Was Hoff confused or pretending to be confused?

“But you made a point of it. So I’m wondering why that is. If I haven’t seen somebody in a while I ask, Hey, how you been? I don’t make a point of saying it’s been a while.”

“I... I’m not following.”

“You drink Sam Adams, Doc?”

“What?” Hoff asked.

“Sam Adams. It’s a beer.”

“I know it’s a beer. Why do you care what kind of fucking beer I drink?”

“Hey, manners, Doc, manners,” Larry said.

“I don’t drink beer,” the doctor said.

Lying? Yeah, probably. Larry knew the face of a two-shit liar. He saw it in the mirror every morning.

Larry stared at him, went, “You know anything about two guys, Mo and Jo?”

Hoff squinted, went, “Who?”

“Mo and Jo. You know, as in bad mojo.”

The doc gathered up his stuff, muttered, “Story of my life.” Then added, “Better double on the Vike. I don’t wanna know what happened to you, but it’s fucking with your head.”

That evening, Larry, coasting on a Vike, called Brandi, said,

“Come by my place.”

She was surprised, asked if his wife minded.

Larry giving a bitter laugh said, “She’s got a whole load of other shit on her mind.”

When Brandi arrived, she was dressed in Lindsay Lohan mode, i.e., almost nothing and strutting it. Larry had wrangled some of the blue magic pills from the disgruntled doc and was indeed The Rod.

After the third round, she said, “Now that’s A-list baby.” She cooed and purred and added, “You’re the Hollywood sign, sugar.”

He poured them some lethal shots of tequila, said, “So Bust, what’s the story?”

“I already told you.”

“Tell me again. I’m a movie producer, I have fucking A.D.D. You think I pay attention to a pitch the first time around?”

She outlined the plot, about Max Fisher and Angela Petrakos, the drug dealing, the serial killing, the prison break. “It’s got it all. And best, it’s true.”

“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with these people?”

Brandi glared at him. “I thought you wanted crime stories.”

Larry shrugged. “Does she have to be half-Irish?”

“What do you have against the Irish?”

“I don’t know, but I think she’d be sexier if she was, I don’t know, Spanish. Maybe we could attach Salma Hayek.”

Larry didn’t care about the story, only the box office numbers, but he, yeah, okay, he wanted a shot at banging Salma Hayek.

“She’s Irish and she’s staying fookin Irish.” Don’t-fuck-with-me tone.

“Okay, baby, okay,” Larry said, not wanting to fuck with her. “Okay, so how’m I supposed to get the rights?”

Brandi smiled, the hook, said, “First off, my name isn’t really Brandi Love.”

“Somebody in Hollywood with a fake name, wow, shocking. What, you think my name’s really Larry Reed?”

“What’s your real name?”

“Laurence Olivier Horowitz. No, shit, my mother was a big Olivier fan, loved him in Carrie, not the Carrie you’re thinking of, another fucking Carrie. Me, named after a B-flick. Shoulda known, right?”

“I don’t get it,” Brandi said. “So why don’t you use the name Laurence Olivier? If my name was Marilyn Monroe or, fook, Marilyn Manson, I’d fookin use it.”

“Thought about it,” Larry said, “but it’s too British. Nobody trusts a Brit in Hollywood — why do you think Piers Morgan got voted off Celebrity Apprentice? Besides, Larry Reed, is snappy, it’s cool. When you hear Larry Reed, you think Lou Reed. It’s called subliminal influence. I’m serious, don’t laugh. A name says a lot about a person.”

“Well, I’m afraid my name isn’t the only thing I lied to you about,” Brandi said.

Here we go. After his last girl on the side said that to him he wound up having to go to the Hoff to treat a bad case of syphilis.

“You don’t have syphilis, do you?” he asked. “’Cause I don’t think you get immune to that, like chicken pox.”

“Nope, no syphilis,” Brandi said. “That I know of anyway. But I hope you’ve had genital herpes.”

Was she joking? He couldn’t tell. He forced a smile, hoping so.

“But it’s my background I haven’t been entirely truthful about,” she went on. “It’s true I’m an actress, but I’ve mostly done porn, and there’s a reason why I changed my name, and it wasn’t for my acting career. At least not initially.”

Larry, still thinking about herpes, wondering if that’s why L-Rod had seemed kind of itchy this morning, couldn’t follow what she was saying.

“Okay, okay, so who are you?” he asked, agitated.

“Angela. Angela Petrakos. And don’t let the Greek exterior fool you, I’m like one of those Oreos they serve on St. Patty’s Day — green on the inside.”

The fuck was this crazy chick talking about?

“Am I supposed to know an Angela Petrakos?” Larry asked.

“Have you been listening to a fookin’ word I’m saying? Bust. I’m the star of Bust, that fookin’ book by Stiegsson and Segal, it’s all about me. It’s my life. Max Fisher, you might know him as The Max, is my ex. But that’s another story. Or part of the main story, depending how you look at it.”

“Hold up,” Larry said. “You’re saying you’re a character in this novel?”

“It’s not a novel, it’s my life,” Angela said. “These people, these writers, are fookin’ criminals, they stole my life. I deserved that money, it’s mine, fookin’ mine. Fook, the pain I’ve met falling for the wrong men — Max Fisher, Thomas Dillon, Slide — yeah, that Slide — Sebastian, Rufus — and I’m not getting’ a fookin’ cent of it?”

“Okay, back up, back up,” Larry said. “I wanna make sure I’m getting this straight. You’re in this book so you think, what, that entitles you to a piece of the TV show?”

“Not just a piece,” Angela said. “A fookin’ chunk.”

“Sweetheart, that’s not the way it works,” Larry said. “The producer, I remember now, I think I saw in the trades, it’s Darren Becker. He probably optioned the book or, knowing Darren, purchased the rights outright.”

“I don’t give a shite who purchased them,” she said. “Where I come from in Ireland we pay in cash and possession is eleven tenths of the law.”

Larry shook his head, as in, Did I need this shit today? and said, “I don’t need this shit today.” Added, “I don’t think you get the way things work in this town, sweetheart.” Talking down on purpose to the ditzy broad. “This isn’t fuckin’ Bollywood where they fuck buying the rights and steal the damn book. If Becker has the rights to the book now, it’s his, he owns it. No one else can make it except Darren Becker.”

Larry went to sit where his favorite club chair, the one from Crate & Barrel, had been, and fell onto his ass.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I think I broke my hip.”

“Only thing you’ll break is my eardrums with yer whining,” Angela said. “Get the fook up, ye wimp.”

She was psycho and bitchy as hell but, yeah, he was kind of into it. She’d look good in some tight black-leather getup, holding a whip.

”Up,” she barked. “You need to help me with this situation.”

Larry struggled to his feet and said, “I have another situation here, a little more important than making a TV show. As you noticed, my wife isn’t home.”

“Yeah, I noticed your wound before, too,” Angela said. “Figured you offed the cow.”

Was she kidding?

“She was taken,” Larry said, “and unfortunately I’m not Liam fuckin Neeson, or his stunt man, so I can’t exactly hunt down the guys that did it.”

“Who took her?” Angela asked. She seemed comfortable, like she was in her element, talking about kidnapping.

“Mo and Jo,” Larry said.

“Like the Three Stooges?”

“It’s two people, not three, and there’s no Stooge named Jo.” Was he seriously having this conversation? “Actually I think my doctor might be in on it.”

“Your doctor?”

Larry grabbed the empty bottle of Sam Adams and said, “See this? This is evidence. I think she was fucking somebody behind my back.”

“Your doctor.”

“Probably.”

“And I thought I attract the crazies.”

Ignoring this, Larry went. “They want seventy-five K and I think these guys are serious. I’m worried they might be raping her as we speak, and I’m broke, have nada, ziltch, bubkis. I put up a good front with my whole aura of being a high-flying producer, but I’m behind on my office rent and home mortgage, have credit card debt up the wazoo. There’s no way I can come up with that kind of cashish.”

Angela sat in a leather chair, put her feet up on the ottoman, expanded her chest, and said, “Well, it sounds like you need a piece of Bust then, don’t you?”

An idea was hitting Larry — maybe crazy enough to work.

If he could get his eyes off her tits he might even be able to verbalize it.

Finally he said, “What if you went to Darren Becker’s house? Darren’s a player. If you get close to him maybe we can blackmail him, that’s the way anything gets done in this town.” Then he shook his head. “Ah, fuck, it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Darren’s gay, or at least partly gay. I saw him at one of Bryan Singer’s pool parties.”

“What were you doing at the party?”

“I was just, um, experi... never mind. But I guess the question is, could you seduce a half-gay guy?”

“Not a problem,” Angela said. “A few weeks ago in the bathroom at the Chateau Marmont I scored with Bret Easton Ellis.”

Thinking about it more, Larry knew what to do. Larry had known Darren forever. Darren had had a few sex scandals over the years; he’d gotten out from under them, but he didn’t need any more bullshit on his plate. Larry could see him going for this.

“If the seduction doesn’t work, just tell him who you are — Angela Titcockass, or whatever the fuck it is. If you threaten a lawsuit, going to the trades, he’ll freak and agree to go into business with us. You get me attached as co-exec of Bust and then I can sell a percentage of the film, points to private investors. With a little luck I can drum up enough to get my wife back.”

“This sounds great,” Angela said, “but why do you need me? Why don’t you blackmail him yourself?”

“Me and Darren Becker, let’s just say we have a history,” Larry said. “In other words, I think you’ll make a better impression.”

“Okay...” Angela said. “But you’re forgetting one thing.”

Larry was confused.

“Hello?” Angela said. “My role?”

“Oh, you’ll get a part on the show, sweetie, don’t worry.”

“If you think I’m going to go over there, seduce this fookin’ guy, for a part, you’re mad. I’m a player, goddamn it, not a whore. Well, I have been a whore — but not anymore, I’m a Hollywood player now, and ya better get used to it, I’m co-executive producing with you, Larry.”

“Whoa, baby, take it easy there, using your brain like that, you might pull something.” He smiled, loving how fucking witty he was, making a crack he’d made thousands of times before. Then said, “What do you know about producing, sweetheart?”

“After spending a few days with you, I apparently don’t have to know much. At least I know how to turn on a fookin’ PC.”

“Okay, okay, you can produce, you can produce,” Larry said, just wanting to shut her the fuck up, the Irish accent grating on him. He figured they could deal with it later and he’d rip the dumb bitch off on the points. He’d drop her down to associate producer, or the ultimate bullshit, co-producer.

“That’s not all,” Angela said. “If I’m going to sleep with him I’m going to star in the show too. No one can play Angela better than me.”

“Honey,” Larry said. “Producing’s one thing, but I have no control over the casting, that’s up to the studio and the network.”

“A moment ago you were promising me a part on the show!”

“A part, sure — not the fucking lead. I can get you an audition, but that’s it.”

“You mean I have to audition to play myself?”

Larry smiled, went, “Welcome to Hollywood, sweetie.”