Pimp

Eight

Paula was over the freaking moon. You spend years being fucked over and, more importantly, passed over and then, out of nowhere, a call, to say, “We would like to publish your novel, Bust.”

From Charles Ardai himself. Oh heavens to Ardai-betsy. This was it, the break she finally had almost given up on.

Paula had met Charles a few years ago at a meeting of the Outdoor Co-Ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society, a bunch of girls who got their tits out in city parks and such, supposedly as a feminist statement but really because they were bi as all get-out and wanted to bang each other. She’d lounged around topless in Central Park with the other sexy babes, reading Lawrence Block, James M. Cain, and Christa Faust. Charles showed up to deliver the reading material. He was a classy guy — she only saw him drool once or twice — but they didn’t talk books at all, and at the time she never dreamed she’d ever be published by Hard Case herself.

The publication news was even sweeter because just a few months earlier she didn’t think the book would get written at all. Working with Stiegsson had been a nightmare, with the little Rumplestiltskin’s constant fretting and middle-of-the-night texts and e-mails — We must change this line of dialogue, Max Fisher would never say this; I must write the sex scenes because I understand heterosexual sex much better than you do — it went on and on. The Swede couldn’t write Irish or American dialogue, so Paula had to do all of the heavy lifting, and, worst of all, he was humorless, as bleak as Stellan Freakin’ Skarsgard. Paula, of course, was known for her sardonic wit. Marilyn Stasio had used the word “droll” in that Times review, David Montgomery had called her “witty” on his blog, and in declining a blurb request Charlaine Harris had written Paula that one of the books in her St. Martin’s series “made me chuckle.” The only one who disagreed was some putz at Booklist who’d called her humor “forced,” but that guy didn’t know noir from shinola.

Oh, the other thing with Stiegsson — he was constantly trying to have cybersex with her. In the Skype sessions he’d say, “Please, one time, your naked breasts, I save screenshot.” No matter how many times she told him she was gay it didn’t seem to register. Didn’t they have dykes in Sweden?

Though there were times she regretted the decision to write with the horny Swede, they somehow hit their stride in the book while writing the chapters with Dillon and Angela — Stiegsson, maybe from personal experience, did write great psychos — and they seriously got in gear writing the chapter where Bobby Rosa, the paraplegic, busts into the hotel room and takes the damning photo of Max and Angela. That’s when Paula sent Lars an excited email of her own in the middle of the night — I have the title: how about BUST??? — and after that the book seemed to take on a life of its own.

As the publication date approached, expectations were low. Lars wasn’t even planning to come to America for the book launch as there was no money for a tour. Paula had done many St. Martin’s tours, on her dime, for low-print-run books, and knew this was a surefire way to get dropped and go broke — a double kick in the cunt. Charles had arranged for a few features, including one by Tom Callahan in Penthouse. Paula was disappointed that they didn’t ask her to pose in the buff — it prompted her to write a long tirade about ageism in the pictorial biz on her blog — but it was a nice shout-out for the book.

Then came starred reviews in Publisher’s Weekly, Kirkus, and even one from the noir hater at Booklist. Thanks to Ken Tucker, the book was number one on EW’s Must List and the TV rights were purchased by Darren Becker, an A-list Hollywood producer, and the show was immediately set up at Lionsgate, the studio behind some of the biggest TV shows and movies — Mad Men, The Follower, The Hunger Games, Blitz.

A few days later, a call from Janet Ortiz, Paula’s new literary agent: “I have some great news for you, Paula. Bust is debuting at Number 7 on New York Times bestseller list.”

Paula wasn’t shocked. The news really only proved what she’d always known about herself. For years she’d been a literary sensation trapped in the skin of a midlist author, and now this was her time to shine.

With number one on the list in sight, Hard Case had arranged for Lars to come to the city after all, for press interviews and to read at the Barnes & Noble at Union Square, and then go on to events in several other cities.

Paula got a call from Charles: “Can you turn Bust into a trilogy?”

Paula replied: “Does Reed Coleman co-write?”

Paula revealed that Bust would become a trilogy in a New York Times Magazine feature, saying that the second book in the series would be called Slide and the third The Max. Hard Case was already busily designing the covers.

The day Darren Becker’s check cleared, it was goodbye Williamsburg couch, hello loft in DUMBO. And it was goodbye IKEA, hello Bobby Flay’s decorator.

Celebrate? You better fucking believe it. Dressed to kill, short black leather mini, the drill heels, white silk top and short leather jacket, looked in the mirror, cooed, “Girl, I could bed you myself, you hot author, you.”

There were rumors Bust was the frontrunner for the Edgar Award for best paperback original, and Paula was already preparing her speech, a blend of humility and humor, finishing with, “Lippman, you my bitch now.”

At a bar in Bushwick. Dangerous? She sure hoped so. Had her can of pepper spray and a cute silver .22 she’d got from a Russian wino. She knew about the bar from Crimespree Magazine, Jon Jordan wrote how Open Road Media used it to film mystery writers at play.

What-the-fuck-ever.

Place was hopping. She ordered a large vodka, slim-line tonic, moved to the rear to see if maybe she might set a scene from Slide in here. A sharp-looking guy literally handed her a joint as he cruised by; it was that kind of evening and she thought, as she inhaled deep, she might persuade Charles to have the next launch party here, get that street vibe jumping. Show that even though she was literary now, she could still slum it with the mystery writers.

Her mind was on overdrive, she could already see Stephen King writing an intro to the ninth edition of Bust, or Stevie, as she would then be calling him.

Then she felt eyes on her and turned to see a goth, or at least a chick in all black, glaring at her.

The fuck with that.

Paula was armed in every sense. As a now-successful writer, she was bulletproof, snarled, “Help you with something?” Paused, then added, “B... I... T... C... H.”

The woman — girl, really — moved closer. She had jet-black hair, deep brown eyes and a body to melt for. She asked, “Did you just call me bitch?”

Paula felt a frisson, as the A-list might term it, cooed, “Just to get your attention, babe.”

Indecision hovered over the girl for a moment, then curiosity won. She asked, “Are you like... somebody?”

Paula gave her best smile, part warmth but mostly manipulation, said, “Oh, you have no idea.”

The girl seemed to visibly relax, said, “Oh good, I’m somebody too.”

Paula seriously doubted it, the chances of two celebrities in one dive, like, hello?

But she was feeling mellow from the weed, so went, “Really...” It came out almost British: Railly! “...and pray tell, child, who that is?”

Summoning up all her energy, the girl said, “The forgotten one, the invisible member of the most famous American family.”

Paula thought, the Obamas? No. Surely not the Brady Bunch? No, those chicks had to be grandmothers by now.

She fake yawned, went, “I give up.”

The girl stared at her dainty feet, whispered, “Kat... Kat Kardashian.”

Paula would’ve laughed, thought it was a bad pickup line, if, holy shit, the chick didn’t look like a combo of Kim and Khloe and a little Kourtney in there too. And, yessirree, she had the family big ass. Paula was a fan of a nice derriere.

Though it was still hard to believe to believe that a Kardashian was out looking for rough trade at a dyke dive bar in Bushwick.

“You’re really one of them?” Paula asked.

Kat rattled off a story of how she’d been estranged from her family for years.

“I wasn’t into money and material things so they rejected me. Since high school I’ve been living on a kibbutz in Israel. You don’t believe me, look...” She took out her iPhone and thumbed through old photos from her childhood and, son of a bitch, there was the young Kat, with Kim, Khloe, Kourtney, and the dad — the one whose claim to fame was that he’d helped Marcia Clark fuck up the O.J. case — on exotic beach vacations and ski trips. There were more recent pictures of her on a kibbutz, hugging a rabbi.

“Fuck me,” Paula said, double meaning intended.

On cue, Kat rested her hand on Paula’s thigh, and said, “Oh, don’t worry, I will, honey.”

Paula hadn’t picked up anyone at a bar in a long time. The last time she’d tried was at a bar in Attica, New York, when she went up there to visit Max Fisher. Attica, not exactly a party town, and worse, a lesbian-free zone, at least on the night Paula was there.

During a break in the action at the loft in Dumbo, sweaty bodies intertwined, Kat asked, “So who are you?”

“I told you... my name’s Paula.”

“I didn’t ask you what your name is. I asked you who you are.”

Bitchy, yeah, but sexy.

“I mean you have to be somebody,” Kat went on. “Kick-ass apartment, view of the Brooklyn Bridge. Please, just don’t tell me you’re a Hilton.”

“Do you know Bust?” Paula asked.

“I know yours now,” Kat said, squishing closer.

“No, I mean the bestselling novel, Bust, soon to be a TV show from Lionsgate Entertainment.”

“Oh, that Bust,” Kat said. “I think I read a review in People while I was tearing out the cover story on Kim and Kanye.”

“It was reviewed in People?” Paula, asked, full of shit. She’d fucking memorized that rave even though she’d said in the Times Mag story, “I never read my reviews.” The moral? Don’t believe anything you read in the Times even if it isn’t by Jayson Blair.

“Yes, and it was a good one too,” Kat said. “I think I’ve seen that book on the front page of Amazon.”

“You probably have,” Paula said pseudo-modestly.

“And you wrote it? Are you serious?” Kat’s face was glowing. “Wow, it looks like I’m the starfucker, not you. I just have a name, but you are a name.”

“No, you are the name, hon,” Paula said, as it hit her that this was it — the final piece of her puzzle of literary domination.

If anybody wanted to make it to the top these days, if you wanted that extra jolt of cachet, you needed to have a relationship with a Kardashian on your resume. Even if you break up, a Kardashian in your past could help catapult you, or at least get you a reservation at a hot restaurant, sipping the wine right alongside Donna Tartt and Jay McInerny. And not just literary fame — fame fame. Move over Ellen and Rachel, the world of gay women was going to have a new spokeswoman. Hell, it was only a matter of time till Paula had her own TV show. Hello, red carpet. She’d call her show Paula and it would become the new Oprah.

She turned Kat onto her back and was on top, pinning her down.

“What’re you doing?” Kat asked.

Paula kissed her hard, went, “Sealing the deal, you naughty kitty Kat, you.”

A few days later Paula arrived arm in arm with Kat at the Barnes & Noble on Union Square for the big reading/signing/discussion of Bust.

Here she was, back at the store she had been tossed out of when she’d sort of, well, assaulted Laura Lippman, but now she was returning, as a literary star herself. She’d have to put this in the next book.

Of course Paula was dressed to impress. Hot pants were back, where had they gone? A tight two-sizes-too-small T-shirt that would look like she and Jennifer Aniston hung out and swapped clothes.

The store was crowded. Didn’t they say reading was dead? The news hadn’t filtered down to these yuppies. Mind you, they were reading but not fucking buying, unless it was a triple grande light decaffeinated vanilla latte. But they were reading, and they were here in the store. What Paula didn’t get was why people weren’t swarming her. Didn’t they read Penthouse? It was hard to believe that everyone was like her and just looked at the pictures. Where were the cameras? With a Kardashian in tow the masses were just letting her, like, pass by?

For a fleeting moment it occurred to her that she was behaving a lot like Max Fisher. Was it possible that, like many authors, she’d become too close to her subject? She’d come to know Max so well — his delusional thoughts, his megalomania, his addictions. It was why she’d been able to pull off writing Max as a character, getting in his head, making him seem so real. But had she gone too far? Had she crossed the proverbial line and actually become him?

But like Max would, she shrugged off these concerns with, “Ah, fuck it,” and continued through the store.

Heading up the escalator, it was hard for Paula not to get sentimental, but she couldn’t cry in front of the public and photographers — there had to be photographers around somewhere, right? She went up to the top floor to get a peek of her adoring fans. Would she have more than Hillary Clinton?

Whoa, what the fuck, she had maybe fifty people here, and some were in chairs, drinking coffee and reading magazines, and may not have come for the reading. While fifty people was forty-nine more people than she’d had at the last reading she’d done when the publicist at St. Martin’s Press was setting up her events — and the one attendee was the publicist herself — for a bestselling author of her caliber it was a disgrace.

“This is a disgrace!” she shouted.

“Calm down, baby,” Kat said. “All will be well. Everyone’s probably at the coffee bar.”

It was so soothing to have a Kardashian by her side. Kat was like the pony, leading the racehorse to the starting gate.

There was Charles Ardai engaged in a conversation with Lars Stiegsson, taking about porn, or whatever straight men talk about. Paula blew a kiss to Charles, but he was too engrossed to notice her. Paula’s agent Janet came over to Kat and seemed enamored when she heard the word, “Kardashian.”

“Where are my fans?” Paula whined to Janet. “Where are my handlers?”

So much for soothing.

“I’m not sure,” Janet said distractedly. Then to Kat, “So what was it like on the kibbutz?”

“Never mind, I’ll do it myself,” Paula said, and stormed away.

This was perfect — a tantrum, that’s what all the celebs did, right? Maybe she should start toppling bookshelves, kicking and punching security. It would be very AlecBaldwinian; was TMZ here? In the aftermath, she could blame her fame, then admit she had a problem and check in for some rehab, and then get out, pull a Lindsay, and go on a coke binge. Or what was that new drug she’d read about, the one related to those shootings in Brooklyn? PIMP. Yeah, PIMP. She’d go on a PIMP binge.

Paula returned to the ground floor, still surprised she hadn’t already been stopped numerous times for autographs, and sashayed to the information desk. That’s right, sashayed, because she was the new female literary star and that meant she could be as big of a sexy tart as she wanted to be. Goldfinch that.

She approached a lanky James Bond type at the desk.

The guy said, “Help you?” The accent was southern, and it sounded polite but not interested. The clothes weren’t speaking to him, probably one of those schmucks who did stuff to sheep. She adopted her best little-girl-lost voice, never failed, whimpered, “I’m Paula Segal. I’m reading here tonight.”

Being modest about it, but not because she was feeling modest. Saying with her modesty that I’m such a big deal, I can afford to be modest.

“Oh wow,” the guy said. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’ll get the Events Manager, but first...” He reached under the desk, brought out an advance copy of Bust and said, “Signature only.”

“Selling it on eBay, huh?” Paula asked.

The guy’s face flushed as if she had nailed it.

As she was signing the book, she asked, “Where you from?”

“Florida panhandle.”

Yep, definitely a sheep fucker. Good thing Paula wasn’t wearing wool, the guy wouldn’t be able to control himself.

Paula was waiting for the Events Manager when she saw a fat guy in a crumpled suit chewing on a disgusting cigar and staring at her. She knew he wasn’t about to make her the next supermodel, gave him the finger.

He smiled and she thought, Whack job.

He came over, said, “A moment of your time, Paula.”

Was he a fan? And with no book, of course? Did they even sell books at this store anymore, or was it really a giant coffee bar? And where was her publicist to protect her from this vermin?

“I can’t sign now,” Paula said.

“I don’t want you to sign anything,” he said.

“What the hell’s wrong with you people?” Paula screamed. “Don’t you understand that this is a bookstore? Meaning a store that sells books?”

He showed a badge, went, “Joe Miscali, Manhattan North.”

The name registered. She knew Miscali, of course, as she knew all the major players in Max Fisher’s life. He was the partner of Kenneth Simmons, the cop who was killed by Angela Petrakos’ boyfriend. Simmons was a major character in Bust. While Miscali appeared in Bust as well, Paula had renamed him “Fusilli,” a shout-out to her writer friend, Jim Fusilli.

She shot back, “A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, officer?”

She had no idea if this were true but had seen it on Law & Order and had stolen it for the book.

He smiled, displaying nicotine-stained teeth, said, “Max Fisher.” Added, “A moment of your time.”

Could she refuse? Sure, but then what? Besides, she was curious.

She muttered, “Okay,” and he led the way to, naturally, the coffee bar.

Paula was definitely more curious than upset. Why was Miscali asking about Max Fisher? Fisher was officially on the Most Wanted list, but she hadn’t heard about any Fisher sightings in years.

“Get yah?” Miscali asked.

The future Pulitzer winner said, “A decaf frappe.”

He almost sounded friendly, said, “Take a seat.”

She did. Noticed a long-black-haired guy in the corner, rattling like a demon on his laptop and stopping periodically to laugh out loud then re-attack the keys with ferocity. Now that was the kind of guy she wanted to write with, not Stiegsson, whining about how it was too dark in Sweden to write, or whatever his complaint du jour was. Maybe when she got to book four in the series — she needed a good, snappy title for that one — she’d look this guy up.

The cop was back, placed the coffees on the table with two wedges of carbo nightmare Danish. Like she could, and watch the shit go right to her hips? No way, Jose. Not when she was looking to get into talk shows.

He said, “I shouldn’t,” then took a massive bite out of the Danish. “Oh... ugh... holy fuck, that’s good.” Then he wiped his mouth with a napkin, said, “Okay, to business. Where’s Fisher?”

“Why would you think I know where Fisher is?”

“You wrote a book about him.”

“About him. Why does that mean I know where he is? And he’s presumed dead, isn’t he? Is that what you are now, a ghost detective?”

Unamused, he said, “Have you had any contact with him since the Attica riot and his escape or not?”

She was astounded, said, “I’m astounded.”

He wasn’t buying. “You were part of his... circle before all the smoke in Canada.”

She composed herself, which meant she pushed her rack in his fat face, said, “I’m a writer, I write about lowlife, I don’t hang out with them. Well, aside from those Irish writers who come to mystery conferences, but you get my drift.”

“Yeah? You got a big book out there. Looks like you got lucky, huh?”

She was livid. Did Laura L. have to endure this kind of condescending attitude?

She tried for haughty, went, “I’m working with a European writer now. Maybe you saw his name on the posters in the window. He’s upstairs right now, in fact.”

“I’m not interested in the Swede, honey, I’m interested in you.”

“Are you harassing me, Officer?”

“Excuse me?”

“Honey?”

“Huh?”

“You called me fucking honey.”

“Jesus, it’s a figure of speech. It’s not like I called you a whore for fuck’s sake. Tell me, when exactly was the last time you spoke to Fisher?”

She refused to answer this. She looked over at the long-haired guy. He was still banging on the keys, oblivious to the world. Her type of guy. If she were straight she would’ve been all over him.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said through a mouthful of Danish. “When was the last time you saw him.”

“At Attica,” Paula said.

“I mean since then.”

“I haven’t seen him since then. I thought he was dead like everybody else.”

“He’s not dead.”

“How do you know?”

“A hunch.”

“That’s how you investigate these days? On hunches?”

“I’ll do my job and you do your job.”

“I want to do my job. My job is to greet my fans.”

“Some job.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean you get one lucky hit, you get some PR, and you think you wrote the next Godfather.”

“I don’t think it, honey, I know it.”

“Where the fuck is Fisher?”

“Okay, I admit it, I know where he is.” Paula paused then said, “He’s hiding out in Pakistan. Maybe you should send Kathryn Bigelow to go get him.”

The cop was standing, put his card on the table, said, “Fisher will show up, especially now that your book is out.” He’d said book with total disgust, as if it were the name of a disease, and now added, “Fisher is predictable, he’ll be in touch, always returns to those he knew. When he does, call me.”

Then he was gone, leaving her with the remains of the Danish staring at her. She resisted for all of a minute, then snatched it, swallowed half, drooled, “Oh God, that is so good.”

The sugar high only lasted a brief time but during the buzz, she wondered, Was Fisher actually alive?