Pimp (23 page)

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.

When things are bad, never complain, because things can always get worse.
J
EWISH
S
AYING

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:

Baby
,

You know how much I admire you, but I think success has gone to your head and you know how I just can’t deal with that bullshit. I’ve also discovered that I’m no longer attracted to women. As my rabbi in Israel often said, “Go know!” If you’re not shocked already, I know this part will come as a bigger shock to you so please breathe deeply before you read the rest. Have you exhaled the breath? Okay, here we go—Lars and I have gone to Sweden to make amateur porn. He says he can make me a big star in Sweden and I believe that God has a plan for me and this is my time to shine. By the time you read this we’ll be boarding our flight, so please don’t try to stop me. Also, please understand that I am not a person, I am passion. This is who I am and no one will ever be able to change me, especially not you.

Shalom
,

Kat

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.