Pimp (10 page)

“Fine, Larry’s out,” she said, “but there are two conditions—I want the same deal you get with the network, and I get to audition to play myself in the show. I know that no one could play that role better than me.”

“That can be arranged,” Darren said.

They shook. Darren’s hand was small and in Angela’s experience the ol’ adage was true. She felt sorry for Darren’s husband.

Though who knew, maybe Darren was strictly a catcher.

“Looks like this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Darren said smiling.

Angela, smiling with him, thinking,
Or not
.

If you remove noir from the mystery novel you’re left with a vague cut above chick lit.
KB
AND
JS

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
,
Kirku
s, 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?