Pimp (11 page)

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
?

What a place. I can feel the rats in the wall.
P
HANTOM
L
ADY

Max had lived in some shitholes in his time, try eking out a living in a bumfuck cell in Attica. So now, now it was live large.

PIMP was bigger than Max had ever imagined. His “It takes care of you” slogan was catching on, dealers all over the city using it to lure in customers. Max hired the fucks who’d worked for the scumbags he took out in Brooklyn and ran his business like an army. The business blew up faster than fucking Shake Shack. He was the general—you better fookin’ believe it—and he had his colonels, lieutenants, etcetera below him, all the way down to the dealers on the streets. After his bloody rampage in Brooklyn, Max was a freakin’ urban legend. They were calling him “The Red Devil.” The Max had a nickname!
Another
nickname. Fuck, it was like he was the villain in some comic book, but better, because there was no superhero to catch him.

Max was riding high, but he’d had enough lows in his life to know how things could go from sixty to zero in a hurry. He was cocky, fuck yeah, but he was also as paranoid as that kid in charge of North Korea. Nobody except his most trusted high-ups got any face time with him, and even they didn’t know his true identity.

With PIMP money flooding in, he’d bought a loft-style apartment—get this—across the street from the Manhattan North precinct, where that prick Miscali worked. While in jail, Max had read all the great true crime books and one of his faves was
Where the Money Was
by Willie Sutton. When Willie was
numero uno
on the
Mas Wanted
list, he holed up next door to a police station in Brooklyn. The rush he must’ve felt, saying fuck you to the cops every time they walked right by him! You had to have some
cojone
s to literally bring it to the enemy and Max and Willie were true
compadres
.

At Attica, Max had made many great contacts, including a queen who once decorated for Bernard Madoff. Out now, and Max had employed him to decorate. The guy had a lisp—not because he was a gay guy trying to blend in, an actual lisp—and a whole shitload of gratitude. He said to Max, “Darling, I am
tho
indebted.”

Max, thinking “put-on” and tiring of it, had said, “Yeah, whatever, now dazzle me with excess. Exceth. Whatever.”

And dazzle he did.

The loft was ablaze with white light, white leather furnishings, white floors and a huge bay window. That looked down at the precinct. Sometimes for kicks—in between visits from hookers—Max would use high-power binoculars to watch Detective Miscali and his partner going in and out of the precinct. What a total Fuck You, but it wasn’t enough. Sometimes Max, with dark sunglasses on, would take a stroll right past the precinct. A couple times, he walked past Miscali himself, and the dumb prick had no clue.

One evening, Max invited some of his new buyers over to his place for a shindig. One of the crew, an intense black guy with Jay-Z moves said, “The fuck is with all the white, yo?”

Max, like a Tony Soprano, read into this, thought the guy might be implying he wanted to make a move.

Max smiled, showing him some more of the white, and went, “New beginnings, a virginal setting.”

The guy said, “Man, you a crazy mofo living cross five-oh.”

Max didn’t like the crazy jab, showed disrespect, so he had a couple of his lieutenants slit the guy’s throat and dump him in landfill.

Later that evening, Max was chilling with some PIMP and a ho when Slav, one of his colonels, came and said, “Visitor to see you. A woman.”

“You know, no
visitors
get face time with the Red Devil.”

“She said she knows you from Attica.”

A woman from Attica? The only women who’d visited him in prison had been Angela and Paula Segal, that lesbo writer.

Max, sensing there was more to this, agreed to let her in.

The woman—longish gray hair, a nice body, though no rack there—entered as the hooker exited.

The woman said to the hooker, “May Jesus have mercy on your sinful soul,” and then Max got a good look at her face, thought,
Shit
.

“How’d you know I was back?” Max asked the nun.

She had ferret eyes, levelled them at him, said, “God told me.”

Uh-huh.

Max, in a robe like Hef, drained his champagne, counted to five, asked, “Did God mention me by name?”

She gave a knowing smile, the one exclusive to zealots and groupies, said, “God has oh-so-special plans for those who mock His Name, and you would do well to remember He knows all.”

Max, not missing a beat, asked, “He knows who’s gonna win the third at Belmont?”