Pimp (21 page)

Noir is the swift kick in the nuts you get just as you are about to cross the finish line to win the race.
D
ANA
K
ABEL

The murder of Sister Alison, in broad daylight in a famous Manhattan church, was the story of the year. The Mayor and even the Pope were outraged, and the public wanted justice.

Miscali was on the firing line for his C.O. who opened with, “The fuck is with nuns being offed on my patch?”

Miscali liked things to be at least technically accurate, dared, “Actually, sir, just one nun, and it’s the church’s patch.”

His C.O. went ape, screamed, “Freaking sarcasm, from a dumb flatfoot who’s always a day late and many fucking dollars short.”

Miscali saw many things wrong with the sentence but decided to forgo any further correction, went with, “I’m on it, sir.”

Later, Miscali tracked down a witness, an old woman who claimed she’d seen a heavyset, red-haired man leaving the church who looked like “Satan himself.” Some grainy video of a guy who could’ve been the man the old woman had described was picked up by a security camera near the church. Watching the video, Joe had a nauseous feeling, something churning in his gut and he wasn’t sure why.

In bed, in the middle of a sleepless, acid indigestion night, it hit.

He watched the video again and muttered, “Philip Seymour Hoffman.”

Then Joe remembered a guy bumping into him on the street the other day, maybe last week. It was all coming into focus, like a Polaroid he wasn’t sure he wanted to see. The party invite, PIMP, the murders in Harlem and Brooklyn. Had Max Fisher been living right across from the precinct?

Joe rushed to the bathroom and threw up the veal parm special he’d had before sleep. Fisher was like Jason from
Friday the Thirteenth
, no end to his sequels. Put even
Rocky
to shame, even if you counted De Niro and Stallone in that lame one-last-pull at the franchise tit.

Joe called Leonard, got him up to speed.

“Jesus Christ,” Leonard moaned, half asleep, “not with your Fisher obsession again.”

“I’m tellin’ you,” Joe said. “This time’s different.”

“That’s what you said before you flew to Boca on the Department’s dime.”

“I’ll be by in ten.”

Joe and Leonard went to the apartment building across from the precinct, asked about the tenant in the penthouse.

“Sean Mullen,” the doorman said. “Lovely man. Moved out yesterday.”

Joe and Leonard rode the elevator to the penthouse. Buzzed, no answer. Thanks to 9/11 and ass-fucking civil liberties there was a law in New York that cops could enter an apartment with no warrant if there was a suspicion of drug use.

Joe said to Leonard, “I smell pot, don’t you?” and he busted down the door.

The place was huge, but empty.

“Wow,” Leonard said, “just the other night the place was rockin’.”

But then, in the empty master bedroom, in the middle of the floor, Joe saw it.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he said, bagging the evidence.

“What’s holy shit?” Leonard said. “So you found some book.”

“Not any book,” Joe said. “This is
Bust
, the bestselling book about Max Fisher.”

“This
is
shocking.” Leonard smirked. “You know how to read?”

“I don’t have to read, I read the papers,” Joe said. Then, realizing the stupidity of this, covered with, “Don’t you get it? That’s why Fisher was living here, right across from us, and that’s why he left the book. He’s trying to fuck with my head.”

“And it’s working. Joe, seriously, I’m talkin’ as a friend here. You need a vacation.”

“Fuck you,” Joe said.

At the precinct, Joe updated his C.O., starting with, “We have a witness.”

The C.O. blessed himself with scorn dripping from every movement, said, “Al-ee-fucking-looyah. Do tell me you at least talked to her, or is that way too much to hope for?”

Joe felt a tiny bit of pride, not much but a shitload more than had been going round, said, “Not only an I.D. but I immediately got on the horn with the airlines and
result
, the alleged perp is not only the one and only Max Fisher but he’s on his merry way to L.A.”

“Whoa, slow down,” the C.O. said. “Max Fisher?”

Joe told him about the book he’d found and said, “I think Max Fisher is the Red Devil, I think he killed that woman in Harlem and those dealers in Brooklyn, and he’s responsible for the PIMP epidemic that’s sweeping the country.”

“Maybe he blew up that Malaysian airplane too.”

“I’m serious,” Joe said. “I don’t have all the evidence yet, but if I go to L.A.—”

“You’re not going to fucking L.A.,” the C.O. said. “You’re gonna stay here and get me a break, a real break, in the Sister Alison case, or you can kiss your pension goodbye.”

Joe had his own doubts, thought Fisher might be deliberately driving him insane, but when you’re obsessed you’re fucked and by late afternoon he was sitting in the middle of a three-seat row on a crowded flight to LAX out of Newark. Crammed in by a fat guy reading a lurid paperback called
The Pack
and a quietly sobbing woman to his right. The AC was on the blink and Joe felt he was drinking the fat guy’s sweat. The woman meanwhile had increased her sobbing. Joe, sipping the Fifth he’d brought in a Starbucks container, asked, “You all right, ma’am?”

She stopped instantly, whirled round to glare at Joe.

She asked, “You what, the feelings police? A person can’t have a moment of dignified grief without some cocksucker mocking her?”

Joe looked to the fat guy for help, but the guy was engrossed in the novel and making little oh-fuck-me purrs of delight. Joe took a healthy swig of the bourbon, said, “Sorry for caring.”

Oops.

Her voice was up, she shrilled, “You care? You know me? Why do you care, you looking for a pity grope, that it, you pervert?”

The flight attendant arrived, all perfume and impatience, demanded, “Everything all right here?”

With a sigh, Joe flashed his gold and everything quieted down. After take-off the woman leaned into Joe, asked, “Wanna join the mile high club?”

To avoid having to field any more such offers, Joe got talking to the guy on his other side. Tongue loosened by the bourbon, he mentioned the nun’s murder, the fact that it was the first such slaying in a decade. The guy reluctantly put aside
The Pack
, said, “That is just shocking.”

Joe nodded, and in an almost literate mood, said, “Agreed—a nun’s death diminishes us all.”

The guy gave him a look of utter scorn, said, “You gotta be kidding, Columbo, I meant they weren’t killing half enough of the bitches.”

It was only later, when Joe, halfway sober again, was unpacking in his two-bit motel near LAX, that he realized he’d nicked the guy’s novel.

* * *

Joe was enough of a cop to know that in a foreign land, even if that foreign land is L.A., you call in the locals. Not only do they know the ground but you save them burning your ass later.

Joe used a contact back in NYC to hook him up with a detective from the Hollywood Division, a woman named Gaylin. Being a cop in Hollywood, she looked more like a movie star than a flatfoot. Light-skinned black and she was built. Her rack had Joe slightly stupefied.

He went to her, “You’re like for real a serious cop?”

Nothing like getting off on the wrong foot. She stared at him for a long minute, a guy in a bad suit, tie askew, a shirt from Primark, and his face reflecting a long line of cheap cigars, rotten coffee, too many jelly doughnuts.

She went, “You get it that for us to deal with the movie crowd, we have to blend.”

Joe attempted a hint of humor, said, “I’d say you managed that.”

She got right in his face, snarled, “Don’t fucking patronize me, dickwad. It’s my playpen, you get to ride along. Your job is to stop staring at my tits, it’s embarrassing.”

Joe, a tiny bit turned on by the reprimand, went, “I’m all yours.”

Got, “I try to avoid infections.”

Their first call was on Becker, one of the producers of
Bust
. He seemed on edge, far from happy to have cops all over the TV show he was about to film. He said, “Those pictures were Photoshopped, I wasn’t at those pool parties.”

Joe looked at Gaylin then back at Becker and went, “Pool parties?”

“Oh,” Becker said. “That’s not why… Never mind. What’s this about?”

“Max Fisher,” Joe said. “You know him?”

“I know
of
him.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s the subject of my new TV show.”

“Have you met him recently?”

Becker smiled. Did this guy putt from the rough? Joe was pretty sure he did.

“What’s the smile for?” Joe asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Well, I assume Fisher’s dead, isn’t he?” Becker asked.

“We have reason to believe he may not be dead.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“We think he’s been living in New York City,” Joe said, “dealing a new drug called PIMP, you may have heard of it.”

“It’s been in the news,” Becker said.

“He altered his appearance,” Joe said, “may have had plastic surgery. He’s still not exactly going to win any beauty contests. He has red hair, they’re calling him the Red Devil on the streets. People say he looks like Philip Seymour Hoffman now—post autopsy.”

“Are you fucking shitting me?” Becker seemed excited. “I’m gonna have to work this into the show.”

“Fuck your show,” Joe said. “Have you met a man named Sean Mullen?”

“Sean who?”

“That may be Fisher’s new identity.”

“Look, I’m just trying to make a TV show here,” Larry said. “At least get a pilot shot. I mean it’s been one thing after another on this thing. You should’ve seen the people involved in this project, stuffed into my office like a fucking Marx Brothers movie. I thought somebody would open the door and we’d all tumble into the hallway. We haven’t even started rolling yet and there hasn’t been a production with this much drama since LiLo did
The Canyons.”

Joe sighed, then said, “Be a damn shame to shut down the whole operation cause of one douchebag.”

Becker got all antsy, moaned, “Look I told you I have no idea where Fisher is and I doubt my producing partner knows either.”

“Who’s your producing partner?” Joe asked.

“Her name’s Brandi Love,” Becker said, “but she’s gone for the day, personal business.”

Joe wrote the name in a pad, muttering, “Sounds like a porno name.” Then, “Any more names for us?”

“Bill Moss,” Becker said.

“Who’s Bill Moss?” Joe asked.

“He’s writing the pilot,” Darren said. “He’s been researching Fisher. He’d know more than me.”

“Where do we find this gentleman?” Gaylin asked.

Becker gave her the once over, said, “She speaks. I thought you were here to take notes.”

Gaylin smiled and it transformed her, made her looked like Halle Berry, and how great is that?

She asked in a demure tone, “You’re an industry guy, ever hear of the Hollywood hop?”

Becker was into it now, going with the mellow vibe, asked, “That a book I should option?”

She let her weight shift to her right then stomped ferociously on Becker’s instep. He roared and hobbled over to his desk.

She said, “Get Moss’s address and then hop back here with it.”

Back in their car, Gaylin pulled out into traffic, a small smile playing on her lips, said, “Like the kids go, let’s bounce.”

Joe was in love, and almost didn’t hear her when she said, “Tell me about this Fisher. I heard some shit but surely no one guy could have caused all the havoc they claim.”

Where to begin? Joe said, “This guy is like Keyser, the fuck’s his name? Whoozie? You know, that movie. He’s like a ghost, but trails mayhem and homicide like bad news.”

Gaylin, focusing on her driving, asked, “Keyser?”

“You know, Kevin What The Fuck’s His Name played him.”

“Costner?”

“You don’t see a lot of movies, do you?”

She threw him a look, said, “I work with these fuckheads every day, clean up after them, you think I want to pay twelve bucks for anything they produce?”

Joe smiled. She had a pair, this one.

He said, “Reason Fisher is still in the game, still free, is people underestimate the schmuck, they see this fat jerkoff, in fucking love with himself, and they let down their guard. The tighter, more hopeless the jam, the more bodies he leaves behind.”

Gaylin digested this, then went, “Guess we’ll have to go the Hollywood route.”

Did she mean traffic?

She added, “Shoot the fuck in slow motion.”

Joe didn’t for a moment think she was kidding.

* * *

She dropped Joe at his rental, said she had to get back to pick up her kid from daycare.

Joe, feeling the hit in his gut, asked, “You’re married?”

“I look that dumb?” she said. “Divorced twice.”

Back in business, Joe said, “Join the club.”

Was he imagining it or did he and Gaylin have a connection? He had the light, weightless feeling of falling in love; who the fuck cared that this always led to disaster?

He went to see Bill Moss.

Noir…all those beautiful sentences telling you the most terrible things.
R
OBERT
P
OLITO

In his bungalow apartment in Venice Beach Bill Moss was antsy, big-time. He’d just taken a call from some New York cop who was coming by to “ask some questions about
Bust
.” Was that just bullshit and was he really coming to talk about Mo? Yeah, probably.

Bill looked at his laptop, Final Draft open to the
Bust
screenplay, and man, it had been flying. The words tumbling over each other in an attempt to outshine anything he’d ever written before. He was into the Drano scene, but wasn’t using the dialogue Segal and Stiegsson had written. They were fucking novelists; what did they know about screenwriting? Even Faulkner and Goodis had gotten the shit kicked out of them out here.

Bill stopped typing for a moment, nearly laughed, saw that image of the Drano melting through the skin of the dead psycho and thought,
Fuckit, I’m the real deal, the big cheese, a Matt Weiner of word alchemy
. Hot on this thought was lurking paranoia. The lingering stench of having offed Mo was like a constant whisper of,
You are so fucked, Jose
.