Leonard, delighted, said, “Sylvester?”
“Fuck, man,” the kid said. “Y’all be on PIMP like all the hipsters?”
Then Joe said, “Seymour.”
The kid went, “Duh.”
Joe made a note of this, his gut churning. This whole case was bringing up a familiar sick feeling, but he wasn’t sure why.
They got in the car, threw the dope in the trunk. The kid moaned, “Hey, you can’t leave me without my product an’ shit.”
Joe said, “You’re right, here’s something you can sell,” and flipped him a rusty St. Christopher medal he’d found on the street.
Leonard cackled and as they drove off, he said, “That was like, low, man.”
Joe nearly smiled, said, “What can I tell you? I’m a piece of work.”
A couple weeks later, the suspect was still at large in the Harlem and Brooklyn shootings, and the Commissioner was coming down hard on the whole force, demanding an arrest. Joe was regretting his fifth coffee of the day, his gut felt like something putrid had curled up in there and died. He did what you do, began to chew on a jelly doughnut, mix it up.
Leonard sat on the edge of his desk, said, “You see the cooler of brews the new next-door tenant sent by?”
Joe, uninterested, went, “New tenant, huh?”
“Yeah, he’s throwing a little shindig for some movers and shakers, asked us to drop by, grab some eats.”
Joe smirked, said, “Partiers kissing ass with hot dogs so we don’t bust ’em, eh?”
Leonard stood, pushed, “Joe, c’mon, don’t be always hardcore, lighten up. Me and the guys going over there now, why not tag along?”
“Can’t see how it could in any way be of interest to me.”
Joe didn’t go.
A few hours later, Leonard came back, could barely stand.
“How was it?” Joe asked.
“Fuckin’ great, my main man.” Leonard tried to give Joe a high five, but missed, stumbled. Then he regained some balance and slurred, “Never saw the host though. Wall ta wall people in d’ere.”
Leonard already had his dick in his hand, on his way to the bathroom.
When Joe left, the party was still raging, hip-hop blasting. A party like that, right across from the precinct? Joe didn’t know who the host was, but he knew one thing — the cocksucker had some pair.
Six
All of us that started the game with a crooked cue, that wanted so much, and got so little, that meant so good and did so bad. All of us.
Larry got a smarmy doctor, Dr. Hoff — The Hoff, he called himself — to make a house call. Hoff was at one time attached to a major studio until he, um, overprescribed to a Batman actor and the guy bought the farm. Now he supplied Larry and other players in the biz with an abundance of scripts, and not the Final Draft variety.
Hoff examined the gunshot wound, went, “Not serious.”
Larry wanted to wallop him, said, “Not fucking serious for you. It hurts like a son of a bitch.”
A pause as they both knew this meant, Vike.
Hoff, wanting to at least feel appreciated, said, “Gunshot wound, you know I’m supposed to report this.”
Larry slapped him on the side of the head, said, “Yeah and I’m supposed to helm the next X-Men but like that’s gonna happen.”
Hoff handed him a couple of scripts, asked, “You going to report it?” He looked around, asked, “And, by the way, how’s your wife? Haven’t seen the little woman in a while.”
Something in his tone whipped Larry’s head around. He snapped,
“What’s that mean?”
Hoff sighed, went, “Well, it’s called manners, or even consideration.”
Larry took a long moment, wondering, Is the Hoff fucking my wife? Did they have a fight, a falling out, leading to the kidnapping? One time — maybe three months ago — he recalled Hoff calling his house, Hoff sounding surprised when Larry picked up.
“But why did you say you haven’t seen in her a while?” Larry asked.
“Because I haven’t?” Was Hoff confused or pretending to be confused?
“But you made a point of it. So I’m wondering why that is. If I haven’t seen somebody in a while I ask, Hey, how you been? I don’t make a point of saying it’s been a while.”
“I... I’m not following.”
“You drink Sam Adams, Doc?”
“What?” Hoff asked.
“Sam Adams. It’s a beer.”
“I know it’s a beer. Why do you care what kind of fucking beer I drink?”
“Hey, manners, Doc, manners,” Larry said.
“I don’t drink beer,” the doctor said.
Lying? Yeah, probably. Larry knew the face of a two-shit liar. He saw it in the mirror every morning.
Larry stared at him, went, “You know anything about two guys, Mo and Jo?”
Hoff squinted, went, “Who?”
“Mo and Jo. You know, as in bad mojo.”
The doc gathered up his stuff, muttered, “Story of my life.” Then added, “Better double on the Vike. I don’t wanna know what happened to you, but it’s fucking with your head.”
That evening, Larry, coasting on a Vike, called Brandi, said,
“Come by my place.”
She was surprised, asked if his wife minded.
Larry giving a bitter laugh said, “She’s got a whole load of other shit on her mind.”
When Brandi arrived, she was dressed in Lindsay Lohan mode, i.e., almost nothing and strutting it. Larry had wrangled some of the blue magic pills from the disgruntled doc and was indeed The Rod.
After the third round, she said, “Now that’s A-list baby.” She cooed and purred and added, “You’re the Hollywood sign, sugar.”
He poured them some lethal shots of tequila, said, “So Bust, what’s the story?”
“I already told you.”
“Tell me again. I’m a movie producer, I have fucking A.D.D. You think I pay attention to a pitch the first time around?”
She outlined the plot, about Max Fisher and Angela Petrakos, the drug dealing, the serial killing, the prison break. “It’s got it all. And best, it’s true.”
“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with these people?”
Brandi glared at him. “I thought you wanted crime stories.”
Larry shrugged. “Does she have to be half-Irish?”
“What do you have against the Irish?”
“I don’t know, but I think she’d be sexier if she was, I don’t know, Spanish. Maybe we could attach Salma Hayek.”
Larry didn’t care about the story, only the box office numbers, but he, yeah, okay, he wanted a shot at banging Salma Hayek.
“She’s Irish and she’s staying fookin Irish.” Don’t-fuck-with-me tone.
“Okay, baby, okay,” Larry said, not wanting to fuck with her. “Okay, so how’m I supposed to get the rights?”
Brandi smiled, the hook, said, “First off, my name isn’t really Brandi Love.”
“Somebody in Hollywood with a fake name, wow, shocking. What, you think my name’s really Larry Reed?”
“What’s your real name?”
“Laurence Olivier Horowitz. No, shit, my mother was a big Olivier fan, loved him in Carrie, not the Carrie you’re thinking of, another fucking Carrie. Me, named after a B-flick. Shoulda known, right?”
“I don’t get it,” Brandi said. “So why don’t you use the name Laurence Olivier? If my name was Marilyn Monroe or, fook, Marilyn Manson, I’d fookin use it.”
“Thought about it,” Larry said, “but it’s too British. Nobody trusts a Brit in Hollywood — why do you think Piers Morgan got voted off Celebrity Apprentice? Besides, Larry Reed, is snappy, it’s cool. When you hear Larry Reed, you think Lou Reed. It’s called subliminal influence. I’m serious, don’t laugh. A name says a lot about a person.”