“Well, I’m afraid my name isn’t the only thing I lied to you about,” Brandi said.
Here we go. After his last girl on the side said that to him he wound up having to go to the Hoff to treat a bad case of syphilis.
“You don’t have syphilis, do you?” he asked. “’Cause I don’t think you get immune to that, like chicken pox.”
“Nope, no syphilis,” Brandi said. “That I know of anyway. But I hope you’ve had genital herpes.”
Was she joking? He couldn’t tell. He forced a smile, hoping so.
“But it’s my background I haven’t been entirely truthful about,” she went on. “It’s true I’m an actress, but I’ve mostly done porn, and there’s a reason why I changed my name, and it wasn’t for my acting career. At least not initially.”
Larry, still thinking about herpes, wondering if that’s why L-Rod had seemed kind of itchy this morning, couldn’t follow what she was saying.
“Okay, okay, so who are you?” he asked, agitated.
“Angela. Angela Petrakos. And don’t let the Greek exterior fool you, I’m like one of those Oreos they serve on St. Patty’s Day — green on the inside.”
The fuck was this crazy chick talking about?
“Am I supposed to know an Angela Petrakos?” Larry asked.
“Have you been listening to a fookin’ word I’m saying? Bust. I’m the star of Bust, that fookin’ book by Stiegsson and Segal, it’s all about me. It’s my life. Max Fisher, you might know him as The Max, is my ex. But that’s another story. Or part of the main story, depending how you look at it.”
“Hold up,” Larry said. “You’re saying you’re a character in this novel?”
“It’s not a novel, it’s my life,” Angela said. “These people, these writers, are fookin’ criminals, they stole my life. I deserved that money, it’s mine, fookin’ mine. Fook, the pain I’ve met falling for the wrong men — Max Fisher, Thomas Dillon, Slide — yeah, that Slide — Sebastian, Rufus — and I’m not getting’ a fookin’ cent of it?”
“Okay, back up, back up,” Larry said. “I wanna make sure I’m getting this straight. You’re in this book so you think, what, that entitles you to a piece of the TV show?”
“Not just a piece,” Angela said. “A fookin’ chunk.”
“Sweetheart, that’s not the way it works,” Larry said. “The producer, I remember now, I think I saw in the trades, it’s Darren Becker. He probably optioned the book or, knowing Darren, purchased the rights outright.”
“I don’t give a shite who purchased them,” she said. “Where I come from in Ireland we pay in cash and possession is eleven tenths of the law.”
Larry shook his head, as in, Did I need this shit today? and said, “I don’t need this shit today.” Added, “I don’t think you get the way things work in this town, sweetheart.” Talking down on purpose to the ditzy broad. “This isn’t fuckin’ Bollywood where they fuck buying the rights and steal the damn book. If Becker has the rights to the book now, it’s his, he owns it. No one else can make it except Darren Becker.”
Larry went to sit where his favorite club chair, the one from Crate & Barrel, had been, and fell onto his ass.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I think I broke my hip.”
“Only thing you’ll break is my eardrums with yer whining,” Angela said. “Get the fook up, ye wimp.”
She was psycho and bitchy as hell but, yeah, he was kind of into it. She’d look good in some tight black-leather getup, holding a whip.
”Up,” she barked. “You need to help me with this situation.”
Larry struggled to his feet and said, “I have another situation here, a little more important than making a TV show. As you noticed, my wife isn’t home.”
“Yeah, I noticed your wound before, too,” Angela said. “Figured you offed the cow.”
Was she kidding?
“She was taken,” Larry said, “and unfortunately I’m not Liam fuckin Neeson, or his stunt man, so I can’t exactly hunt down the guys that did it.”
“Who took her?” Angela asked. She seemed comfortable, like she was in her element, talking about kidnapping.
“Mo and Jo,” Larry said.
“Like the Three Stooges?”
“It’s two people, not three, and there’s no Stooge named Jo.” Was he seriously having this conversation? “Actually I think my doctor might be in on it.”
“Your doctor?”
Larry grabbed the empty bottle of Sam Adams and said, “See this? This is evidence. I think she was fucking somebody behind my back.”
“Your doctor.”
“Probably.”
“And I thought I attract the crazies.”
Ignoring this, Larry went. “They want seventy-five K and I think these guys are serious. I’m worried they might be raping her as we speak, and I’m broke, have nada, ziltch, bubkis. I put up a good front with my whole aura of being a high-flying producer, but I’m behind on my office rent and home mortgage, have credit card debt up the wazoo. There’s no way I can come up with that kind of cashish.”
Angela sat in a leather chair, put her feet up on the ottoman, expanded her chest, and said, “Well, it sounds like you need a piece of Bust then, don’t you?”
An idea was hitting Larry — maybe crazy enough to work.
If he could get his eyes off her tits he might even be able to verbalize it.
Finally he said, “What if you went to Darren Becker’s house? Darren’s a player. If you get close to him maybe we can blackmail him, that’s the way anything gets done in this town.” Then he shook his head. “Ah, fuck, it won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Darren’s gay, or at least partly gay. I saw him at one of Bryan Singer’s pool parties.”
“What were you doing at the party?”
“I was just, um, experi... never mind. But I guess the question is, could you seduce a half-gay guy?”
“Not a problem,” Angela said. “A few weeks ago in the bathroom at the Chateau Marmont I scored with Bret Easton Ellis.”
Thinking about it more, Larry knew what to do. Larry had known Darren forever. Darren had had a few sex scandals over the years; he’d gotten out from under them, but he didn’t need any more bullshit on his plate. Larry could see him going for this.
“If the seduction doesn’t work, just tell him who you are — Angela Titcockass, or whatever the fuck it is. If you threaten a lawsuit, going to the trades, he’ll freak and agree to go into business with us. You get me attached as co-exec of Bust and then I can sell a percentage of the film, points to private investors. With a little luck I can drum up enough to get my wife back.”
“This sounds great,” Angela said, “but why do you need me? Why don’t you blackmail him yourself?”
“Me and Darren Becker, let’s just say we have a history,” Larry said. “In other words, I think you’ll make a better impression.”
“Okay...” Angela said. “But you’re forgetting one thing.”
Larry was confused.
“Hello?” Angela said. “My role?”
“Oh, you’ll get a part on the show, sweetie, don’t worry.”
“If you think I’m going to go over there, seduce this fookin’ guy, for a part, you’re mad. I’m a player, goddamn it, not a whore. Well, I have been a whore — but not anymore, I’m a Hollywood player now, and ya better get used to it, I’m co-executive producing with you, Larry.”