“Whoa, baby, take it easy there, using your brain like that, you might pull something.” He smiled, loving how fucking witty he was, making a crack he’d made thousands of times before. Then said, “What do you know about producing, sweetheart?”
“After spending a few days with you, I apparently don’t have to know much. At least I know how to turn on a fookin’ PC.”
“Okay, okay, you can produce, you can produce,” Larry said, just wanting to shut her the fuck up, the Irish accent grating on him. He figured they could deal with it later and he’d rip the dumb bitch off on the points. He’d drop her down to associate producer, or the ultimate bullshit, co-producer.
“That’s not all,” Angela said. “If I’m going to sleep with him I’m going to star in the show too. No one can play Angela better than me.”
“Honey,” Larry said. “Producing’s one thing, but I have no control over the casting, that’s up to the studio and the network.”
“A moment ago you were promising me a part on the show!”
“A part, sure — not the fucking lead. I can get you an audition, but that’s it.”
“You mean I have to audition to play myself?”
Larry smiled, went, “Welcome to Hollywood, sweetie.”
Seven
Women can be tricky.
In the cab to Darren Becker’s house in the Hollywood Hills, Angela was dressed in a black faux-leather short skirt, white silk top, and black-patent drill heels, and felt almost like in the glory days of real hotness. A surge of confidence was aided by a few fast lines of coke. Time to manipulate and seduce.
“Fookin A,” she said, an in-joke to herself, a dark legacy from the days she first encountered Max Fisher.
Phew-oh, a time that was. A blend of hot sex, wild schemes, and of course Dylan. Ah, the mad Mick. If he was capable of loving anything save his shitty poetry, it might well have been Angela. Too many years, too much poverty, too many escapades had blotted out the negative side of the crazy Irishman, so that now she tended to color him as a lovable scamp — a psycho scamp, but lovable. It was one of the myriad lies she sold her own self just to keep some semblance of sanity. And all the years of utter mayhem that slid down the pike after — jail in Greece, a savior who was a dead ringer for Lee Child, and then being shot in Canada by the dead ringer...
Drink Canada Dry. She had sure tried to.
Literally at death’s door, she had been rescued by a mammoth guy who made his living pretending to be Bigfoot. And she’d thought, Once, just fooking once, couldn’t Brad Pitt be in her rescue, but no, the freaking luck she had, she’d gotten Bigfoot.
He took her to a local hospital with a story of how a Bigfoot hunter had shot at him, but hit her instead. They had to remove one of her lungs, but in the end it was the Bigfoot guy who really took her breath away. He was such a sweet guy and, silver linings, he was big in other departments — turned out the big feet, big cock adage was true — and she almost forgave the insanity of being shacked up with an urban legend. It may even have lasted for a time but wouldn’t you know, the guy was so convincing that a mild accountant from Toronto bagged him on a slow weekend.
On the phone to his wife yelling, “I tagged Bigfoot.”
She going, “Try tagging your big mouth.”
So Angela, sighing anew, took the stash of cash Bigfoot had amassed and went to London. She hadn’t been charged with any crime, no one knew she’d helped Max and his gang escape from prison, so she was free and clear, bought a one-way ticket for London.
One-way because she knew there was a good chance she’d wind up in jail her own self.
She was hunting for Sebastian, Lee Child’s psycho double. After he’d shot her, and she was lying on the ground at that gas station, bleeding out, she’d remembered how in bed, when they were in love in Greece, he’d once called her an “Irish guttersnipe.” He’d said it in a sexy way, as in, “Take in every inch of me, you bloody Irish guttersnipe!” and admittedly it had excited her when he was, as he used to say, rogering her — but, as far as Angela was concerned, relationships were all fun and games only till you lose an eye... or a lung. In other words, when somebody shoots you, the game shifts from romance to vengeance. She promised herself that if she survived she wouldn’t rest until she hunted him down, killed him like one of the quails he’d claimed he’d shot, growing up in the English countryside. Was it true? Who knew what was real and what wasn’t with Sebastian? The man had more stories than Joran van der Sloot.
After months of traveling around England, sick from the food, she had no luck finding Sebastian and her cash was dwindling. When you’re down and out in London, unless you are George flipping Orwell, all you get out of it is utter desperation. Angela had a bedsit in Earls Court. It has been written that those whom God forsakes are given an electric fire in Earls Court.
Amen to fucking that, Angela would have said, but her mouth was full of Asian dick. Not by choice but for money, a low-level porno, shot by Russians for the Chinese market. Gawd, don’t you love the free economy?
The Russian director was shouting, “Brandi, look like you love dis ting!”
Yeah, they’d named her Brandi Love, she could put a little smiley face on the i if she wished. She made enough money to get by, shooting a series of these, featuring “Brandi with Ginger.”
Ginger wasn’t Ginger, and maybe not even female, but for art, hey, who cares? What Ginger had was a supply of coke which got them through most of the shoots. Angela wanted to go to L.A., take her newfound acting talent mainstream. She had the chops, and if Glenn Close could still cut it, hell, she had a shot her own self.
Ginger managed to get her a passport but alas put Brandi Love on it. When Angela had enough cash put by, she stole Ginger’s purse, thus netting a cool grand and a haul of coke.
The experience with the porn shoots got Angela thinking about a career in film and TV. She’d always wanted to act, and don’t they say all actors are great liars? If there was one thing she was good at...
So it was sayonara London, hello L.A.
On the flight out of Heathrow, she thought about Ginger, whom she’d liked — but not enough to really give a fuck.
At passport control, the official had seen number two of the Brandi with Ginger series and, starstruck, said, “Never met a real porn actress in the flesh. Wouldn’t’ve thought you girls use your real name.”
Angela, barely able to credit her luck with this schmuck, cooed, “Bet you’d like to play Ginger’s part...”
And was waved through, thinking, Sex flies.
Like so many before, Angela arrived in L.A. with big dreams and a big bust, but when your tits sag you can get surgery — not much to do for a fading dream.
The first few weeks in town were the same old, poverty, bad dire sex and desperation. Killing time when cash was so low became an art form. Plus, she still had to stay hip to the scene if she was to lure a guy with serious clout. One evening she was so desperate she even went to a bookstore reading, the last refuge of the penniless and the deranged. It was for a mystery writer named Bob Steel. Quite a respectable crowd had showed, which suited Angela, but she had to wait until after for the wine to be served, so they could flog more books.
Bob was a card, as in hilarious. Angela knew this as Bob said so, twice. He then thanked
His wife
His agent
His publisher
His typist
His gardener
His neighbors (named them all)