She was thinking, the wonders of cosmetic surgery, and said, “Larry Reed sent me over to discuss a terrific movie opportunity.”
The guy seemed like he wasn’t totally up to speed — with anything — said, “Well, let’s get your sexy self inside.”
And, no fooling around, she went for it, going, “Wouldn’t mind your own sexy self inside me.”
Took a moment for this to sink in, then the grin again and, “Works for me.”
Right there in the hall, they got to it and moments before the, um, bell tolled, she heard, “The fuck is this?”
A man in his late fifties coming down the impressive stairway, dressed like, yeah, a movie guy. Shades hanging from the collar of the white angora sweater with rolled-up sleeves, the de rigeur outfit for moguls of a certain vintage.
The guy underneath her, managed, “Dad!”
She thought, “Oh fuckit.”
Managed to stand, get her clothes in some sort of order, said, “Mr. Becker, I admit I thought if I could charm the son, I might actually seal the deal with the dad.”
Becker considered, obviously thought this was horseshit, said, “This is horseshit,” and had his cell out.
“Who are you calling?” Angela asked. “The police?”
“Worse for you. Private security. Ex-Oakland Raiders.”
Okay, a setback, but Angela was sometimes at her very best at these moments of imminent unraveling. She rushed, “I look familiar to you?”
Angela didn’t think the call had connected yet.
“What?” Becker asked.
“My stage name is Brandi Love, but my real name is Angela Petrakos.”
Becker was squinting. “You audition for me?”
“Hello, I’m in the fookin’ book you’re producing. Is the cliché real? Doesn’t anybody read books in L.A.?”
“Honest answer? I haven’t read a book since The Firm in 1991. When you make it as a producer you hire people to read for you. It’s called coverage.”
“Well you’ll cover your eyes when you hear this. The book is based on me, my life, and if you produce it, it’s slander. I’m lawyered up.”
She was throwing all the Law & Order she could think of at the guy.
But it didn’t seem to be working because Becker said, “Good, you’ll need a team of lawyers to get out of this. Too bad for you Marcia Clark’s writing mystery novels these days.” Into his cell, Larry went, “Hey, yeah we have a situation here...” He was right up in her face now, but said to his son, who was still bottomless, “Go fuck some waves.” He waited until the son had slouched away, then into the phone he continued, “Yeah, there’s a woman at my place, she broke in and she won’t—”
“A Bryan Singer pool party ring any bells?” Angela asked.
Becker was staring at her, slight look of uncertainty, then granite. “Don’t know what you’re referring to.”
Angela heard a voice on the phone, a woman saying, “You still there? Mr. Becker? Mr. Becker?”
He ended the call.
She pushed, “Oh a very wild party, back in the day and the photos, damn, they are... loaded.”
He considered a bluff, stonewalling, then caved, asked, “Whatchya drinking?”
He poured her a Jameson, straight, and a Bud Light for himself.
As he handed her the drink, she glanced at his hand, the one with the thick wedding band, and said, “You don’t want your wife finding out about your pool party days, I’m sure.”
“Actually my husband Ron gave me that ring,” Becker said. “I’ve been divorced from my ex-wife Ellen for twelve years and honestly I don’t give a shit what you know about me and Bryan Singer. You wouldn’t believe how many A-listers were at those parties. It’s like prohibition days in Chicago when the Mayor was drinking with the rest of the town at the speakeasy.”
“Last I heard, fucking underage boys is against the law,” Angela said.
“Can’t be proven,” Darren said, “but I don’t want to waste my valuable time and resources defending myself against false allegations. I’m sure you don’t need big legal bills in your life either. And heaven knows I don’t need any hiccups in my life right now. I’m doing everything I can to make Bust happen.”
Angela knew he was playing it cool, not wanting to let on, but he was terrified.
“Sounds like you want to make a deal,” Angela said.
“Depends,” he said. “What’s in it for you?”
As they say at Hard Case Crime — time for the Money Shot.
Angela said, “You bring me and Larry Reed on board as producers and you have my word, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Darren waited then said, “You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”
Angela downed the Jameson like a marathon runner downs water, then headed toward the door, “I’d keep my eye on the headlines if I were you.”
“Okay, let’s relax here,” Darren said, cutting her off. “No need to threaten each other. There’s always the middle ground, right?”
“Nope, no middle ground,” Angela said. “I’m in or my next visit’s to Nikki Finke.”
“There’s no way I’m going into business with that loser Larry Reed. The whole town knows he’s poison, the Cooler of movies. He hasn’t had a hit since that Janeane Garofalo rom-com in the nineties.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Angela asked.
“I’ll work with you, but not Larry. That’s my final offer.”
Angela thought it through for maybe two seconds. Cut Larry out? Why not? The bastard had been ready to fire her yesterday, kick her guttersnipe arse to the curb, till he needed her, of course.
“Fine, Larry’s out,” she said, “but there are two conditions — I want the same deal you get with the network, and I get to audition to play myself in the show. I know that no one could play that role better than me.”
“That can be arranged,” Darren said.
They shook. Darren’s hand was small and in Angela’s experience the ol’ adage was true. She felt sorry for Darren’s husband.
Though who knew, maybe Darren was strictly a catcher.
“Looks like this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Darren said smiling.
Angela, smiling with him, thinking, Or not.
Eight
If you remove noir from the mystery novel you’re left with a vague cut above chick lit.
Paula was over the freaking moon. You spend years being fucked over and, more importantly, passed over and then, out of nowhere, a call, to say, “We would like to publish your novel, Bust.”
From Charles Ardai himself. Oh heavens to Ardai-betsy. This was it, the break she finally had almost given up on.
Paula had met Charles a few years ago at a meeting of the Outdoor Co-Ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society, a bunch of girls who got their tits out in city parks and such, supposedly as a feminist statement but really because they were bi as all get-out and wanted to bang each other. She’d lounged around topless in Central Park with the other sexy babes, reading Lawrence Block, James M. Cain, and Christa Faust. Charles showed up to deliver the reading material. He was a classy guy — she only saw him drool once or twice — but they didn’t talk books at all, and at the time she never dreamed she’d ever be published by Hard Case herself.
The publication news was even sweeter because just a few months earlier she didn’t think the book would get written at all. Working with Stiegsson had been a nightmare, with the little Rumplestiltskin’s constant fretting and middle-of-the-night texts and e-mails — We must change this line of dialogue, Max Fisher would never say this; I must write the sex scenes because I understand heterosexual sex much better than you do — it went on and on. The Swede couldn’t write Irish or American dialogue, so Paula had to do all of the heavy lifting, and, worst of all, he was humorless, as bleak as Stellan Freakin’ Skarsgard. Paula, of course, was known for her sardonic wit. Marilyn Stasio had used the word “droll” in that Times review, David Montgomery had called her “witty” on his blog, and in declining a blurb request Charlaine Harris had written Paula that one of the books in her St. Martin’s series “made me chuckle.” The only one who disagreed was some putz at Booklist who’d called her humor “forced,” but that guy didn’t know noir from shinola.