In twenty minutes the traffic had moved about three blocks when Larry got a call from Mickey Downing, an agent from ICM, and put him on speaker.
“Make it real,” Larry said.
“You fucking cocksucker,” Mickey said. “You useless fuck hole.”
“Whoa, Ari Gold, chill out,” Larry said.
“You fuckin’ prick face,” Mickey said. “You stupid fuckin’ smoldering piece of horse shit. You useless fuck. You’re as useless as the piece of skin between my balls and my ass.”
“Hey,” Larry said, offended, “don’t call me stupid.”
Still fuming, Mickey went, “You rub egg in my face, I’m gonna rub diarrhea in yours. I’m gonna smear it into your face till you choke on it. I’m gonna make you choke on my fuckin’ diarrhea till you die, Larry.”
Larry, wondering Did Mickey Downing kidnap my wife? heard traffic noise in the background, Mickey doing work in his car too like the fucking Lincoln Lawyer. People complain about the traffic in L.A., but if people weren’t in traffic all day nobody would ever get anything done.
“Whoa, what did I do?” Larry said, wondering if this was part of The Game too, another twist in the plot?
“You told me you’re EP’ing Bust, that’s what you did,” Mickey said. “So like a moron I take that to mean you actually are EP’ing the project, and I bring it up at a staff meeting and my co-agents start sending the scripts to talent. I hear Paul Fuckin’ Giamatti’s loving the book, wants to be Max Fisher. I got Paul’s manager calling me, asking when the script’s gonna be finished, shit like that, so I call Lionsgate. I go, ‘What’s up with Bust?’ and the exec there sounds surprised, is like, ‘What do you mean?’ and I tell him that I got a call from you, you said you’re EP’ing, and they have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about. They say, ‘Larry Reed? We wouldn’t let Larry Reed anywhere near this project. You think we’re insane?’ ”
“You serious about this?” Larry asked.
“About calling Lionsgate?”
“No, about interest from Paul Giamatti.”
“Are you listening to a fuckin’ word I’m saying?” Mickey screamed. “Lionsgate says you’re not on this project, you’ve never been associated with it. Meanwhile, you have me going around town, sounding like a fuckin’ asswipe.”
“Whoa, slow down,” Larry said, “there must be a misunderstanding. Maybe Lionsgate didn’t hear about my involvement in the project yet from Darren Becker.”
“No, actually Lionsgate said that Becker is Co-EP’ing with some chick I never heard of, Brandi Love, sounds like a fuckin’ porno name.”
“Brandi Love’s my partner,” Larry said.
“Look,” Mickey said, “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but I feel like a fuckin’ idiot, believing Darren Becker and Lions-gate would ever go into business with you.”
“I’ll call you right back,” Larry said.
Mickey was saying, “You better fuckin’—” when Larry hung up on him and called Angela.
She picked up, saying, “Brandi Love Productions.”
Jesus Christ.
“You got us in with Darren, right?” Larry asked.
“Who is this?” Angela said.
“It’s me, Larry Reed.”
“Who?”
“Larry Reed. Your producing partner on Bust?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m in a meeting right now, can I—”
“Whoa, what’s going on?” Larry said. “Just heard through the grapevine that Lionsgate’s not aware of my involvement in Bust, but I know that’s a mistake because they know you’re involved.”
“I’m sorry, you can leave a message with my assistant,” she said, and hung up on him.
The Irish bitch hanging up on A-list producer Larry Reed? Was she serious?
“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Larry screamed.
So much for mellow-yellow Larry.
He called back, maybe ten times, kept going straight to voice-mail.
Larry didn’t like this, he didn’t like this at all. He was the big-time producer, the player. He was the one who was supposed to do the fucking; he wasn’t supposed to get fucked.
Okay, he had to steady himself. Jesus Christ, where were his fuckin’ Ativans? He’d deal with Bust later, first he had to get Bev back. Whether she was maybe in on it or not. But how was he supposed to pay a ransom when he didn’t know who to pay it to?
Doctor Hoff. It had to be him, he was the Sean Penn, the mastermind of the plot. He was fucking Bev and they decided to do a fake kidnapping, squeezing 75K out of Larry, so they could get away somewhere. Maybe Hoff got in deep with drug dealers, figured this was his only way out.
Larry drove across town to Hoff’s house, made good time — under two hours.
When Hoff opened the front door, Larry forced his way inside.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Hoff said. “If you’re looking for some more Vike, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to take any more. I mean, I don’t wanna wind up sharing a cell with Michael Jackson’s doctor.”
Larry was staring at the doc. Something was off. The guy had been acting squirrelly, fidgeting, unable to meet Larry’s eyes. Plus, Larry’s gut was telling him, The schmuck’s guilty. Larry didn’t get to survive all these years in lotus land by not being able to read betrayal. His motto was: Some can read the writing on the wall. Others put it there.
“I have your money,” Larry said and waited for a reaction.
“Money? Money for what? You mean the bandages for your bullet wound? Your insurance is covering it, right?”
Larry went for the jugular, shot, “How long’ve you been fucking my wife, Doc?”
The doc, nervous, went, “Come on, Larry, I have my own bitchy wife I can’t stand, why would I want to fuck yours? I mean, when you already have one minivan do you go out and buy another minivan?”
Larry’s gut was shouting now, he pushed, “Come on, where is she? Your basement?” He shouted, “Bev, can you hear me! Bev!”
“Can you keep your fucking voice down, you’re gonna scare the poodles.”
“Fuck your poodles.” Larry grabbed the doctor. “How’s my wife holding up?”
Doc had the grace to at least act confused, said, “Holding up, you mean the boob job I referred her for?”
Larry felt a wave of bile and rage, near shouted, “I’m warning you, I’ve had a bad day and it’s getting worse, so don’t fuck with me, Doc!”
The doc made the fatal error of looking to his left. Larry had read in his psychology manuals that this was the sure sign of lying.
Or was it to the right?
Aw fuckit. He lunged at the doc, got him in a headlock, shouted, “Where is she?”
The doc, surprising Larry, managed to do a body turn and shuck him across the room.
Larry landed hard, maybe cracking a rib, got to his feet, said. “Been working on some martial arts shit, huh? Is that your drug connection too? That why you’re extorting money from me, to pay the fucking Chinese?”
The doc, all his pent-up frustration from over the years coming to a head, sneered, “I think you’ve officially lost it, Larry. You crossed a line. You are in a world of hurt now, big boy.”
Larry reached for an antique vase on a pedestal by a wall, hurled, and it connected, smashing Hoff’s nose and remaining intact — the vase, that is.
Hoff, blood streaming down his face, whined, “You broke my nose! Why’d you do that? The rhinoplasty was a bar mitzvah present from my Uncle Marvin.”
Larry jumped at him, got him around the waist and they fell through a glass table, rolled across the room, glass cutting them both.