Larry’s brain was churning. Was Bill the boss? Shit, it made sense, was adding up. Bill had always seemed a little out there, a little, what’s the word? Unhinged. Yeah, unhinged. And seventy-five K. Wasn’t that how much Larry had promised him to write the script?
“No, I have no idea who that is,” Larry said.
“You sure?” Brubaker said. “Watch it again.”
Brubaker replayed the footage.
“I’m sure,” Larry said. “I have no idea who that is.”
A couple of hours later Larry was released. He was proud of himself for thinking fast, not I.D.’ing Moss and not letting a golden opportunity slide. This was the break Larry had been waiting for, his way back into Bust.
Larry went directly from the police station to Moss’s bungalow in Venice Beach.
Bill came to the door, surly and disheveled.
Larry, smiling and upbeat, asked, “Miss me, boss?”
Twenty
Life in the movie business is like the beginning of a new love affair; it’s full of surprises and you’re constantly getting fucked.
Angela moaned almost convincingly as Becker drilled her for the third time in two days.
Drilled.
Becker’s term. As he slurped all over her he promised, “Gonna drill you, my Brandi Love.”
Everything about him repulsed her. He was fake, wore aftershave that would restore hair on Paul Giamatti’s head. One thing he apparently wasn’t anymore was gay. He’d told his husband Ron it was over and asked for a divorce. Wasn’t the first time Angela had gotten a man to ditch his marriage and it wouldn’t be the last.
Becker had said, “I never thought I could love a woman again, but there’s something about you, baby.”
Angela was glad Becker was into her — so to speak — because she didn’t think the threat of going public about him at Bryan Singer’s pool party was enough to keep her on the project long-term. As Angela knew perhaps better than anyone — seduction was the most surefire way to get what you want in life.
Now in Becker’s California king bed, she said with absolutely no tone, “Oh give it to me, big daddy.” Making it sound much like Mary had a fucking little lamb...
But like most guys who bought their own bullshit, he said, “Whole lot more where that came from, cunt.”
Jesus.
“Oh, yeah, talk dirty to me when you drill me,” she said weakly.
Saved, almost, by the bell. The doorbell. He gasped, “Leave it.”
She made a face of grim reluctance, said, “Might be important, baby,” and shoved the dipshit off. He landed in a heap of withered dick and disappointment.
Angela threw on a faux silk robe. It matched the act she was peddling to Becker, all sheen and no substance. Opened the door to Bill Moss, who sniggered, “Come at a bad time?”
She had to eat this crap, smiled, said, “Lovely to see you, darling.” Get that Hollywood vibe of never actually using anyone’s name.
Bill swaggered in, flopped on a sofa, said, “Wet my whistle, bitch.”
Using the slur as a sly form of affection, as in, Gee, I’m so avant-garde.
Proving he knew nothing about women or avant-garde.
This was a different Bill Moss than the Bill Moss she’d met with at the Chateau. He seemed edgier, raunchier, nastier. Had success gone to his head already or was something else going on?
“You been drinking?” Angela asked.
“No, PIMPing.” Bill giggled. “Yep, scored some PIMP with my first check from Lionsgate. You know PIMP, the new wonder drug that knows how to take care of you. I don’t know how I ever wrote without it.”
“Lovely,” Angela said. “Does wonders for your personality.”
“Thanks for noticing,” Bill said. “Am I the only one horny tonight?”
On cue, Darren rolled in, having pulled on a garish pair of Bermudas and a T that read: BONO BLEW ME.
Bill said, “You look like a guy who’s had some coitus interruptus.”
Angela wisely decided to go make the drinks, saying with a cheeriness she faked, “Dry Martinis good?”
Bill was staring at Becker and nothing he was seeing gave him any joy.
“What is this,” Bill said. “Fucking Mad Men?”
“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Angela said.
“No, thanks, I can party without the company of a couple of Hollywood shitheads,” Bill said. Then, “Just so as we’re all...” And, Jaysus fuck, made those air quotes. “...on the same page, Larry Reed is now our new producing partner.”
Becker was raging, shouted, “Fuck no, not that fucking cunt!”
Bill smirked, went, “Whoa, language, there’re ladies present.” Glanced at Angela. “Kind of.”
Repressing a sudden urge to scratch Bill’s eyes out, Angela said, “Why do you want Larry involved? After he fooked you over on Spaced Out? Had you write all those drafts on spec?”
“Let’s just say we resolved our creative differences,” Bill said.
“Bullshit,” Darren said. “Larry bought him off and there’s no fuckin’ way I’m going along with this.”
“I think we should sit calmly like civilized people and discuss this,” Angela said.
“Nothing to discuss,” Bill said. “Larry’s in or I’m out and Lionsgate’s already on board, wanna know why?”
Angela sighed, went, “ ’Cause they like, like you.”
He snapped, “Not like, fucking love, as in, I call the shots.”
Angela went to Becker, “He’s right, you know. Lionsgate loves him, so if he and Larry are a package, we’re stuck with Larry.”
“Larry’s a package all right,” Becker said. “Good choice of word.” He tried for a sneer, managed a poor man’s grimace, which made him look like a disappointed groupie, went, “So how’s the screenplay coming?”
Bill went up close to Becker, said, “All humility aside, it’s fucking awesome, a clusterfuck of ingenious writing.”
Angela forced a grin, went, “We’re blessed to have you, Bill.”
Bill smiled, all teeth and no cattle, went, “Finally, something we agree on.”
Twenty-One
People are afraid to merge on the freeways of Los Angeles.
In the limo from LAX, riding along the 105 with Kat and Lars, Paula was screaming into the phone, demanding to speak to her film agent, Donna James. Going:
“I don’t give a shit if she’s in a fucking meeting, do you know who the fuck you’re talking to?”
“You said you’re Paula Segal.” The girl sounded like she was sixteen fucking years old.
“No, not Paula Segal,” Paula said, “Paula Segal of Bust. You’ve heard of Bust, I hope.”
“I’m sorry,” the girl said. “What’s ‘bust’?”
“You don’t know what...” Paula’s eyes rolled. “Bust. B-U-S-T, Bust.”
“Um, sorry,” she said.
“Ohmigod,” Paula said. “Have you been living under a freakin’ stone? First we have to wait fifteen minutes in the hot sun for the limo, and now this. Can I have your name, please?”
“I told you my name.”
“And you thought I was actually listening? What’s your name?”
“Britney.”
“Of course it is,” Paula said. “Well, Britney, please tell Donna if she doesn’t call me back in five, make that four minutes, she’s fired, and you’re fired too!”