“Kate Winslet?” Paula asked.
“No, Agnetha Fältskog.”
Jeez, did Swedes actually like ABBA? Who’d ever said, I love ABBA?
“I love ABBA,” Paula said.
Fingers crossed. Legs? Not so much.
Stiegsson beamed, made him look younger. He said, “I once listened to ‘Dancing Queen’ four hundred sixty-eight times in one day. The song, it saved my life when my mother died.”
He was doing something with his hands off screen. Jerking off? Ohmigawd, not another Max Fisher.
“I have so much respect for men who love their mothers,” Paula said.
Stiegsson grunted — either coming or clearing his throat — then said, “You like ABBA, that’s good thing. But not good enough. You get Swedish authors, Americans cream selves, your book become bestseller, no?”
The fuck was he saying?
He added, “As your President Kennedy said, ‘You know what you get from Lars Stiegsson, but what does Lars Stiegsson get from you?’ ”
“If you’re angling for a blow job, it ain’t happenin’,” Paula said. “Not with this chick anyway.”
Steigsson raged, “I’m not talking about stupid blow job, I’m talking about stupid book. I’m Swedish author, but who are you? Just some American with books from St. Martin’s Press. Lars Stiegsson does homework, yes?”
Trying not to get defensive, Paula said, “Look, I admit I don’t have a resume as impressive as yours, but I’m widely considered to be one of the rising stars of crime fiction. I’m noir, but noir with a soft edge. Otto Penzler told me he’s a big fan. I had to say, ‘My eyes, they’re like up here, Otto,’ but he seriously thinks I have talent.”
She thought, Hear that and weep muthahfuckah. Wondering if the Swedes had such a term, she’d have to download a Swedish dictionary from the app store. Then hello, light-bulb moment, worthy of her being on Ellen. She said, “I love tennis.”
He was lost, said, “I don’t know from...”
She nearly said, Speak fucking American. Jesus, it was bad enough that the likes of Rankin, Hughes and company refused to write in real English, i.e., USA English, hello, but a Swede who didn’t know about tennis? Seriously, apart from fucking Bjorn, ABBA and suicide, what had they given the world? Okay, okay, not that she was moralizing, she left that to the Lippmans of the world and their ilk, but really, when you’d given the planet little else but shit music and a surly tennis player, could you really afford to be judgmental?
She said, “I’d like to have a discussion about tone. I’d like the book to be a paean to noir, to illustrate the neo-noir deconstruction of post-modernist genres. To demystify the whole concept of the legacy of Goodis, Willeford, Thompson, Guthrie, and Aleas, to bring out all the shades of noir, as a palate of such dark delicacy that Lee Child and his crew throw down their mega-million contracts and gasp, ‘I want me some of that shit, nigger.’ ”
So, okay, they wouldn’t phrase it like that, but she added, “I hope we are on the same page, Mr. Stiegsson.”
Silence.
She was delighted, knew she’d got the great man, that her humble treatise had been received with warmth.
She took a deep breath, figured, that was the first step. She was on her way. Should she leak the story to the blogs, get a buzz going? Or was it too early? Probably be better if she and the Swede wrote something first.
“Why don’t you sleep on it,” she said, “let me know what you think in the morning. But I know you’re going to love it. This could really be an important opportunity for you, a chance to show the world that Lars Stiegsson is a writer to be reckoned with. A writer that, no offense to your departed colleague, can kick Stieg Larsson’s pussy ass. You know you want to.” And then she disconnected before he could say another word.
Switching apps on her phone, she recorded a voice memo for herself:
“Get fucking ABBA greatest hits.”
Jesus, that was punishment, no one could say she wasn’t prepared to suffer for her art.
She added:
“Get Swedish dictionary.”
Later, at a bar in Bushwick, into her third cosmo, she slurred:
“And check out the tennis players. The Swedish ones.”
Four
How’s everything in the pimp business?
Max never, ever, forgot a grudge or a slight. Back in his day, the freaking glory days, when NetWorld was riding high, he’d considered at one point offloading the whole set-up. Like that dude who’d sold off his Internet company and got like billions and went off and set up a publishing company.
Like that.
Max had put out feelers and gotten a nibble from Nick Dunne, who was buying up networking companies around the country. Dunne was a minor Trump, just had a little combover where The Donald had a freaking field. Max, at that time, was covering his bald spot with spray-on hair and sometimes when he got nervous and sweated, the hair would like melt and drip down onto his forehead and ears. Not exactly a great impression at a power lunch; he should’ve just worn a yarmulke.
Dunne had seemed seriously interested and after tense negotiations and all that due diligence, he had summoned Max to his apartment, on fucking Central Park South. Trying the old power move of trying to intimidate a potential business partner with his digs. Max knew this move well, he’d done it often himself throughout his career as a businessman and then later as a drug dealer, but Max could usually intimidate with just a look, the way a wolf looks at you before he attacks.
“A wolf doesn’t need to growl, Mr. Dunne,” Max said.
Dunne seemed confused, went, “Excuse me?”
Max didn’t feel like explaining it to the wannabe. He’d find out soon enough.
Max was steel on the outside, but he was a bit nervous. He knew because, shit, his hair was melting. If this guy bought the company, Max would be richer than fuck, Caymans here he comes. Dressed to impress — a suit from Lagerfeld, shoes by some Italian hairdresser, and an appropriate air of humble submission. Gotta be up front with the bullshit, right?
It had started not bad, ultra-dry Martinis, a zing to the olives, lots of chat about summering in the Hamptons. Precious wasn’t the first to call Max “Maxie” because Mr. Dunne had gone, “So Maxie, may I call you that?”
Max, not above brown-nosing for a deal, said, “Mr. Dunne, you may call me anything your heart desires.”
Puke, right?
Dunne had smiled, the smile of a Great White, all teeth and ice. He went, “The thing is Maxie, your company is actually quite a good fit for my portfolio.”
Who except Patrick Bateman can say portfolio with a straight face? Max smiled in what the self-improvement tape swore was a winning way, humor tinged with gratitude.
“But see the problem is...”
And the muthah made Max wait, asking, “Wanna hazard a guess as to what the problem is?”
Max had no idea, said, “I have no idea.”
And Dunne was on his feet, near yelling, “See, that’s the problem right there, you have no idea, about anything. The problem, Maxie, is you. I wouldn’t take your company for a stale bagel if you were the lox, if you get my drift.”
Max had excused himself to take a leak, on the verge of apoplexy. The bathroom was gigantic and that made Max even crazier. He did some five or so fast lines, well, ok, maybe a tad more. The voice in his head, the one true voice, going, The fuck you saying to me? Yah fink. Brit tones slipped in when Max was overwrought. He continued, You think you can talk to me like I’m some kinda... He was lost for a term, then thought: minion...?