Free Pimp by Ken Bruen

can make it except Darren Becker.”
    Larry went to sit where his favorite club chair, the one from Crate & Barrel, had been, and fell onto his ass.
    “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I think I broke my hip.”
    “Only thing you’ll break is my eardrums with yer whining,” Angela said. “Get the fook up, ye wimp.”
    She was psycho and bitchy as hell but, yeah, he was kind of into it. She’d look good in some tight black-leather getup, holding a whip.
    ”Up,” she barked. “You need to help me with this situation.”
    Larry struggled to his feet and said, “I have another situation here, a little more important than making a TV show. As you noticed, my wife isn’t home.”
    “Yeah, I noticed your wound before, too,” Angela said. “Figured you offed the cow.”
    Was she kidding?
    “She was
taken
,” Larry said, “and unfortunately I’m not Liam fuckin Neeson, or his stunt man, so I can’t exactly hunt down the guys that did it.”
    “Who took her?” Angela asked. She seemed comfortable, like she was in her element, talking about kidnapping.
    “Mo and Jo,” Larry said.
    “Like the Three Stooges?”
    “It’s two people, not three, and there’s no Stooge named Jo.” Was he seriously having this conversation? “Actually I think my doctor might be in on it.”
    “Your doctor?”
    Larry grabbed the empty bottle of Sam Adams and said, “See this? This is evidence. I think she was fucking somebody behind my back.”
    “Your doctor.”
    “Probably.”
    “And I thought I attract the crazies.”
    Ignoring this, Larry went. “They want seventy-five K and I think these guys are serious. I’m worried they might be raping her as we speak, and I’m broke, have nada, ziltch, bubkis. I put up a good front with my whole aura of being a high-flying producer, but I’m behind on my office rent and home mortgage, have credit card debt up the wazoo. There’s no way I can come up with that kind of cashish.”
    Angela sat in a leather chair, put her feet up on the ottoman, expanded her chest, and said, “Well, it sounds like you need a piece of
Bust
then, don’t you?”
    An idea was hitting Larry—maybe crazy enough to work.
    If he could get his eyes off her tits he might even be able to verbalize it.
    Finally he said, “What if you went to Darren Becker’s house? Darren’s a player. If you get close to him maybe we can blackmail him, that’s the way anything gets done in this town.” Then he shook his head. “Ah, fuck, it won’t work.”
    “Why not?”
    “Darren’s gay, or at least partly gay. I saw him at one of Bryan Singer’s pool parties.”
    “What were
you
doing at the party?”
    “I was just, um, experi…never mind. But I guess the question is, could you seduce a half-gay guy?”
    “Not a problem,” Angela said. “A few weeks ago in the bathroom at the Chateau Marmont I scored with Bret Easton Ellis.”
    Thinking about it more, Larry knew what to do. Larry had known Darren forever. Darren had had a few sex scandals over the years; he’d gotten out from under them, but he didn’t need any more bullshit on his plate. Larry could see him going for this.
    “If the seduction doesn’t work, just tell him who you are—Angela Titcockass, or whatever the fuck it is. If you threaten a lawsuit, going to the trades, he’ll freak and agree to go into business with us. You get me attached as co-exec of
Bust
and then I can sell a percentage of the film, points to private investors. With a little luck I can drum up enough to get my wife back.”
    “This sounds great,” Angela said, “but why do you need me? Why don’t you blackmail him yourself?”
    “Me and Darren Becker, let’s just say we have a history,” Larry said. “In other words, I think you’ll make a better impression.”
    “Okay…” Angela said. “But you’re forgetting one thing.”
    Larry was confused.
    “Hello?” Angela said. “My role?”
    “Oh, you’ll get a part on the show, sweetie, don’t worry.”
    “If you