Free Pimp by Ken Bruen Page B

hunting for Sebastian, Lee Child’s psycho double. After he’d shot her, and she was lying on the ground at that gas station, bleeding out, she’d remembered how in bed, when they were in love in Greece, he’d once called her an “Irish guttersnipe.” He’d said it in a sexy way, as in, “Take in every inch of me, you bloody Irish guttersnipe!” and admittedly it had excited her when he was, as he used to say, rogering her—but, as far as Angela was concerned, relationships were all fun and games only till you lose an eye…or a lung. In other words, when somebody shoots you, the game shifts from romance to vengeance. She promised herself that if she survived she wouldn’t rest until she hunted him down, killed him like one of the quails he’d claimed he’d shot, growing up in the English countryside. Was it true? Who knew what was real and what wasn’t with Sebastian? The man had more stories than Joran van der Sloot.
    After months of traveling around England, sick from the food, she had no luck finding Sebastian and her cash was dwindling. When you’re down and out in London, unless you are George flipping Orwell, all you get out of it is utter desperation. Angela had a bedsit in Earls Court. It has been written that those whom God forsakes are given an electric fire in Earls Court.
    Amen to fucking that, Angela would have said, but her mouth was full of Asian dick. Not by choice but for money, a low-level porno, shot by Russians for the Chinese market. Gawd, don’t you love the free economy?
    The Russian director was shouting, “Brandi, look like you love dis ting!”
    Yeah, they’d named her Brandi Love, she could put a little smiley face on the
i
if she wished. She made enough money to get by, shooting a series of these, featuring “Brandi with Ginger.”
    Ginger wasn’t Ginger, and maybe not even female, but for art, hey, who cares? What Ginger had was a supply of coke which got them through most of the shoots. Angela wanted to go to L.A., take her newfound acting talent mainstream. She had the chops, and if Glenn Close could still cut it, hell, she had a shot her own self.
    Ginger managed to get her a passport but alas put Brandi Love on it. When Angela had enough cash put by, she stole Ginger’s purse, thus netting a cool grand and a haul of coke.
    The experience with the porn shoots got Angela thinking about a career in film and TV. She’d always wanted to act, and don’t they say all actors are great liars? If there was one thing she was good at…
    So it was sayonara London, hello L.A.
    On the flight out of Heathrow, she thought about Ginger, whom she’d liked—but not enough to really give a fuck.
    At passport control, the official had seen number two of the
Brandi with Ginger
series and, starstruck, said, “Never met a real porn actress in the flesh. Wouldn’t’ve thought you girls use your real name.”
    Angela, barely able to credit her luck with this schmuck, cooed, “Bet you’d like to play Ginger’s part…”
    And was waved through, thinking,
Sex flies
.
    Like so many before, Angela arrived in L.A. with big dreams and a big bust, but when your tits sag you can get surgery—not much to do for a fading dream.
    The first few weeks in town were the same old, poverty, bad dire sex and desperation. Killing time when cash was so low became an art form. Plus, she still had to stay hip to the scene if she was to lure a guy with serious clout. One evening she was so desperate she even went to a bookstore reading, the last refuge of the penniless and the deranged. It was for a mystery writer named Bob Steel. Quite a respectable crowd had showed, which suited Angela, but she had to wait until after for the wine to be served, so they could flog more books.
    Bob was a card, as in hilarious. Angela knew this as Bob said so, twice. He then thanked
    His wife
    His agent
    His publisher
    His typist
    His gardener
    His neighbors (named them all)
    And just about all of his high school.
    Oddly none