If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.
WOODY ALLEN
YOU GOT SIX HOURS LEFT
The note Larry found stuck to the windshield of his car when he left Musso’s.
“Christ,” Larry said, ripped up the note, the way he’d rip up a parking ticket.
He’d just finished a power lunch with Eddie Vegas, young guy who’d invested in a couple of Larry’s film projects that had failed to launch. Vegas, like the whole town, believed that TV was the place to be.
Vegas wasn’t from Vegas, he was a young Spanish guy from the hood, about thirty, kind of looked like John Leguizamo, and Larry had no idea how some Cheech from East L.A. got the last name Vegas. Honestly Larry didn’t give a shit about him, except that he a) had money and b) was willing to invest in practically any film project. As they say at Santa Anita—nice perfecta.
Larry hadn’t heard back yet from Angela yet, but he was taking meetings on the project, being proactive, figuring if the Irish bitch couldn’t pull off the deal, he’d go to Darren and blackmail the child-molesting fudgepacker himself.
“Tellin’ you right now, bro,” Vegas had said. “This Bust shit sounds cool, but it better not die like those other two shits you put me in. I got a three strikes rule, man. Two strikes, Eddie be cool, but Eddie don’t strike out, entiende?”
Larry didn’t entiende. He didn’t know what the Latin fuck was talking about—he just wanted the kid’s money and he’d say anything, tell any lie, to get it.
“No, this is a different kinda situaton,” Larry said. “This deal’s solid, as close to a slam dunk as you can get.”
“Yeah, that’s what you was sayin’ ’bout Spaced Out.”
“Spaced Out was an unfortunate, isolated situation,” Larry said. “We would be at the premiere now, talking to Melissa Rivers, if Tom didn’t fuck us over.”
“Tom Cruise was gonna be in it?”
“No, Tom Selleck. But as a fortune cookie I got once said, The wind of one door closing opens another. If Spaced Out got going maybe we never get involved in Bust, and ten, twenty years from now, when Bust is hailed as one of the greatest TV shows of all time, right up there with Bonanza…” Shit, that made him sound old. He said, “I mean The Sopranos. Yeah, The Sopranos. You’re gonna be thanking God I got you in on the ground floor of it.”
“What about Prison Break?” Vegas asked.
“What prison break?” Larry asked.
“The show Prison Break,” Vegas said. “Bust gonna be like that?”
Larry remembered Prison Break now, with the cop from Friends. He said, “It’s funny you mention Prison Break because this film has a prison break in it. It’s about Max Fisher.”
This got Vegas’s attention. He leaned over the table, his half-eaten T-bone, and said, “The white dude who busted out of Attica? The motherfuckin’ businessman?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Yo, why didn’t you say so?” Vegas said. “Oh, shit, I been hearin’ stories ’bout Max Fisher for years. Motherfucker’s stone cold. A’ight, kid, a’ight. You makin’ a show about Max Fisher, you put me down as Executive Producer, I’m down with that shit.”
Another great thing about Eddie Vegas—he was a handshake deal kind of guy, and he paid in cash. He told Larry to meet a friend of his at nine tonight at the parking lot of the In-N-Out Burger on Sunset and he’d give him 75 grand, the “investment capital” Larry claimed he needed to get Bust going.
So Larry was flying high until he got the note on his windshield. He’d gotten several similar notes over the past couple of days:
WHERE’S THE FUCKIN MONEY
MY FRIENDS ARE KEEPING THE BITCH HAPPY
YOU COULD’VE AVOIDED THIS LARRY
GIVE ME THE MONEY AND THIS ALL GOES AWAY
Like that.
This was more frustrating now, though, because now he had the fucking money coming, but he didn’t know where he was supposed to bring it.
He looked around in every direction—maybe the note had just been left—but he didn’t see anybody suspicious. Who was he kidding? This was L.A. Everybody looked suspicious.
He still had no idea who the hell was behind this. It was obviously somebody he’d fucked over somehow, but that narrowed it down to about half the city. The notes were all on the same type of index cards, handwritten in the same type of block letters. He probably should’ve saved the notes—they were evidence after all—but he was a busy guy, he had a TV show to get rolling, and he didn’t have time for this Sherlock Holmes bullshit.
To the parking attendant—Jesus Christ, the blond kid didn’t look like he was old enough to fucking drive—Larry said, “Hey, did you see anybody near my car?”
“Huh?” The kid looked out of it, with a dumb smile. Maybe he was on that new drug that Larry had read about in the papers, the one spreading around the country, the one they were calling “the new crack.” What was it again? PIMP. Stupid fucking name for a drug. Who came up with that?
“When I was eating,” Larry said to the attendant, “somebody put a note on my car. Who was it?”
Still an idiot smile, then, “Sorry, sir, I didn’t see anyone come near your car.”
Then Larry realized the kid wouldn’t help him even if he had seen anything as Larry stiffed him on a tip every time he parked here. He was lucky the car still had hubcaps and the windshield hadn’t been smashed.
He paid, without tipping, and drove out of the lot, edged into the near-standstill traffic on Hollywood Boulevard. Larry wondered if this was all a game, some kind of practical joke. Who knows? Maybe Bev was in on it? He remembered reading the coverage on Gone Girl. Isn’t that what happened, the wife getting revenge on the husband for being such a prick? Well, maybe the same thing was happening to Larry because he’d been at least as much of a prick as that guy was. Yeah, this theory that Bev was behind it was starting to make a lot of sense. That’s why they didn’t tell him where to bring the money, give him any contact information. Maybe it was like in The Game, that Michael Douglas flick. Maybe if this was a movie that ugly guy, good actor, had banged Madonna, the fuck’s his name? Sean Penn, yeah, maybe Sean Penn was behind this. Maybe Sean Penn was the one fucking Bev. In the movie, they’d be cutting back and forth between Larry, trying to find his wife and scrounge up the ransom, and Penn and Bev plotting. Whoa, Jesus Christ, Larry was seriously thinking now, because that’s what geniuses do—they thought. After Bust got going, he could develop this story into a movie—Taken meets The Game meets Gone Girl. Holy shit, what a fuckin brilliant idea. He pulled over, took out his phone, wanting to leave a voice memo to himself. He said into the phone, “Taken meets The Game meets Gone Girl,” but, shit, he couldn’t figure out how to get the voice recorder to work. On his sixth try he got a message, “Your call to Morocco can’t be completed as dialed.”
Eh, never mind, he decided. After all, brilliant ideas are never forgotten.
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.
Hoff was first to his feet.
Larry, a little slower, put up a hand, said, “Enough, I give up.”
Doc, a nasty smile leaking through the blood, suddenly like the poster of Die Hard, said, “Too bad. ’Cause there’s more where that came from.”
Larry, letting his body slump into the defeated mode, limped to the desk, said, “Let’s have some drinks, and we can work out this misunderstanding.”
Doc was coming up behind him, one arm raised. Larry spotted an ornate letter opener on the desk, snatched it up, and, turning, plunged it deep into the doc’s chest.
Doc looked stunned but Larry didn’t let that stop him. Rearing back, using all the force of his right hand, he hammered the hilt of the letter opener home, almost burying it in the doc’s chest. The Doc uttered a small oh! and crumpled to the floor.
Larry saw the fall in capital letters, as if it was a hot script, then kicked the body twice for luck and badness.
It hit—Jesus Christ, what the fuck did I do?
He got on his knees, like he was in that movie with Jon Voight, and said, “Champ, wake up, wake up, Champ.”
Shit, he’d snapped. Say it was an accident, self-defense, he’d say the doc came after him with the letter opener and Larry had to wrestle it away. But would they believe it? On C.S.I. didn’t they always figure out the truth? But that was a TV series, a fucking procedural, the truth had to come out. In real life lies held up, like Jodi Foster in The Accused. Wait, that movie was about a rape, not a fucking murder. Wasn’t there a Harrison Ford movie where this happened, where Ford been accused of a crime he didn’t commit, or didn’t mean to commit?
He took out his phone, said, “Idea for thriller. Harrison Ford is accused of a crime he didn’t commit.”
He had to sit down. As he did, the phone beeped. Automatically he picked up, the opposite of how he felt, said, “Make it real.”
A voice said, “You got the money yet or we gonna have to kill the bitch?”
The voice sounded familiar, but Larry wasn’t sure why.
Took Larry a moment to regroup. He said, “Look, the boss is dead, it’s fuckin’ over, so let my fuckin’ wife go.”
Silence, then, “The fuck you talkin’ about?”
It was Mo or Jo—the skinny one, not the Spanish, non-Mexican guy.
Tired of being manipulated, Larry said, “Look, the game’s over. You can tell my wife that too because I know she’s in on it.”
“Man, you crazy,” the guy said.
“You don’t understand,” Larry said, “the boss is gone now. I killed Geronimo.”
“What?”
“The guy you’re working for, Dr. Hoff. Bill. Or The Hoff, as he called himself.”
“Hef? Like Playboy?
“No, Hoff, like the guy who was fucking my wife.”
“The fuck is Hoff, man?”
Larry, a dread slithering along his spine, tried, “Your boss?”
“My boss is right here next to me, yo.”
Shit. Had Larry killed the wrong guy?
“Hey, Larry? You ready to play some ball now or what?”
This was a nightmare to end all nightmares. But—silver lining, he could use this twist in the movie too. Killing the wrong man? Oh yeah, people would eat this shit up.