Pimp by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

with a writer of your caliber there will certainly be lots of interest.”
    Stiegsson was staring grimly. Did anybody ever fucking smile in Sweden? If you tickled a Swedish baby would it glare back at you?
    Finally Stiegsson said, “So I will get this straight. You have no money, you have no publisher, and you expect me, Lars Stiegsson, to write book with you?”
    “Yes,” Paula said.
    “Why you want me?” He leaned closer to the camera, making him look even uglier. “You’re famous American writer, friend of Laura Lippman. Why not ask her? Why not Dennis Lehane?”
    “Actually I considered Den,” Paula said, “but we had a, well, falling out. Something about how he thought I was stalking Laura. I
was
stalking her, but that’s a whole other story. Besides, I think Den is too much of a moralist for this tale. I think your existential edginess would be a perfect fit for the material.”
    She tasted vomit.
    “Stop shitting in my pants with me, or shitting with the bulls or however you Americans say it,” Stiegsson raged. “You want me because I’m Swedish. Because you think it will sell your stupid little book to have Swedish name on cover.”
    “That’s not the only reason,” Paula said, hoping the bullshit wasn’t too obvious. “I also am also truly a big admirer of your work.”
    “My work,” Stiegsson spewed. “Name one book of mine you know.”
    “
Freeze My Margarita
?” Paula said. Wait, shit, that was Lauren Henderson. “Or, no, I mean,
The Black Rubber Dress
?” Shit, Henderson again.
    “You don’t know my books,” Stiegsson said. “My books never been translated. You know why? Because Stieg Larsson stole everything from me. I knew Stieg when he was poor homeless man, penniless, has no books. He see me, Lars Stiegsson, with great success, and what does he do? He steals everything from me.”
    Paula could barely understand what this grizzled nut was saying, but she said, “I know exactly where you’re coming from. But that’s precisely why you need to do this book. To prove that you’re the real talent, not Stiegsson, I mean Larsson… You know what I mean.”
    “You know,” Stiegsson said, almost smiling, “you are very attractive woman.”
    Oh gawd, the little Rumplestiltskin wasn’t hitting on her, was he?
    “Usually Lars not attracted to American women, usually Lars only like Mediterranean women, the dark skin, not bullshit pale skin like here in Sweden. But you’re beautiful pale woman. You know who you look like?”
    “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