“Script Money” Part Two

Chapter Eight

Reaping views too deep to write off

Lining up the Breakdown, 5:07 am.

I'm up before Imani's yoga session and strolling through the house with my hustler's ambitious scowl. This morning I'm in $1,100 pants, one of my four vintage Jordan III sneakers, and a grey "Sak Life" sweater in the kitchen Lucky is near the Family Hub sorting out cooking arrangements for breakfast. "Morning."

"Hey, miss lady, you made some coffee?" I say, pecking her on the cheek.

"Boy, I had your joe ready before I made breakfast. Try this." She pours me a cup of dark Tunisian roast into a grande cup and grins. "Up at it, I see."

I sip and begin dabbing some. "Mmhmm gotta see if I can get some extra credit." I say I was taking a separate check onto my "written by" credits and adding a "music producer" credit. "In ten minutes, send another cup of this down to the spot along with whatever you are cooking up in here. "Poring over what became "Her Kitchen" whenever Lucky scattered cooking supplies throughout the expensive marble counters.

"Okay, I'll send Fonda. I ain't your wife." she snaps with a swat.

"But I love your cooking, so you gotta save me." I kiss her again and steal a sausage simmering in a black non-stick pan.

Lucky swats at me again. "Uh uh. Kareem!"

Then I roamed along with my wake-up and strode down a corridor outside the kitchen which led to my study. I liked my house at this hour, desolate like an institution, hearing no one but the line or a verse in my head as I fueled my stomach for the work. Working kept them snuggled in this mansion. And I obsessed over this praise.

Crumpling the napkin inside my fist, I turned on a section of lights, then sealed off the sliver of meek dawn pouring in with my blinds; via my iPhone, I wanted a hood feel, deep from the trenches of my past when I was locked down and stirring the stories, vividly—but looking at the formal sectional, that was like conjuring a supernatural aura who feared your success. The trenches were never coming back.

I padded up the steps near my "Script Touch" from Samirah and pressed a button. I drank my coffee in big swigs like beer. I was studying my virtual scenes of ADVANCE, looking for a "dark and infiltrating bass," as I swiped through some beats saved on my hard drive bearing some of the dopest D.J.s like DJ Khaled, Metro Boomin, Drama, Juicy J, and even Raleigh Cromartie. Raleigh had produced some of my previous summer mixtapes. I slipped on a pair of studio headphones and vibed.

Listening, I pulled out a laptop case and placed it on my desk. Inside the container, I filled it with high-grade Kush, blunt wraps, rolling papers, and torch lighters. I chugged my coffee again and rolled a joint: a lot of free game came with biding my P.O. and good conditions.

Alongside Melissa Cardona and her good terms, we established her as Ms. Fines.

And getting faded was like swiping all my files to the right. Mentally, I was right-brained when it came to this writing shit. Of all else, I was prevalent and transcending, so many appreciating people showered in how addicted my skills entangled the game where writing scripts or rapping about my life alone was some entendre. And an extra check.

After drinking half of my coffee, I reached into a cabinet nearby and filled the cup to the rim with Don Julio puffing the joint as I strolled into my vocal booth along the back wall of my bookshelves. I sat here and squinted over puffy clouds as the lines formed above the melody, tilted my chin into the microphone as the liquor burned in my stomach. Then the beat explodes:

four and oh thru all my series till I hit the finals

I'm like James at the house, but we win different titles

they just titled my addiction, you know, that ends with money

trying to be my brother's hero, but I ain't a comic

funny how I'm sitting here seeing ends coming

niggas at the end of the road knew I could a been something

this part of the road, I cut friends flushing

Lamborghini door going up like its ten something

but the throne sleeping cause nobody does this

I overheard a budget laugh because the numbers stupid

I feel the same when I wanna get high and fuck with music

it's all scripted cockiness just makes it therapeutic

I just broke the gram kneeling right beside my girl Puccis

glass up to all the rumors that I used to

my reality way too flashy for eight and nine,

I just dropped the sak to break you niggas outta sell in dimes

but like my money, if you wanna hustle nigga fine

I just play the hate to the left like the rewind sign

I hope you sign advances to reach the heights of mine

All at once, my rhythm breaks, and I'm just yelling.

Imani. She had killed the beat and stood in the doorway.

In lingerie, of course. But no plate from Lucky either.

"Babe, what's up? Why'd you do that? I was going for sixty." I'm irked.

Wafting smoke with her left hand as she comes in, "I'm sorry, Daddy," she pouts, raking my nappy afro back and pecking me. "I came down because Sam called. She wants me at the studio for some below-the-line meetings. A casting call, I think." Imani seemed shelled, so I tugged her.

"Oh, that's what it is; you nervous now," I say, plopping her into my lap. "Look, you ain't got nothing to worry about. Sam doing this could put you in a good position to have a couple of union stars on your roster and everything."

Imani smacks her teeth. "Boy, ain't nobody worried about being booed up with Samsonite. I just don't wanna get piled down with all her actors and lose space to keep you, and Parker handled. And now your brother."

I exhausted some toxic air. "What is it? Why you such a badass with Lotto?" asks Imani, never breaking a lick.

"Because Lotto hates grinding. He swept up every goal he had into some trailer park barbershop, then moved away while Tiny survived as Parker's nanny for five years."

"Your mom put herself through college raising Parker."

"I had to get outta prison and build all of this from nothing but writing stories on the back of commissary sheets," Imani knows this story so well she mocks me in unison. "I came back to keep everyone close...sometimes I feel like Lotto is just back riding the wave."

"And that wave is the biggest part of his life Kareem!" Imani thrusts my head up like a volleyball. "You need to lighten up, okay, and realize Lotto's going be on the go for you until you trust him enough to stand alone in this business," says Imani with an attitude I saw coming.

"Alright, alright, I'll holla at him. But right now, I'm doing a single for the ADVANCE soundtrack. Let me wrap this up first."

All at once Imani smiles and taps my nose with her finger.

"Okay, well, hurry up. Parker got a 9:00 shoot for 'Slay,' and you're taking her." Imani says, patting my bottom and leaving my studio after her instructions.

My mug follows her cheeks drunkenly.

"Wait a minute. You just said talk to Lotto; now I have to sit and watch little kids break dancing all day. You do it. I'm up to here in this, babe."

"Just take her, Kareem. It'll be some time for you two to kick it."

"No, come on, let me take Lotto...I got him."

My fiancé waves and yells. "I'm taking care of it, honey. I just needed you to clear up some expenses for him. Have fun."

"Ah! I ain't say shit about no budget." I yell back. "Money!"

Money!

Suddenly, Parker Jay appears, palming a dish like a hostess. Teetering into the study as she balances the tray on her little forearms. "Hey, minion."

And now I'm all in my feelings for breakfast.

* * * * *

She caught him in his room. The on-suite where Lotto steps out and turns right, directly running into the double doors of the theater center. He had the driver bring Tiny home last night while he went to a nightclub and vented over his and Kareem's beef—one of his plain agendas. Imani stalked quietly like a panther, gripping a high-priced bottle over her head as if she'd spotted a nightclub beef. She was lurching over his bed and catching her breath stealthily.

Imani twisted her wrist all at once, tilting bubbly champagne onto Lotto's head until it fizzed out. "I hear this helps the hangovers." Imani jokes, smelling the rosy flavor on her knuckles.

Then she turned up the bottle again and took the last swallow.

"Oh bitch! Money! Why the fuck you pouring champagne on me! Are you crazy?" screamed Lotto, his hair sizzling with frothy suds as he blinked repeatedly.

"This what you wanna do, huh?" says Imani, aiming the bottle at him like a sword. "Get all wasted, then pass out every night. Get your ass up and put some clothes on! Kareem's finally giving your lazy ass a gig, okay, and I gotta big meeting to go to, so move it."

Lotto wiped his face, drenched. "So, why the fuck do you think we got drivers for?"

"Cause you are coming with me. Now shut the hell up and meet me downstairs." glancing at her watch, then scowled at his bed. "I ain't come to play with you. Get up." Imani says, glaring. The manager then strolls out the door, mischievously clanging the glass base into all the furniture that, left a raucous bing.

There was no stopping Mrs. Money now.

Minutes later, Imani stood outside at the bottom step. She was taking in the crisp breeze prickling the back of her arms. The new fiancé had much hope today would be warm and filled with energy, now a wife-to-be, and the media wanted more words about her happiness today. Already her feedback came as she was texting and waiting in some tan sandals, a white dress with a cropped top, and a red pouch: her puce lip gloss accenting her Oscar de la Renta outfit and her first day out with the ring.

Behind her, she overheard Lotto coming out, so she turned and studied what he was wearing. How prepared she expected him to be.

He wore straight-leg pants, a knit New York shirt, and a leather Givenchy vest. He said nothing to her, putting on his frames and staring at the manicured lawn. As of right now, he hated her.

"You'll thank me for this after today," Imani promises. Then sashays toward the Lamborghini Kareem designated from his by giving Imani's a white glacier finish, red leather seats, and mounted with customized Forgiato rims. Inside, she ached with joy and adoration. It seemed as if her ruby had become the trend throughout her day.

Today was Imani's chance to spin off her new engagement present. Effortlessly Imani raises the door as she and Lotto get in, pressing a button and taming the steering wheel as the engine comes on. Hoping the ball of her foot didn't slip, she spun out onto their driveway and headed towards Cotton Avenue. And boy, would the ride-along be fast.

"Oh, shit." brags Lotto, messaging the door panel. "This boy got your name in the seats, your license plate, "Mrs. Money"...whoo, you got Kareem fucked up. So where are we going?"

"Samirah and I gotta cast interview to do. She wants me to see who's playing in Kareem's new series."

"You and Samirah." scoffs Lotto.

"Yeah, me and Samirah."

"Sheesh!" He looks out and chuckles elsewhere, a woman's waistline etched out in his window. "Damn, that's a sexy view." He murmurs.

"What?"

"Nothing. I-I just thought you worked directly under my brother. I ain't know if Beyoncé and Becky were hanging together. That's wild."

"Oh no, we are not doing that," Imani hisses with a laugh. "I'm coming in 'cause this is Script Money's first action series, and Kareem's getting the first shot. Working with Sam Chowder is new too, but this a business she dropped her financial aid, and Kareem told my ass to step up."

"Yeah, well, what kind of action you got me doing today? Huh, some stand-in for a bank shootout? Maybe fly down a strip in a burning bus."

"Boy, bye." gushes Imani with laughter. "Ain't no director throwing you in no bus or letting you shoot a brick wall with a pellet gun."

"I can act. Quit treating me like I got a fucking remedial diploma."

"That ain't why I brought you with me."

"Then why the hell I'm going?" asked Lotto.

"You're just following me around the studio today, okay?"

"Ah, hell no. I thought you were taking me for an audition so I could play a major part in this shit. I don't want to follow you like some damn assistant. What do you think I'm about to help you sort through headshots? I'm not following Mel B. all morning." His gripes were animated. It ached her stomach.

Imani laughs. "Well, too late. Hey, you're funny as hell." Already the manager began driving mindlessly elsewhere. "That's fly," she notes.

* * * * *

Primetime Entertainment Network, 8:49 am.

He was a tailored man. All business and crisp, with Ermenegildo Zegna slacks and striped shirt, he was in this building to win, and it began with a power suit. Glendall Turner had been driven to the CNN Center in one of four company black Maybachs and entered the P.E.N. office suite feeling as though Cromartie Productions would assimilate to his terms for marketing entertainment. In success and, if need be: war.

Glendall needed to meet with Nick Cromartie after his encounter with Samirah last night. His daughter fucked as if she could bind terms between the Middle East and Republican policy. He told Samirah "PaperWhite" or perhaps a fucking student film from Clark Atlanta would get produced before Kareem Cashmere broke into drama. She fired him and succeeded all his accounts to Cromartie investors and global endorsements Glendall held on to his remaining clients: Gizzle Tate, Paul Matthews, and a subsidiary company that produced industrial commercials online, like a poker hand with stiff odds. He left with his all-in game.

When Glendall asked an assistant to step out, Nick Cromartie was in a meeting. "Glendall, you come down here makes this important to you. Let's take a walk," murmurs Nick padding away from the glass doors, watching his investors. They stroll down a bright hallway filled with movie ads and posters as Glendall accesses his issue.

"Samirah isn't letting me back in the studio as quickly as you promised."

"Well, at least you got paid, man. I can't solve all your problems." Nick hums with a grin.

Glendall sighs as he nods to Nick's humor.

"We need to talk about what she's directing for them, Nick."

"They're coming up with composite sketches for Kareem's action masterpiece. He's got a rogue-ass crew with some tight flavor for many hi-tech spies. And I want their poster to sit right here. It'll be the largest Cromartie production in this building." ignores Nick beaming at the wall.

"Oh yeah, who'd they choose for the leads?" asks Glendall honing in.

"I got a franchise so incomparable, man, the dynamics fall into their inspirations like a painting. Since Sam's willing to co-star, I flew in a girl named Poe Peters last night. She's an apprentice from Australia. I got her rehearsing her lines in a beautiful spot at The Westin."

"Wow, Nick, you're very serious about this script." Glendall takes in the name.

Poe Peters, the new girl they flew in from the Down Under.

"Cromartie is using everything. We got Lou Sismondi playing their alpha."

Glendall scoffs. "Wait a minute; I thought Sismondi signed off with Gizzle."

"He quit. His commitments were negotiable. He's making more money in one episode than anyone in drama when ADVANCE premieres."

"I think airing Kareem Cashmere as a debut is a bad idea, Nick."

"You just run off feelings. Kareem's putting in work for Script Money; he has to debut before any other writer."

"Cromartie took Script Money from your son. Don't you think this is too early to throw a premiere of this epic in Raleigh's face?"

"Hurting him could've been epic," says Nick. "Could've been."

"We could've lost everything before bringing him home three days ago."

"I don't give a damn about that boy staring at his T.V. bitching over some chant he brought to Cromartie and fucked up my streak. We turned this brand into the fucking Monday Night Football of television---while he ripped."

"No matter how you look at it, rip or rolling in the bank, Nick, it was his idea."

"He doesn't get no recognition after that. You don't give up on your starters, then come crying next year when they win the chip. You fight for what you want; you don't cry about what you lose. He lucky I let him come back after that."

"Well, Raleigh returned with some projects he wanted on his own."

"Where are you going, Glendall?" replies Nick in a heavy tone.

"Since he favors Rap music, he wants to get on and make some tracks for Gizzle's gangster film. He said he'll get rid of the suit after you produce that."

"Oh really, he says a thing like that." Nick's accent ponders with deceit.

"Yeah, I told him it wouldn't hurt me ask to ask you. Plus, since I still manage Gizzle's options, I think that score helps him feel like a Cromartie again. "Glendall grins.

"Well, I tell you what, let my son know Sam's gonna direct ADVANCE, and since he wanna work for a "Based on a Gizzle Tate story" so bad, fine, I'm dropping that motherfucker later this afternoon. Let's see if he can push Script Money on fucking bootleg. I'll discuss with my networks that we're changing the name tomorrow," says Nick. Then walking back into his meeting, grimacing.

Glendall stood there, marred by his imploding career.

* * * * *

The Lamborghini sped through the city like a beauty, purring on the streets of lower Atlanta, along the way where buildings were opening up, fast food joints pumped breakfast hours fashionably simple cars like a muddy grey truck followed the coupe until it came to a security post on Cotton Avenue.

Imani turned into the studio slowly, showing her badge to security before eventually zooming under the rising access gate. She basked in parking her Lamborghini close to studio B right along the strip where daytime employees had to see her get out.

"Welcome to Black Hollywood." Imani grinned as they got out and headed to studio A. "I want you to see how fast everyone works at this place." She said as Lotto followed her down the breezeway, waving at employees that knew her as Kareem Cashmere's manager, an actress who applauded the engagement and hugged her.

"Y'all should've brought me here a long time ago. It's like dressing room heaven up in this bitch" Lotto gawks at the women in the distance. Backstage dancers rehearsed provocative numbers, and various assistants ran errands for the set all day. And never have time for men like Lotto. "This where all the real sisters be hiding at."

"These ladies want a boss Lotto, and you gotta step the fuck up." Imani strolled in the studio, through a maze of clunky set equipment and winding backdrops, down a dimly lit corridor filled with dressing rooms leading to Samirah Cromartie's conference room. "Hey, wait out here. And don't go anywhere."

"I'm not. Hey, where y'all make the murder scenes at?"

"Sit down!"

Inside, Imani spotted Samirah Cromartie at a small round table with her assistant director Rashard Ballard and production assistant, Shaquea Bryant. They flanked Samirah as she sat at the table filled with her breakdown strips. Imani inhaled deeply, clutching her suitcase as she entered during their discussion.

"And I hated it so bad I wanted to kill myself," Samirah says, "Telling him thanks for getting Raleigh to back off was way off his grid. Ugh, I had to give him some. That bastard knows I'm a sucker for the head. It was awful." The man shook his head at the director's dilemma, there seemed no way for Imani to open her mouth without interrupting, so she watched as he aimed a pen at Samirah. "What could've been awful is him letting you get sued and laughing at you lose all of Cromartie's generous investors," Ballard says.

"Girl, letting him eat it might've kept all of us a job." laughs Shaquea. Imani relished the content of their talk. They were repulsive and out with it.

"It'll never happen again. Now Glendall wants me to push this back and give the first mini-series to Gizzle. I feel like my life's been a disaster with him."

"That's bullshit. Glendall's running up on Kareem however he can."

Hearing Kareem's name was it, "Samirah." says Imani crisply.

Samirah Cromartie turns, as does them all. "Hey, look at you. Come here." She gets up and moves in for a hug. Imani stiffens as she feels the director grasp her, then palms her hand and pores over her ring. "She rocked the nightingale bag for this and everything. You look beautiful. Doesn't she look like someone out of a magazine?"

"I like seeing her hair popping," offers Shaquea. Imani tousles her bang a bit.

"Congratulations on literally slapping some sense into that, brother." Ballard jokes. "It takes the posture of a queen to take on a marriage here."

"Thank you." grins Imani at Ballard's reminder of last night. "I've sent tons of retweets since doing my man like that. Everybody thinks it's badass."

"I know it's cliché, comparing you to some model, but you look amazing," says Samirah. Walking Imani over to the conference room table. "Have a seat."

"Where's Kareem? He still hiding from the papers," asks Shaquea.

"Thanks," She sits and looks on, beaming. "Kareem said he'd come in later. He's at dance rehearsals with the girls. He was up this morning working on a song for this new story."

Samirah spots Imani removing a manuscript. And a red Sharpie. The manager had sat down and prepared for her first interview like a pro.

"You two, I need you to give me and Imani a minute, okay?" Samirah demands with a sharp look. Then the assistants get up and leave her inside four walls with Kareem's work trick. Imani studies her space for the ambush that is coming.

Samirah fell over her table with her palms. "I called you in here 'cause we gotta problem, and you need to help me fix it." She starts.

"Me?"

"That ring says you're Kareem Cashmere's fiancé, right?"

"Look, if it's about last night's rumor and that picture of you and him, I get it; you two were looking for the perfect one. Leave that buried where it's at." Imani thought about which gateway she'd regret more: the affair or this chat.

"Kareem told you that," Samirah seemed shocked, but she added her mouth curved into a "u" when Imani nodded. "Well, I guess he told you we spent almost an hour outside waiting on the guy to resize it. Kareem said you broke your finger in a tournament. You were an athlete?"

"Point guard. I broke it in college. At the time, I never believed I'd get married well engaged." Imani wondered what other stories they discussed. "What's this about Samirah?"

"Either one is a curse in this business," replies Samirah with a smug look elsewhere. "Anyways, the real problem is they want me to call off Kareem's series as a debt to some legal steam my trifling advisor settled."

"Call it off. Why? Kareem said it's worth $100,000,000. Imani grew pissed about losing this franchise.

"It's true. And I don't want to either because the stories are amazing, and I want something Kareem, and I produced when the Onyx Tape Awards come around. But if I don't, Glendall will let Raleigh sue Cromartie for this." She flops a stout transcript on the table, then pokes a price line for Imani. "His twelve million is thirty percent of everything networks will take away from me if this lawsuit comes up," says Samirah.

"Oh, my god. Kareem's going to hate this," Imani considers driving the disappointment back home a no-go. She overlooks the file and then tosses it back down to Samirah, whom she only believed had so much control as the only female chief executive. "So what do you want me to do?" asks Imani wanting to help.

Samirah's heels clink closer in Imani's face, and peering sternly.

"I want you to manage whoever comes on board in Gizzle's series. Let me direct his head credit over Kareem while you get your man to hold off. Just until I finish this thing." Samirah whispers engagingly.

"No, I can't do that. You want me to drop Kareem and work by myself for you."

"No, Skyler Diggins! I'm not asking you to drop him, girl. Work with other people for a while who don't like how hot he is."

"I don't care, Samirah. I'm not helping you hire some star cast for an asshole who wants Kareem Cashmere blackballed. I'm here to see he gets his! That's it."

"In this business, you better get used to placing your right hand on a knife, sweetie. I'm asking you to overcome the bad faith and run the point bitch. It's plenty of talent looking for Mrs. Cashmere to discover their portfolio, and we have tons of money to throw out there for this script, okay?" seethes Samirah.

Instead, Imani saw beyond benching her priceless client.

"There are also other networks who'll brand anything Kareem writes."

"Those terms are not at his will to change right now," replies Samirah numbly. "I remember you coming in and helping him press for much of my money too. Kareem doesn't wanna leave me, sweetie."

"No, but I'm sure Mr. Childs would love handing over the deal whenever Kareem felt it was time to opt out," says Imani. Picking up her purse and taking out her phone in case her threat needed seeing all the way through.

"I expected some dike--ball player like you to give me a challenge, so I made sure you understood how serious this production company is to me, "Samirah laid her phone on the table and pressed play on a video clip.

The feed of Kareem and Imani's sex tape she recorded.

Imani felt her body avalanche with fear.

"Did you think making a fuck tape on my reality T.V. pilot would be private?" asks Samirah, as Imani mugs the exploits of her erotic lifestyle, realizing their home, Kareem's contracts, weren't safe anymore, and Samirah was a wicked bitch. As Imani had assumed, at length, months ago.

Samirah adds a light smirk. "Not his best work, but hey."

"Fuck you, Sam!" snapped Imani, clinching her purse like a paper bag.

Samirah ends the clip and tucks her arms in, saying, "I know Kareem produces stuff like this, under a D.B.A. company, for some montage of a pornstar parody, and no one can trace back to her. But if P.E.N. finds this little private show stacking millions of viewers, I don't think you'll find any credits this risqué as nicely as you want to without me."

In a second, the director is too close. Imani fists Samirah's windpipe as if catching her next word. "How dare you try to extort me." Imani's jaws wrenched like a vise grip when she spoke, choking the director until her lips parted. "This is one of those tender moments where you realize...being Kareem's bitch means you're dispensable to me too," said Imani, sighing in her desire to inhale Samirah's quick gasp like oxygen.

"I could ruin you, Imani," murmurs Samirah meekly.

"Go ahead, release it. I can market a massacre if the pen I'm grinding is mightier than your sword. And that shocked look inside your eyes, where you think one scene can answer all your debts, I can have Kareem handle for six figures less than what you fear right now. And that'd still be a compliment to his savages." Her grip came undone like a magnetic charge dropping its charge.

She drank in the dubious abrasions in Samirah's neck as the director coughed and exhaled a moan caressing her throat to be sure her breathing still functioned. "Ugh, what do you mean?" hacks Samirah.

As Imani was turning to leave, she scolded. "I'm going to find my talent scout. You've got some phone calls to make," says Imani.