“Script Money” The Novel

Chapter Thirteen

When it’s time to pull up on Ms. Fines

Knock! Knock!

"Anyone who knocks likes that better be clean." Melissa Cardona says, behind her desk, poring over a warrant sent for one of her parolees. It was a first-degree murder that strained the equine bridge beneath her black specs. She liked the twenty-two-year-old Black man and twiddled a pen between her fingers as she scanned the incident report in disappointment. Was she wondering how he could do something so stupid? So cruel?

"I wouldn't say I was completely clean, but I knew I'd find you here," says Kareem Cashmere entering the brightly lit office.

"Kareem, have a seat." she begins fidgeting with her files and raking her nerves over the murder suspect.

Cashmere is her only parolee who comes second to none. Ironically, he's her part-time boss, and he fashes a scowl on his face, making it impossible for him to sit obediently.

Instead, he stands in front of her desk with his chiseled arms at his side. "Ara tells me you've been missing the shoots all week; you okay?" He studies her like a child of his.

"I wish my week didn't involve Yusuf Franklin. Tucker is local, only twenty-two years of age, and he carries an assault rifle like a bat! Kills two resource officers in a sports bar near Memorial Drive four nights ago." Cardona scoffs, letting Kareem see the report. It had been a relief showing a pair of eyes who'd wrap some formidable street logic around the murder. "He lives in an apartment with his girlfriend and four-year-old son, three blocks from this bar."

Kareem takes in a mugshot. "How'd you hook up with this dude?"

"I'd just stopped by his apartment for a routine visit before this happened," Cardona remembers Franklin worrying about keeping his job. It comforted her how he admitted he'd been saving for a new car.

"Were they both done at random?" He notes her discomfort and asks.

"Yes, seconds apart. What's making me nervous is I knew both of them."

"Listen, what's making you nervous is kicking yourself in the ground, like grieving can help you go back in time five days and change how stupid that kid was," says Kareem with intent big eyes. Shortly, he forgot about her absence.

"Franklin was just a petty pill pusher. He wasn't a shooter."

"No, but he was careless about whose life he was responsible for."

"What I don't understand is what kind of social group influences a man to act like Steven Avery and target innocent civilians?"

"You may not have to put the cuffs on him yourself, Ms. Cardona, but this Franklin guy fucked up alright." Kareem comes behind her swivel chair and gives her an uncouth neck massage. He kneads her shoulders and continues. "We try so hard to be secular, preach that black lives matter, and that brutality is---the tacit unbalance between mostly white cops misunderstanding us and people feeling so scorned by what we live through---they treat a tragedy like this...as a day of independence." he drifts in a patient voice which soothed her. "It's ridiculous."

Cardona exhales and holds Kareem's wrist, nuzzling his bony knuckles along her cheek. She'd contemplated quitting her job before. Back when it felt like an assembly line of repeat fuck ups, before when police officers themselves became the innocent victims dead, and most recently when her friends were getting killed by her parolee. "I think it took a lot of this to make me realize I'm a better girl than this job," says Cardona.

"What's wrong with watching psychopaths piss in cups for you?" His shapely humor added so much to most of his charm.

"Not all of them were misfortunes... some, I was impressed by what they pulled out during analysis." Cardona winked at Kareem. "But honestly, I think I'm ready to section this part of my noble life off. I can't do this anymore.

"Whoa...what you saying, you wanna quit?" asks Kareem turning her chair.

"I'm like Sofia Vergara trying to run a gotdamn kennel full of war dogs. What if the next whack job shoots me? I spend too much of my life trying to keep guys out of jail so they can turn around and go Brian Nichols on me. This shit sucks, Kareem! Yes, you are damn right. I want to start over!"

Kareem sighs and seems uncomfortable about her views on the probationer's office. At length, Cardona could tell he'd come to her on business. Her parolee/producer wore pale jeans, a stark white tee, and a jacket sewn with crocodile leather. He wore a cunning fedora to conceal himself from the paps to meet her. "That's not going to work. You can't walk away from this right now." He says, seeming perplexed.

"Why the hell not?" scoffs Cardona. "What if I thought about breaking into filming for real? Turn Ms. Fines into a Playboy bunny or maybe a Colombian model, which is every man's type in the industry."

"Not now, I need Melissa---look, you have to keep working here--just until I get this shit off my record. Listen to yourself; if you leave, they'll stick me with some prick. I can't work with that kind of shit."

Cardona rolls her neck disappointed. "Oh...maybe your next P.O. won't be such a fucking self-centered prick like you!" she mutters, grimacing at him suddenly. "You don't want me to go away to a better career right now because you're such a hotshot producer... it'll fuck up your leverage on me."

Kareem spots her rummaging through the $2,700 purse she'd bought during her "Ms. Fines" debut began streaming online. "Look, it ain't that. I just figured you were like my Kris Jenner of the courts. You help me. We help each other, kind of thing." He mutters. "I need you to look over me."

Cardona places the Ferrari key fob in his palm and exchanges glances with him. "What I'm supposed to do with this?" He asks, giving it back.

She extends the key fob again. "I can't keep the car anymore."

He folds his arms and shoots back. "No, you can't give me back what you earned. It's yours now."

Earning the car solidified she'd crossed the line for Kareem Cashmere.

"Yes, I can. I realize I made a huge mistake." Cardona finally admits, knowing that hosting a sex tape---even under a pseudonym had jeopardized her entire career---and in the wake of such criminal ardor in the streets, she should've broken things off with him months ago. "You rather see me expunge your record, help you get passports, and seal your dirty urine samples, but the very second I want to leave and take up movies---which you were so fucking inspiring, okay---you tell me I can't quit because I still have to play your little officer bitch." She stands up to Kareem's pull on most of her emotions and dark desires.

He pierced her with a look. "What the hell is your problem all of sudden?"

"You don't care about me. It won't ruin your life if you hear some son of a bitch shot me from a building in broad daylight tomorrow. Will it?"

Kareem winces and grabs her hand, and says, "I do care about you, but--"

"Save the bullshit!"

Kareem just gazed at the Ferrari emblem prancing on its hind legs.

When he replies with nothing, Cardona scoffs. "We're done here." He exhales so deeply near her it ruffles pores on her neck and spirals to her groin. Kareem Cashmere mugs her under a sharp sliver of sight beneath his fedora, then finally turns to pad out the door without a word or even a touch that maybe would've diverted her anger a bit. She plopped back into her seat and glared at the key fob and warrant expedition as she willed herself to finish her day out.

* * * * *

Imani's iPhone chimes yet again. It's the third time in five minutes, I note. Whenever a text comes through, she tilts her phone toward her forearm, skirting her responses from me as she glances over to be sure I don't peek. It fills my Bentley with a red mist and some gaudy self-recrimination, maybe from my guilt of acting adulterous, but mostly because my fiance feels like she owes me this sweating I'm doing now. "Who you texting every time I look away?" I ask, awkwardly amused.

"What?" she shrills innocently.

"What's up with that? You booking a date with Post Slong from male review or something." I drew close to her nape, sniffing up my jealousy.

"Lotto has an interview with Rickey Smiley, so I gotta make sure the boy doesn't mess the whole thing up," says Imani. "Right now, I'm just praying he gets there on time. You know Dish Nation's schedule to be crazy as hell by eleven." Suddenly, I sit back, less concerned, I guess.

"Yeah, but Rickey...come on, babe. What's he got to talk about?"

"What? Um, Lotto has his moments. Remember that he got signed to that record label, and he'd go on and on about going on tour and stuff." she pouts, and I have to look her over once.

"I remember him getting screwed. His tour bus turned out to be a Durango." I say, sensing her concern about my brother all of a sudden. "You got him a walk thru with one of the biggest radio figures in the game for what...so he can roast me for not speaking to him all week."

Imani sighs and puts her phone down as I begin venting. "He's promoting his gig if you must be so nosey, Kareem. He's not going on there to treat you like Aaron Rodgers and talk about nothing to do with his big brother," she says, taking off my fedora and putting it on with a wink. I exhale any suspicion and consider how gorgeous my fiance appears when she resembles a Sicilian crime boss. "And before you even think about it... don't ask me shit else, okay? You told me to turn your brother into a hit; well, you wait to be the judge of that when Money finishes making this unbelievable, okay?"

"Okay, Frankie Capone, make me a believer." I squeeze her hand and plant a kiss near her engagement ring, then peer through the windshield as we drive south on I-85 back into Gwinnett County.

The next stop we needed to make was at the HubExpress warehouse. I realized although Imani had managed the crew's budget line under our company, she'd seen a few of Ms. Fines' videos we'd posted from the warehouse--- she'd never rode with me to work at this location. It puzzled me how she doted on running every inch of this operation alongside me, including the warehouse filled with pornstars and my Sak Chasers.

At eleven, my Bentley pulled into the vacant parking lot of the HubExpress. Rome ran the engine while the motorcar parked nearby, and Ronnie got out to flank us. He was in black jeans and a moto jacket and wore a snapback cap to add casualty to his stoic demeanor.

Ronnie opens my door because he's favored me since we were terrible childhood asses, and I like having him close to help watch the streets while I'm out roaming. "I'm gonna check on how they're running things, let her look at the place, and then we need to be back at the house getting ready for the launch party," I say.

"You got it. Should I contact the lady's stylist since we got room?" asks Ronnie.

"That'll be perfect. Save us some time to spare here." Imani replies as she gets out. She's wearing oversized Dolce Gabbana sunglasses and rakes her hair around her frames as she heads toward the warehouse. "Calvin will love this."

I nod to Ronnie. "Call Calvin." I mouth.

Imani and I begin pattering side by side into the warehouse like an audit team. I spot the Mercedes Sprinter and two smaller sedans parked near the shipping dock on the way inside, and it seems my fiance is more fascinated by the property than anything. She inspects the ramp leading up to a side door near the loading range. I have an access key card I use to get in, so I swipe and begin. "Chill says the guy who owns this place has a chain of these in Texas somewhere. This one, lucky for us, he's getting renovated, so our lease cuts his costs to fix this shit up by a grip."

"I really like this place. It's clean for a hoe site staged inside a warehouse. I wonder how long this owner will hold off on putting up his little franchise."

The door chimes, and I grab Imani's hand. "Come on; I'll show you the setup inside."

When we enter the building, I can feel Imani squeeze my hand. It's merely a dark corner where we enter, stocked with eight-foot pallets wrapped in cellophane and tagged inside, smells of wooden planks and putrid stocking material, which makes Imani waft her nose. Her heels echo throughout the enormous brick building like a grandfather clock, and in the distance, I can hear hollow moans that make us feel as if we were stumbling into the gallows of an exorcism.

Suddenly Imani snags her heel against a sprawled rusty chain. "Dammit! she cursed instantly. "What the hell is this?"

I almost lose it as I brace her lower back.

"You okay?"

"Where's the overhead lighting around here? Jesus. I want this section lit when they're working from now on." she demands and flexes her ankle.

I knew where the breakers were, so I turned more of the fluorescent bulbs on above. "Better," I say. "We are trying to save money on these high ass electricity bills, much of this area ain't used anyway, but I guess to keep you from busting your beautiful outfit, I think we can run it up a little bit."

Brilliant lights flinch as we stride into the site, where Ara turns around, grimacing when the flood of light slants his shots. He presses a button on his bulky 4k HDR and tells the set, "Thank him for giving y'all ten to chill."

I pad up to him and shake his hand. "What up, A? I see all of you facilitating like you are supposed to without Ms. Fines." I say, taking in the production crew using their break to gab about who just walked in. "As you can see, I had to bring my lady. She's a little curious about how the Sak Chasers do things."

Imani gives Ara his hand and says. "Hey, you must be the magic man behind the camera. I can imagine the amount of willpower you have."

Ara grins and kisses her hand. "How are you? I'm surprised Kareem had the balls to walk you into a place like this. These girls may be certified sluts compared to a gorgeous woman like yourself. I mean, keeping it one hundred here, Kareem, your wife could be on the cover of Maxim."

"That she is," I say, grabbing a tablet and taking in some naked clips.

Imani looks at what I'm watching and scoffs. "You shouldn't shame a woman for being uber-kinky or sex-positive in an industry like this. Anyway, what kind of segment are you running today?" We all begin touring around the production equipment and listening to our director of videography chat.

"Trung came in with a group of barely legal bachelorettes today. I wanted to capture an auditorium scene where their all in study hall, looking for the right guys to screw before the teacher finishes lecturing his market equilibrium class." Ara laughs at his pitch. He's a creative and verbose guy with rugby arms, a long thin beard, sleek glasses, and a Silicon Valley look that adheres to his innovative takeovers.

I look up at the ten rows of chairs Brock has set up, along with a professor's desk and a long dry-erase board near the desk, which encourages you to learn at least one thing here: how to be a great fuck.

"I like the idea. Has any of these girls filmed before?" asks Imani gazing at the girls in the distance.

"Nope," says Ara. "They've all signed their first non-disclosures today. Every girl here has their mind set on being our kinda stars."

Imani winces at the potential she views in each actress who prepared themselves to be professional sluts instead of a prominent role player. "That's a damn shame. Won't even try to remember a line."

"Not everyone can be a role model, babe...but it is a fact women do know how to fake this shit better than we do," I say.

Imani exchanges and look at me and the girls. "I know."

"We do have one that's done only one tape with us. Charity reminds me of Meagan Fox when it comes to doing short skits for us," says Ara.

"Who? I need to see this slutty, Ms. Fox," asked Imani, delighted.

Ara turns and shouts. "Charity! Get over here!"

Charity the Fake Entertainment Lawyer.

I refuse to look at another video as I look up to see the brunette flower bomb once again. Charity has her palms tucked in blue boyfriend jeans and nude stilettos pumps. As ever, her permed hair is swooshing and fucking me up as expected. But what disturbs my consciousness the most is my Sak Life sweater. She's cropped around her pale stomach and cut out near the neck so it falls off her pale shoulders like a chic workout top.

However, the brunette remains mint. "What you want, A?" Charity says. "Hey, Kareem." she waves with an enchanted smile.

It felt like the world knew this was (my) grey sweater.

"How are you feeling, Ms. Figueroa?" I reply, making her concerned.

"We called you out to see if you ready to do something more professional than bang a college tutor," Ara says bluntly after me.

"I thought you wanted me to take acting lessons first." Her grey eyes move from Ara to me, puzzled.

"No, we do," I say.

Imani repels our connection with a tepid grin. "From what I hear, Kareem tells me you can hold your own very well with improv. I can see you have a face. You're like the cowgirl in a bar, all you need is a crowd of fellas, and you're a natural-born star baby." she says, staring at the woman's style.

Charity fucks up when she gushes. "I'm a crowd pleaser, I guess, but ask anybody here, you give me more than ten lines, and I'm like the dumbest, most repetitive broad in the world." she laughs quirkily.

"Everyone draws a blank after ten or fifteen lines. That's why you learn to run off improv. It takes some skill, like using this part of your throat when you gag." says Ara jerking a nerve bundle in her neck.

"Fuck you!" Charity spats.

"Okay, does he always have to be so sexist?" Imani tops out on filthy language on our porn site as three other girls come over. "Look, honey. I think I can put you in a few indie projects if you're willing to give up the cuckold and start acting like you're Mila Kunis instead of Mother Cunnilingus, okay?"

Gleefully, the girls around Charity begin basking for her. "Alright," grins the brunette, then points to herself. "And I want to be big as Mila Kunis too. Kareem says he sees me in his mind, on a set like this one day."

Imani says in a competitive tone. "Okay, but you must give up a lot to be that good baby. We're taking a risk with you. You need to remove any videos you've made with Kareem's crew. Have you posted anything elsewhere? Any freaky Snapchats of you masturbating we need to get rid of?"

"Um...I don't think so."

"You sure you ain't got some boyfriend's flick streaming in the cloud," I ask, keeping my distance near my fiance, searching for loopholes.

"No," giggles Charity. "It's all been right here in this place. I'm unlike some freelance slut working my way to the top."

"Not anymore, you're not." Imani gives the woman a slanted grin as she folds her arms and takes in the other girls. "Like what you did with that top, by the way." she winks as she wanders off rakishly.

When Imani leaves the group, Charity scoffs deeply and glares at me.

"She's a tough one, boss." She sighs, admiring my fiance.

Then Charity adds. "She hates my top, doesn't she?"

"Yep. At least you get to work through the hype." I murmur, moving on.

Imani knows it's much easier to cast a handful of beautiful girls for a porno with her car budget than to star them in an actual adult film which was, at length, hard pressing to get $80 million out of studios for a budget. So, Imani tells Trung to cast twice as many people---half of whom will continue filming porn while the other half will get cycled through her request.

"Chill, get the owner of this place on the line. I wanna see what we need to pay this guy to make this place our interim studio for a while," says Imani as she sashays through the ground level as if it were a spacious loft. I spot my location scout wandering off to make the call.

"I can think of a few shows we can shoot right here, improvise with a little faux materiel, a little cheap Ikea furniture, but um...you ready for this?" I ask

"Pretty soon, you're gonna be in South America for six months directing with Samirah and doing whatever it is you do when I'm not around," says Imani, squinting and stabbing me with a finger. "While I'm here, worrying about you and our family. Maybe that'll give me a reason not to like to fall in love with vodka while you're gone." I note her gazing at the exposed brick wall. Then, more so at her crevice seeping at the end of her spine.

My palms feel as if their skating against Imani's sheer jumpsuit as I turn her hips to me. "I told you, you don't have to worry about me being reckless anymore, alright," I mutter, then tilt her chin. "Look at me...look 'here."

Imani's eyes fall on me like a raindrop from heaven. "I've come clean about everything, and that's how it's gonna stay," I say, then kiss her, which is a good sign if we're connecting ceaselessly.

Seconds later, Chill interrupts our little PDA and says. "Um...our guy Harper says he'd like to meet you two face to face so you can talk about working out a deal."

"When?" I reply, noting how quickly this is moving.

"He didn't say. Son of a bitch told me he could find you."

Imani didn't notice the alarm in that as I did currently. "He'd be able to find me." I thought. She glances at her iPhone and says, "Okay, well, wrap this shit up. We're about to go have some real fun." I observe my fiance gathering the Sak Chasers and the video girls and leading them out of HubExpress like nothing seemed out of order. Maybe, I was supposed to keep her from worrying, protect her in a blissful becoming world of the madam of Hollywood while I wondered how the hell the owner of this building knew how to find me.

I had never met him at all.

* * * * *

He spotted the Ferrari 488GT parked as some disregard on the plaza surface---whoever parked there seemed humble, disenchanted, and remotely benign about who noticed them in a sports car like this. The plaza surrounding the strip had an Old Navy, Target, GameStop, and a Verizon store, all storefronts that could barely afford the upkeep of a Ferrari and new fame. It was where someone could look outside through the parking lot shrubbery and overlook the car hidden beneath a shady dogwood tree, parked in public with abandonment and subtlety.

Where Glendall Turner pegged the Ferrari as simply a no-looker, four cameras had excellent glimpses of anyone coming near the car. So, he waited in a black, unrecognizable Lincoln MKZ near an adjacent curb a hundred yards back. He'd gotten tipped about Kareem Cashmere's Bentley-led convoy leaving the Sak Life pilot in Athens by a post-clean-up engineer whom he paid off to notify him whenever the writer made his exit.

For eighteen minutes, he tailed Kareem off the interstate to a probationer's office in Lawrenceville Glendall knew touching him would be off-limits here. He thought about scaring the shit out of his fiance he knew was kept in the back of the Bentley. Perhaps she'd notice his face, so that idea failed him. Then he wondered who exactly could be so well hidden in the motorcar that followed them like a dogsled. Bodyguards, maybe? Inwardly, he thought as he held a Nikon HD camera to his eyes, etching closer to the vehicles and a plan to attack Kareem Cashmere in public. How could he make a clean, precise kill some time today?

Somehow, he discovered a more amusing glint when he scanned the parking lot and recognized the Ferrari, Samirah had bought the writer. He realized the gift that keeps on giving. Glendall aimed his camera at the (big fish) he decided to let leave in (his) Bentley, "I'll get you next time motherfucker." He snapped, then sat patiently for whoever drove the red coupe these days.

Moments into spotting a Spanish woman approaching the car, Glendall began snapping shots of her mid-height frame: the disturbed and smug look marring her attractive face, her indelible paranoia as she hurried across a median into the plaza---noting the fact she was an armed officer, and how she must've been one of Kareem's reputable, more detached confidants. "What is a girl like you hiding this for?" He mutters out loud, observing.

Click, click, click!

Suddenly the Ferrari speeds toward him without a clue.

He sat his camera in the passenger seat, then took a sidelong shot of the woman driving by with his cell phone. He sent a text and waited for traffic to pick up some pace. He paused for ten seconds before making a U-turn and following the car.

Ahead of him, the woman drove down Buford Highway while he trailed behind. Undetected. He wasn't an expert at tailing people, but he knew how to safeguard his cover behind a squalid pickup truck and keep at least forty yards between them.

Soon, his phone buzzed. "Yeah, what do you know about the girl?"

"Melissa Cardona. A former beat cop from Broward County; was reassigned here. She was assigned to your guy as his probation officer for over a year now." the voice confirmed for Glendall.

"Does she live close by?"

"She stays in an apartment on Riverside, about four miles inside Duluth."

"Meaning she can't afford this kind of transportation to work."

"It says Kareem's had her paid up every month for the next ten years, but he still makes visits to see her almost every week."

Glendall thought of this meticulously. "What about her family?"

"None in the surrounding counties. I see Cardona has a brother in Miami who looks after their parents. You might want to hear this; the same 488GT pinged in 'Ms. Fines', a porn parody spoofing Major Crimes episodes."

Probation Officer. Payoffs. And a porn parody?

He wondered for a moment.

"Good, now I see what's keeping him out of prison," Glendall says, hanging up and zooming closer behind the Ferrari as it turns right onto a four-lane road.

There were many ways to kill a person, as there were many things wrong with this picture: a probation officer driving a sports car gifted from a parolee, Cardona discreetly taking payoffs from Kareem, and perhaps she was having sex with one of her deep-pocketed parolees, which violated all court provisions and could destroy two careers in duplicity.

Glendall wondered how a wild parody would fit into all of this.

He accelerated harder and swerved into the inner lane as he spotted the woman heading toward another intersection light. This one with fewer vehicles altogether, just about deserted and filled with quietness when he pulled alongside the Ferrari.

Glendall tires shrilled abruptly. Then steeled himself and glared at the woman as his window slid down tautly. When Cardona recognized the man watching her, she hastily snapped her head forward and gazed at the light.

Red light, red light, stay right where you are.

He glanced down briefly, then stared at her again as if his tactile eye rage had enticed her. As expected, Cardona looked over once more and flustered immediately. So, Glendall began waving like a rakish car man until the black-haired woman reluctantly rolled down her window. With a leading man smile, he says, "I'm sorry to scare you, but do you race cars?"

"What? I can't hear you!" she yelled out the window.

"Your ride, just looking at it, I know I'd lose, but I was wondering do you race cars?" He gazed at the Ferrari as if racing it was a rare opportunity.

"No, I don't race cars. Sorry." Cardona scoffed, shaking her head.

"What a shame," Glendall shrugged in return, then lifted his Sig Sauer .9mm and pumped two rounds through the passenger window of Cardona's car. After hitting the woman, noting her neck snap sideways, he threw his burner phone inside the blood-splattered Ferrari. With a terse grin, he sped off into a right turn off the street into the clear afternoon.

He didn't care much for racing cars, either.