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Writer's pictureTracey Lampley

All Money Ain't Good Money Chapter 1, Scene 1

Updated: Nov 13



I was convinced that God created the sultry summers in Georgia to help us understand that hell was no place to spend eternity. On this sweltering Saturday in Atlanta, I was squatting behind a hedge wide enough to conceal my five-foot-four, one-hundred-twenty-five-pound frame, while bees and flies buzzed all around me.

The heat from the July sun had rudely settled onto my wet neck when I checked my cell phone. It was just past ten, and this was the correct address. The one where my client swore that her husband spends his mornings with the lovely Jennifer Maine, a talented stripper with an apparent penchant for politicians.

I’m Valerie Curry, and everyone but my teenage daughter calls me Jinx. I work as a private investigator for Capricorn Hayes & Associates, a small firm that runs the gamut in security and private investigations. In my two years with the firm, I’ve only worked surveillance where I spy on cheating husbands or cheating wives and girlfriends. It sucks because I truly want more challenging work. I want to investigate, not just take compromising photos for husbands and wives on their cheating spouses. It’s easy money, but I want more. At thirty-three, I feel my time has come for a more rewarding career.

Now intent on snapping the money shot for my client, I stole this position minutes earlier after the homeowner left for the day. I was fiddling with my Nikon camera, when the familiar black Mercedes SUV pulled into the driveway across the street. The license plate with the Georgia peach logo read GA SENATR. Yes, that was the cheating husband I intended to get the goods on because his suspicious and unhappy wife intends to leave him.

The garage of the white, barn-styled, tri-level home rumbled up, and State Senator and gubernatorial candidate Frank Porter nosed his vehicle inside. A man I recognized as the senator’s campaign manager was curling barbells. He suddenly dropped the barbells and approached the car. Stephen Gilmore was tall and muscle-bound. A crew cut of blond hair framed his tanned face. He was wearing biker shorts and no shirt. Sweat glistened from his perfectly chiseled torso. He broke into a slow grin as the senator, all five feet six inches of him, emerged from the vehicle.

I don’t know why, but I focused my camera on the pair and began snapping photos. Gilmore ruffled the senator’s dark curly hair before they embraced. Then, ever so slightly, the senator tilted his head up, and Gilmore’s own head swooped down, and the two’s lips met.

Oh shit! The money shot!

This was good stuff. I fell to my knees. With blades of grass tickling my knees and shins, I grinned then squealed with delight. “Wow. This is amazing,” I told myself as I felt drumming in my chest. The camera whirred with each click. After all this time, the wife had been looking at the wrong angle. Stripper my ass. With these photos, the wife would command a hefty divorce settlement and sole custody of the three kids to boot.

I kept my index finger pressed on the shutter as Gilmore grabbed the senator’s hips. Because of the quiet, the continuous whir of the camera almost mimicked gunshots. I shook my head, disbelieving the brazenness of the public display of affection. With these shots, I would finally be able to pay off the loan to my childhood friend. Click-click. Click. Damn, this was good.

“Who the hell are you?” an angry voice beside me demanded.

My breath caught, and I whirled around just as cold water splashed my face. “Dammit!” While the water cooled me off, I knew it also fucked up my hairdo that I’d flat-ironed earlier. I squinted at the Chinese senior holding the water hose, and she sprayed me again.

“Get off my neighbor’s property!” She bared her teeth and glared before showering me again.

I danced from behind the hedge and caught a glimpse of the senator. He covered his pale face with his hands, while his campaign manager stepped out of the garage. A scowling Gilmore advanced toward me.

Suddenly, my body shrank in on itself. My mouth went dry, and my heart rate increased. Clumsily, I started toward my Toyota RAV4 but backpedaled after realizing I’d have to get past the menacing campaign manager.

So, I spun around. My feet took wing, and I sprinted in the opposite direction. I glanced over my shoulder only to see Gilmore charging toward me. As my breath burst in and out, I raced past a knot of teens on bikes. They jeered and shouted obscenities.

One of them shouted, “He’s gonna catch you!”

As I rounded the corner, I looked over my shoulder again and caught Gilmore thundering toward me. His beet-red face focused on catching me. I nearly tripped at the sight of his legs devouring the sidewalk. He was really gaining on me.

Goose flesh pebbled my arms, and I nearly tripped again but righted myself despite my heart ping-ponging inside my chest. Fire coursed through my legs, and I torpedoed past modest single-family homes. I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder again.

Then I darted into traffic.

Horns blared.

Brakes squealed.

F-bombs roared.

I dodged cars, SUVs, and cabs. A driver flipped me the bird. Up ahead, the city bus turned the corner. It hissed to a stop at the bus sign. While waving my hands, I shot down toward the bus.

Just as I plunged myself inside, a strong hand jerked the back of my spaghetti strap. My momentum halted and reversed, then my feet slipped out from under me. The ground rushed up to meet me, and I spilled onto the sidewalk.

My ass stung. I rubbed one of those cheeks briefly and nearly choked on the stinking exhaust fumes belching from the bus. I turned my head toward the inside of the bus. The female driver’s mouth gaped. She shook her head then hastily closed the door. The bus hissed again, moved away from the curb, and merged into traffic.

For a short while, I lay there, my breath stuttering. Then I turned over and faced my captor.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, lady?” Gilmore loomed over me pointing his index finger. His cold blue eyes glowering. As he continued entering my personal space, I scrambled backwards then lumbered to my feet. Stephen Gilmore reached for my camera. I flinched and shoved his hand away.

“Get away from me!”

His eyes bulged now. He wagged his index finger at me. “Bitch, give me that camera!”

“No! Get the hell out of my face, asshole!” I spread my legs slightly. I thrust my shoulders back and my chest out. “You’re a pussy for attacking a woman!”

He smirked but said nothing.

“Should’ve known that would serve as a compliment to you.”

Gilmore’s face contorted and flushed red. He reached for the camera again, but I drew back. There was no way he was getting it. I lifted my chin while I closed and opened my fist. I blew out a deep breath, then I took him in.

Taller than I’d first thought, I surmised he had to be at least six foot two. I didn’t know if my fists could reach that high. “You don’t want to fuck with me.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” He lunged.

I swung the camera up. It smashed against his nose, and he went down, crashing against the pavement. His eyes rolled to the back of his head then closed. He was out cold!

While his nose pulsed blood, I looked around me. Gawkers were apoplectic. Drivers honked. Some exited their vehicles. Now was the time for me to take off. As I jogged across the packed intersection, someone stuck a foot out. I tripped, and my Nikon scuttled away from me. I went to retrieve it. But traffic started moving again.

I jammed my hands inside my armpits to stop the cold sweat oozing from my pores. My eyes widened, and I could not blink. Instead, I cringed and flinched as the cars zipped by me. I teetered on my tip-toes trying to snag my camera, which was resting on the solid white line a few feet away from me. Shit! A horn blared, and I stepped back. While I feared I’d be splattered into tomato soup, I needed that camera.

My bank account was already hemorrhaging money, and springing for another Nikon was not in my budget. I’d broken three in four months. My boss would be pissed if the agency had to spring for another camera.

But I had the money shot. That was most important. I took a deep breath and lurched forward. The careening of a white car and the squeal of its brakes made my stomach drop. I screamed then turned away from the oncoming car barreling down on me. My muscles tensed, and my posture went rigid. The car halted a few inches from me. I gasped.

The driver leaned on his horn. “You stupid ass! What’re you doin’ in the middle of the street?”

I ignored him and the catcalls from the construction workers across the street. After retrieving my camera, I willed my wobbly legs to move. Although my walk was unsteady, I managed to do it in a straight path. I made eye contact with no one. By the time I returned to my RAV4, the senator’s Mercedes SUV was gone from the open garage.

Damn! In spite of everything that’d just happened, I’d hoped to get a reaction shot from the state senator. Would the very married senator still run for governor while banging his campaign manager?

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