Excerpt of All Money Ain't Good Money by Tracey Lampley

CHAPTER 1

      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, trilevel 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 my childhood friend, who doubled as my loan shark. You see, I owed him quite a few G’s after I bailed my mom out of her gambling jam. I exchanged one loan shark for another. I thought my childhood friend would go easy on me. 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.

Gooseflesh 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. I targeted the city bus turning 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.