Money Shot (3 page)

"Actors have sued tabloids
in the past, but this is different. This goes straight to the
source, to those who invade our privacy and seek to ruin what we
have worked so hard for.

"And now I'm going to turn
this over to Reverend Jeremiah Dixon, the leader of the Religious
Right and one of my closest friends."

***

What the hell is
this?

Roxanne leaned forward on
the edge of her sofa as conservative blowhard Jeremiah Dixon
started firing volleys in her direction. She was not just a
money-grubbing vulture.

She was a wanton harlot
who had shattered the beliefs of little girls.

She was a
dream-killer.

A flaming liberal who
wanted to destroy one of the last pure things in
America.

And she had to pay for her
sins.

Then, as if on cue,
Roxanne heard the chants outside her door.

Tell the truth,
Roxanne!

The television coverage
went back to a split screen, with Reverend Dixon on one
side…

And a line of
Bible-thumping picketers on the other.

They were heading down the
street toward her home, growing louder.

Chanting her
name.

Carrying signs that bore
it.

Suddenly she had to get
out. She grabbed her purse, her camera bag, and the envelope that
held the precious memory stick.

For the first time, The
Vulture knew what it felt like to be on the other side of the
lens.

Just as the rock came
crashing through the window.

***

Nicole came running out of
the den. "She's on the run!"

"Who?" asked
Desmona.

"Roxanne Rizzo. The
Vulture has flown the coop. All the stations have it
LIVE!"

They quickly moved into
the study. Desmona smiled as she saw what had to be every Hollywood
actor's dream.

A televised car chase of a
paparazzi.

The ultimate
payback.

***

Roxanne Rizzo had to get
to the bank.

And she was kicking
herself for not going yesterday.

Incredibly, she had kept
the most valuable piece of property she owned sitting on her dining
room table. She thought she had sold it and was done with
it.

Now it was her only source
of proof.

She needed to get it into
her safety deposit box.

The short run to her car
through the cameras had been bad enough. She thought she'd get some
peace in the car once she got out of the driveway and through the
conservative protestors, but then she'd heard the rhythmic beat of
the helicopter rotor blades from above. She slid the moon roof
open, and saw two choppers jockeying for position as she headed
down the highway.

Meanwhile, she was leaving
a trail of media, protestors and the rest of the 'razzi in her
wake. All honking their horns at her as they tailgated. She saw
photogs hanging out driver's side windows, shooting pictures as
they drove.

She was determined not to
break the law as she drove under the speed limit. She was not going
to stop. The bank was just a few miles away.

She would get to her
safety deposit box, drop in the memory stick, and then get as far
away from Hollywood as she could.

How she was going to do
that was another story.

The Vulture knew all the
escape tricks, and the rest of the 'razzi did too. It didn't help
that it was probably being broadcast on live television.

She felt beads of sweat
began to blossom on her forehead and tried in vain to use
logic.

I have proof. Sue me all
you want. I have proof and I'll be happy to show it to
you.

But that wasn't half the
problem and she knew it. Desmona Jackson, with deeper pockets than
God, had apparently summoned the extreme right wing of the country,
taken the bulls eye off Satan's back and painted it squarely on
hers.

If hell hath no fury like
a woman scorned, it couldn't hold a candle to a pissed off Snow
White.

Roxanne turned off the
freeway and headed for the bank. She at least knew she wouldn't
have to fight her way through the media when she got there. They
had no idea where she was going.

But she knew they weren't
going to stop following her after she got there.

***

"It looks like she's
slowing down," said the Ken-Doll anchor from his side of the split
screen. His smarmy grin reminded Desmona of a car salesman, while
his sandy blonde hair looked like it wouldn't move in a category
five hurricane.

"She's definitely pulling
over… looks like she's stopping at a bank," said the striking
brunette co-anchor. Her caramel eyes danced as she tried to make
love to the screen. "Maybe she's hitting the ATM and getting out of
town."

"We'll soon see," said the
male anchor. "For those of you who just tuned in, you're watching
live coverage of the desperate run of Roxanne Rizzo, the paparazzi
who sold those now famous photos of Desmona Jackson to the
Hollywood Grapevine."

"Oh, this is rich," said
Nicole. "Check out the bottom of the screen."

There, in big, bold
letters, were two words.

Roxanne's Run.

"You can run but you can't
hide, sweetie," said Desmona. "How does it feel now, you little
bitch?" She cupped her hand over her mouth and her eyes grew wide,
then realized the good Reverend was on the phone in another room.
She took her hand out of the cookie jar and vowed to watch her
mouth for the moment.

"What do you think she's
doing at a bank?" asked Nicole.

"One of two things," said
Desmona. "Making a deposit or cleaning out her account. And if
she's making a deposit, I know what it is."

"I'm not sure I care for
this vindictive side of you," said Nicole. "That's usually my
department. But I sure do like the results."

"And we're far from done,"
said Desmona.

"True. You think she has
any idea what’s in store for her?"

"Not a clue."

***

Roxanne turned the key and
the teller turned his.

Just like locking down a
nuclear missile.

If only it were that
easy.

In this case the missile
would be disarmed, but it could still vaporize her at any
minute.

She breathed easier
knowing her proof was safety tucked away behind fireproof steel
with her father's gold watch and mom's diamonds. Her heart finally
downshifted as she tried to exhale at least some of the tension.
She left the safety deposit vault, headed for the front of the bank
and saw a horde of media and paparazzi through the glass door
waiting for her.

"You can go out the back
if you like," said the young bank teller who couldn't have been
more than twenty-two. The lanky kid with the ill-fitting suit
didn't look like he'd ever shaved.

"Thanks for the offer, but
my car's right out front," said Roxanne. "I just have to get this
over with."

"Where are you
headed?"

She started to tell him
but considered the consequences. He could be bought, might turn
over some information for a few hundred bucks.

Dear God, have I become as
paranoid as the people I chased?

Already?

Well, considering I've
bribed enough people in my day, uh, yeah.

She decided to cover her
tracks. "San Diego. I'm going down there to stay with my sister on
Mission Bay."

"It's beautiful down
there," said the teller, who escorted her to the front door. "Well,
good luck." The horde spotted her through the glass and began
jockeying for position.

Roxanne noticed the giant
pair of shoulders disguised as a bank guard sitting in a chair near
the door, staring into space. "Little help?" she asked, smiling for
the first time in an hour and batting her eyelashes.

The man looked up, smiled
back at her, checked out the scene at the front door, and
nodded.

Roxanne put her sunglasses
on, forced her head up, and followed him out the door.

***

The Fixer got to the bank
just before closing time.

With a
briefcase.

And not one dime in
it.

Opening a safety deposit
box at five minutes till five would insure that no customers would
be in the building by the time he was finished.

The young female teller
rolled her eyes when he told her he needed a safe place to store
some valuables. She obviously didn't want to stay late, but thanks
to some middle aged guy who had nothing better to do on a Friday
night, she had to.

She filled out the proper
forms, took The Fixer's fifty-dollar bill, and led him to the steel
door. She opened it, then pulled out a log book.

"You'll sign this each
time you come in," she said. She wrote the number of the box and
turned the book toward him.

"I'll need my glasses." He
pretended to search his pockets while scanning the signatures in
the book. He found the one he wanted.

Roxanne Rizzo.

And her box
number.

304.

The teller drummed her
dark red fingernails on the counter as he continued his faux search
for the glasses.

"Found 'em," he said. He
put them on and scribbled something unintelligible in the
book.

"Follow me," said the
teller.

She led him down a row of
gray metal sentries. He passed the one that held the treasure and
stopped at his own. She put her key in one side, he put his in the
other and they both turned. She opened the door and pulled out the
long, slender brown box with a flip top hard plastic
cover.

"You can use the room
behind you for privacy," she said. "I'll be at my desk when you're
done."

"Thank you. Just give me
ten minutes."

"Great," she said
sarcastically, then walked away.

He walked into the privacy
room. He was tall and slender and moved without making any noise.
He opened his briefcase, took out the large battery, and connected
it to the powerful electromagnet, known as a laboratory degausser.
He peeked out of the room, saw no one, then quickly moved in front
of box 304. He pressed the device against the front of the box,
pressed a button, and heard a loud hum as it locked onto the metal.
He held the button in for ten seconds, then released it. More than
enough time to scramble everything on a memory card, even through
heavy gauge steel.

He looked out the
door.

Still, no one was
watching.

He moved back to the
privacy room and returned the device to the briefcase. He placed
his box back into the slot, then walked out to find the teller text
messaging on her phone.

"All done," said The
Fixer. "Everything's safe and sound now."

***

Roxanne sat down at the
conference room table across from her attorney, holding on to the
envelope like grim death.

A.C. Jensen, well-known
California defender of the paparazzi and the first amendment took a
seat opposite her. Jensen looked crusty for his forty-five years,
but sunbathing on the George Hamilton SPF plan will do that to you.
A hairy, overweight lawn gnome with Coke-bottle glasses followed
him, carrying a laptop. The geek set up the laptop on the table and
extended his hand to Roxanne. "Hi. Eddie Crews."

"Eddie used to work for
the FBI," said Jensen, stretching his neck so that his turkey
waddle had plenty of room. He's one of the foremost
experts—

"
The
foremost expert," said Eddie,
raising one finger.

"Sorry,
the
foremost expert in
the digital photography field. He'll prove the photos you took are
unaltered."

"I already know that,"
said Roxanne.

"Then you have nothing to
worry about," said Jensen.

"Yeah, legally," said
Roxanne. "You're not the one who's a prisoner in her own home.
Don't these people with the picket signs have jobs?"

"Yeah," said the lawyer.
"Stalking you for the religious right."

"I assume that's the Holy
Grail?" asked Eddie, nodding toward the envelope.

Roxanne opened the
envelope and gently took out the stick containing the photos. She'd
written a big green dollar sign on it so there would be no mistake.
"Careful. My life is on there."

"Did you make a
copy?"

"No. I sold it within
hours."

Eddie took the stick and
slowly inserted it into a reader connected to his
laptop.

Roxanne turned toward her
lawyer. "This should do it, right? I mean, once he proves the
pictures aren't fakes."