"Iwanted to start a Rap magazine. Celebrities. Models. Lowriders. Graffiti. Figured I'd get a journalism degree. Worst could happen I'd get a nice job. Something around 40k. And be a square.

"That ain't even happening. I don't even see jobs paying that much. And good companies reject me right away. I couldn't tell you why.”

"Well, I'm going to help you."

Three days later...

Carl lay in bed filling out resumes and submitting applications through Indeed. His Tracfone rang. He took a deep breath, for energy, and answered. "Hello?"

“Hey Tiger.”

Her voice was soft and melodic. He recognized her instantly. How could he not - after singing for him in an acoustic motel room.

"Sheriya?"

"Expecting slender-woman?"

"What's up?"

"My man wants to hire your services. Four hundred dollars to shoot four models. One hour. This Saturday."

A set up? She bought the weed, drank and paid for the momo. Set me up for what?

"Where?"

"The Playboy Penthouse in Anaheim. I'll text you the address. Four o'clock." Before Carl could say anything she repeated, “Four o'clock."

"Is this safe? Ahmean, you bringing up a man everything?"

"He ain't trippin'. Just don’t stand us up."

-

Private Eye Guy Baxter parked half a block down the hill from Carl. They were on Quail Avenue in Anaheim Hills. Baxter’s binoculars recorded video. He and Carl were the same age. They had the same hairstyle. But Baxter was a blond and blue-eyed proud American.

Baxter e-mailed footage to O’Ryan. He watched it. His lawyer and partner were present.

"I know he’s behind on rent," O'Ryan said. "He should be out in the cold. Why is he driving around in new clothes?"

"Judging by that camera, he's a photojournalist," his partner said.

"Then I’ll watch him do that. But he ain't getting anutta job. Nuhnt-uh.”

"Why not?” the lawyer asked.

"He's forty-fucking-six! Don’t know his daddy. Ruined his credit. And unstable for 25 years. He's done."

"Maybe that's not for you to decide?"

O'Ryan opened a manila folder. He flipped through fifty files with photos of blacks attached. "These are mine. I have to know who they are. What they do. With who. And how're they getting money. Because I won't pay them."

-

Carl walked through an unlocked metal gate. He saw a six-foot-two dark complexioned man with a square box fade wearing a gray suit. Not a gray hair on him. He took a picture of Sheriya in front of a pink Hummer.

Sheriya introduced Carl to Bryce Miller, entertainment entrepreneur. The penthouse was a photography trap-house. Four bedrooms turned into photo studios.

Jessica was there. She modeled nude. Carl shot the sets. He downloaded the pics to a Mac in the living room. Miller paid him. Then he encouraged Carl to use the photos for a calendar or magazine. And try to get paid.

Miller was cool. He was a kingpin. And Sheriya's sugar-daddy.

-

Carl clicked "finish and publish." His magazine was live. Tash, from Tha Alkaholiks, was on the cover. If a million people bought it, he'd have $2 million.

But magazines didn’t sell online. He knew that. He made a website anyhow. Even sent marketing e-mails.

He wanted to celebrate. It was Friday at 7 p.m. He drove to the liquor store a mile away.

Baxter's undercover watched Carl buy 2 cigars and an Arizona.

"Who the fuck gives him money?" O'Ryan asked his partner.

"Don't know. HR is telling employers he’s a grumpy black dude being shunned by the journalism industry. He's old. No longer fit for employment."

"Well, he didn't pay his car registration. So, technically, he's broke. We got'em."