Everyone Has Secrets

by Edward Kendrick

  “I take it you learned who he was during this encounter.”

  “Nope. Not until a couple of days later. I saw his picture in the paper. Some charity event. You know who Franklin Saunders is?”

  “You’re serious? It was him?” I resisted cheering. I now had my next target.

  “In the flesh, and there’s a lot of it. That man needs to go to the gym.” Alan grinned broadly. “He wears a corset to hold in his gut.”

  I laughed, because I knew I was supposed to. “You’re sure it was him? I mean he’s so straight he squeaks when he bends over, from what I’ve heard. And he hates anyone who doesn’t believe in the same things he does.”

  “Believe me, when he bent over there wasn’t even the smallest squeak. And, yeah, I’m sure it was him. First and last time I’ve ever seen him here, which doesn’t mean he’s not a regular upstairs. I sort of asked Marcus but you know him. He gets paid to well not to give up any info on members.”

  True, and I knew it. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t do a little hacking to see what I could come up with. “What name does Saunders go by when he’s here?”

  “Cass Cassidy.”

  I nodded. That was what the club did when assigning aliases. I knew one man who went by Jeff Jefferson when he visited.

  After that, we dropped the subject of Saunders, a.k.a. Cassidy. We finished dinner, and another drink, after which we retired to a room on the second floor before going our separate ways.

  * * * *

  I shut down my computer, tapping my fingers together as I leaned back, deep in thought. I had the information I needed from the club, linking Saunders to the name he used when he visited there—which turned out to be one to three times a month for the last six months. He was definitely a regular.

  But I needed more. I needed visual proof, and the only way to get that was to stake out the club’s private entrance which unfortunately—from my perspective—was through a restaurant on the next block. In years past, when the building housing the club was first built, it had been a bordello. Just like today, there were people who preferred not to be seen entering, so secret tunnels were built from it to three of the city’s major hotels. Two of them were subsequently filled in when new construction took place in the area. Most of the third was as well, except the part running under the alley from the club to the restaurant, which was owned by the club through a holding company.

  I knew the restaurant end of the tunnel was in the basement, next to a storage area. However, it’s well secured and watched by trusted security guards. I had to find a legitimate excuse to be down there when Saunders made use of it. Or better yet, it occurred to me, to be at the club’s end when he exited the tunnel into the room housing the stairs to the club’s second floor. That, I might be able to pull off.

  I dressed for the evening in slacks, a blue dress shirt, and tie, topped by an overcoat since the weather was turning colder by the day. I also added one accessory—the reason for the tie—a miniature camera masquerading as a tie clip.

  I figured the chances were slim Saunders would be there, but I still needed to scope out where I could be when he arrived at the club. On the second floor wasn’t an option. Sure, I could do as Alan had, and pretend to be killing time by talking to Marcus. Or I could hang out in the lounge used by the men who were waiting for their companions to arrive. But every night? That would be more than suspicious.

  My best bet, I decided, was on the first floor landing, since the basement entrance was as well secured as the one in the restaurant, including a security guard. I had one thing working for me. There were no cameras, overt or hidden, anywhere along the route the special members took into the club. That meant I wouldn’t be showing up on security monitors any more than they would.

  “Coming straight from work, Mr. Colton?” the doorman asked when I took off my overcoat after entering the club.

  “Yep. How did you know?”

  “You don’t normally wear a tie. In fact, it seems to me you once said you hate the things.”

  “I do. But I had a dinner meeting with an important client an hour ago and was too lazy to go home and change.” I left my coat in the cloakroom and headed to the bar, where I got a scotch on the rocks. Then I wandered into the back room which has a dance floor, surrounded by tables for two.

  There were several men at the tables, either together or in a few cases alone. Some of the singles I knew, a couple of them I didn’t. I stopped to chat with Bill, one of my occasional bed partners when we were both here and wanted someone to go home with. Or take upstairs, which I might have suggested, if I wasn’t at the club for another reason entirely.

  A young man sitting across the room, and apparently on his own, caught my eye. Bill picked up on it and chuckled. “He’s new, and from what I can tell, pretty shy. He looks, but when anyone approaches him, he shakes his head. No clue why he bothers coming here, with that attitude.”

  That was intriguing, but again, nothing I was willing to explore right then. Leaving the room, I made my way to the upstairs foyer. Marcus greeted me, asking if I was waiting for someone.

  “Nope,” I replied. “Just bored but not ready to head home yet. Who knows who’ll show up later?”

  “True, that. Take a load off.” He gestured to the chair by his desk. “It’s been slow, so I wouldn’t mind some company.”

  “No special members hooking up?” I asked with a knowing look.

  “Now that would be telling. Actually, not tonight. Your friend Jeff Jefferson was in last night.”

  “Damn. I missed him.” I sighed dramatically and he laughed.

  At that point, it got a little busy as two couples came up from downstairs. I stepped back to let Marcus do his thing and somehow ended up in the lounge, and then by the door leading to the stairway going down to the tunnel. Taking a quick glance to be certain Marcus wasn’t checking on me, I opened the door and made my way down to the landing. As with the rest of the building, it had ornate crown molding and waist high wainscoting. I touched my tie clip to take several shots of them because I had an idea which might save me from a great deal of hanging around where I wasn’t really supposed to be.

  I quickly returned to the second floor, easing the door open to see what Marcus was doing—which was talking to the second couple, pointing to the room that would be theirs until they were ready to vacate it. I took advantage of that to come back into the foyer, quietly closing the door behind me. After spending a few more minutes chatting with Marcus, I left—both the second floor and the club.

  * * * *

  I returned the next evening, much more casually dressed in slacks and a turtleneck under an open shirt. As usual, I stopped at the bar to get my scotch before finding a vacant table. I ordered a light supper, chatting with a couple of men I knew while I ate. Alan appeared but he was with someone else so we only nodded to each other before the pair found a table across the room from me.

  Done with my supper, I ordered another scotch and sipped it while watching the stairs. When three couples, including Alan and his companion headed up, I followed. Marcus had his hands full, and the lounge was vacant, which made it easy to get to the stairs leading down to the landing without him or the others noticing. Keeping an ear open for the sounds of anyone approaching from either direction, I spent the next few minutes setting up the two miniature Wi-Fi cameras I’d brought with me. They would send any images straight to my iPhone and, since they were motion activated, I wouldn’t have to worry about them dying on me at the wrong moment.

  Now it would be wait and hope. Given what I’d found out about how often Saunders visited the club, it shouldn’t be more than a matter of days until I caught him on camera.

  It turned out to be the following Friday, and I was at the club when he arrived.

  My phone let me know whenever the cameras were activated. When it vibrated this time, I took a quick look and was rewarded with a photo of a lewdly smiling Mr. Saunders as he came onto the landing with a companion. A second later,
there was another one of them kissing.

  Luckily, I was alone at the time, sitting at the bar. Taking my drink with me, I made my way upstairs, arriving just as they did. When Marcus went into the lounge to greet them, I was in a position to see Saunders, who had his arm wrapped tightly around the waist of the much younger man with him. Feigning a phone call, I activated the phone’s camera, taking several shots of the two men—including one of them entering the room that they’d be using, off to the right side of the lounge. I put the phone back in my pocket just as Marcus came back into the foyer, casting a questioning glance my way. I told him the call had been from a guy I was supposed to be meeting who had finally arrived. I got a nod in reply as I headed downstairs.

  * * * *

  I now had everything I needed to have a long, personal talk with Saunders. A very profitable talk as it turned out.

  “I have a nine-thirty appointment with Franklin Saunders,” I told the girl at the reception desk on Monday morning, two days after photographing Saunders at the club.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “James Winston.”

  She checked, then asked me to wait. “He’s with another client at the moment.” I nodded and killed the time checking out the photos on the wall. Since Saunders was a realtor, they were of various homes—with details and sale prices.

  A few minutes later, she informed me he was available and told me his office was at the end of the hall. I went down, pausing briefly to check my reflection in a decorative mirror between two plants. Even my mother wouldn’t have recognized me. My hair was three shades lighter than normal; I was wearing green contacts, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and sported a trim mustache and small beard.

  Saunders stood to greet me when I entered his office. “Mr. Winston. A pleasure to meet you. Please have a seat.” He gestured to the visitor’s chair by his desk. After I sat, he said, “According to the information you gave my secretary, you’re interested in purchasing a house. Do you have anything specific in mind?”

  “Yes,” I replied, taking an envelope from the briefcase sitting in my lap. I slid it across the desk to him.

  He opened it, taking out the contents. “What the hell is this?” he asked angrily when he looked at the photos.

  “I think it’s self-explanatory. Those are copies, by the way. I have a several sets, one of them ready to send to your wife if the situation warrants. I can also give copies to a certain reporter who might find them very interesting, all things considered.” The reporter in question held no love for Saunders’ views and had written an op-ed piece for the local paper about a month ago explaining why.

  “These don’t…” he sputtered, taking another look. Then he read the information I’d gathered on him. When he finished, he looked defeated. But then most people do when I face them down with what I know about them. Things they were certain were their own deep, dark secrets. “How much to buy these, and the copies back?” he asked.

  “I’ve done my research,” I replied, smiling. “I think you can easily afford a one-time payment of a hundred thousand, in cash.”

  “Are you out of your damned mind? How would I explain…?”

  “I’m sure you can come up with a reason. You’re a smart businessman. I’ll give you until this time tomorrow.” I took back the envelope—because I didn’t intend on leaving my fingerprints with him—but not the contents. I’d worn latex gloves while handling the photos. “I’ll call to tell you where to bring the money.” Looking dead at him, I said, “Do not even think about getting in touch with the police. If that happens, a man I know will forward everything to your wife and the reporter I mentioned.”

  “How do I know you won’t keep on blackmailing me?” he asked tightly.

  “I’m not stupid, Mr. Saunders. If I tried, eventually you’d decide losing your precious reputation wasn’t worth what it was costing you. I really do not want to spend even a day in jail, to say the least of several years. You can believe me, or not, but it’s the truth.”

  With that said, I left.

  The next afternoon I called Saunders. It was quite apparent from his tone of voice he wished I’d died and gone to hell, but he said he had my money. I told him where to leave it, when, and how. He did as I’d ordered.

  An hour later, having watched the area to be quite certain it was safe, I casually walked over to the bank of lockers in the men’s locker room at the fitness club. Opening number ten, I took out a gym bag and went into the restroom. After checking the bills—twenties and fifties, all of them used and non-sequential—I put them in my messenger bag. While I doubted he had contacted the authorities, or hired someone to follow me, I’m not stupid. I left the gym bag behind; on the off chance it held a tracking device.

  When I got home, I put the cash in my safe, keeping out two hundred for spending money. Over the next few weeks, I would deposit it, in small amounts, into several bank accounts I held under various aliases. From there, I’d move the monies to my off-shore account. Someday in the far future I might decide to retire. If so, I’ll be able to live comfortably—and then some—much as I do now, but without the hassle of coming up with yet another scheme to blackmail another stupid person.

  Chapter 3

  After having relieved Saunders of a sizable amount of cash, I put in time on my ‘day job’ as a financial planner. It’s a one-man business, if you don’t count Dora, my part-time secretary. I work as much by phone as in person—but I do have clients who want to speak one-on-one with me, so I made it a practice to be in the office four mornings a week to meet with them.

  When Friday night rolled around, I decided to go to the club for my own enjoyment.

  As far as I was concerned there’s generally only one real reason to go there—and it’s not for the drinks or the food, as good as they may be. So when I see someone who interests me, I move in to strike up a conversation.

  That happened tonight—with unexpected results.

  I had my usual scotch in hand when I walked into the back room. The music was loud; the dance floor was filled with men of all sizes, shapes, and ages. Some of them I knew. Others I might want to, if they were available. I snagged a table when a couple vacated it, leaned back, and scanned the other tables within view. From what I could see at first, I was the only man sitting alone. A situation I intended to rectify.

  Then I saw the young man from a couple of weeks ago. The one Bill had told me was new and very shy—if how he reacted to the men trying to talk to him was any indication. That idea intrigued me, especially after seeing him act the same way just now—shaking his head when someone approached him. He was cute, with fairly short blond hair and a nice smile, when he used it. He looked as if he couldn’t be more than twenty-one. I knew for a fact he had to be that old, or he couldn’t be a member of the club.

  “Bill’s right,” I murmured to myself. “Why come here if you don’t want to make a connection? Are you looking for someone specific, or do you get off on watching and imagining, without acting on it?”

  Only one way to find out. Yeah, maybe I was being egotistical, but I thought I could, at the very least, get him to acknowledge my presence with more than a gesture saying he’s not interested. I got up and strolled over to the vicinity of his table. Then I waited until the men at the one next to his left. The moment they had, I took it over, pushing the empty glasses to one side before setting mine down.

  I turned to look at the young man, smiling, but nothing more. Not unexpectedly, he ignored me. I took a drink, put the glass down, then smiled again. “I haven’t seen you around before,” I said. “No. Wait. I have. A couple of weeks ago.”

  He shot me a ‘get lost’ look before returning his attention to the dance floor.

  “Not much of a talker, huh?” I said.

  At least he acknowledged that—with a sharp shake of his head.

  “Let me guess. Your…” I tapped my chin pensively. “Your uncle is a member and you decided to see what it’s all about.”

  He didn
’t reply, but I saw his hands clench.

  “Close?” I asked.

  “Not really.”

  “You do speak.”

  That earned me a smile so brief I thought I might have imagined it. I took another drink then realized all he had in front of him was a glass of water. “Not a drinker?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

  “You don’t drink. You shut down anyone who tries to get your attention. Why the hell do you bother coming here?”

  He looked icily at me. “None of your business.”

  Curious—okay, more curious than I was already, I cocked my head in question. “Are you even gay?”

  “Would I be here if I wasn’t?”

  “You tell me.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am.”

  “So, you pay a fairly hefty sum to become a member of the club, and don’t take advantage of what it has to offer.”

  “Unlike you,” he replied under his breath.

  I heard him anyway, as the music stopped momentarily between songs. “You know this how?”

  “I’ve seen you here. You seem to know a lot of the men.”

  That stopped me cold. How had he seen me—more than once from what he implied—and this was only the second time I’d noticed him?

  “I’ll be honest,” I told him with a brief smile. “This is only twice that I’ve been aware of you.”

  “Am I supposed to clutch my chest in shock and say something like ‘how could you have missed me’? If so, forget it.”