by Martin Brown
Michael knew Fred’s truck, but Fred had never seen Michael’s recently acquired used car. Approximately twenty minutes had passed when he spied in his rear view mirror Fred’s GMC, a vehicle as ridiculously oversized as his ego. Michael started his engine, buried his face in a copy of the county’s free weekly paper, The Pacific Sun, and peered over the top as Fred drove by. There was no need to follow closely; Fred was a creature of habit, and it was highly likely he was on his way to his Sunday afternoon workout.
Michael followed at a relaxed pace, keeping an all but unnoticeable distance as Fred drove the couple of miles down to the entrance of Highway 101, and then the seven miles south to the YMCA, located off Los Gamos Drive. This particular location could not have been better for a discreet observer, the parking lot of the Y being down a steep slope about ten feet below the level of the main road that sits behind it. Michael sat in his car reading product feature information on his new Nikon telephoto lens, hoping it would prove useful before the afternoon was over. He then got out of his car and stood behind a row of bushes; behind him there was only the quiet of a deserted office building and an empty parking lot.
It was a typically busy Sunday afternoon at the gym, with people steadily going in and coming out. Michael, thinking it was near the time that Fred should be leaving, perched himself across the hood of his aging Honda and waited with his Nikon strapped around his neck and the lens elevated and balanced on the camera’s sturdy case.
To Michael’s delight, Fred emerged from the gym with his arm around a perky brunette, who looked to be ten years or more his junior. Michael squeezed off two quick shots as Fred’s friend slipped into her own car. He now had a good shot of her and the model, make, and plate number of her vehicle.
Michael slipped his camera onto the back seat of his car and watched as Fred pulled out of his space and waited for her to back out of hers. Michael started his car, and within moments, all three vehicles had entered 101, and in light Sunday traffic soon exited two miles south near the Marin County Civic Center.
There they went under the highway and up onto North San Pedro Road, where Michael, having no experience in following one, no less two vehicles, attempted to stay close but hopefully unnoticed.
Less than two miles later, they turned off the main road onto Vendola Drive, located in an all residential area that came to a dead end a couple of blocks down at Gallinas Creek. Michael knew where he was. In fact, he knew most areas within a fifteen-mile radius of the camera shop, because of occasional equipment delivery errands Milton sent him on.
Sitting at the corner of Adrian Way and Vendola, Michael kept an eye on Fred as he exited his car, which he parked in front of a home one door down from where his perky brunette pulled into a garage. Moments later Fred walked into that same garage and quickly the door rolled shut.
Obviously, he thought, I have no place to hide. Staying in the car, he could get another shot of Fred, or the two of them together, coming out of the house, but that was well short of the photo he was hoping to capture.
Michael gave serious thought to calling it a day. He had a great photo of their quick embrace in the parking lot. And thanks to his telephoto lens, he had a clear picture of the street number on her mailbox without having to get anywhere near the house. Monday on his lunch break he could drive back and check her mailbox, slipping in a flyer about a sale at the camera shop in case he got noticed. He was hopeful of finding her name and address on an envelope awaiting pickup.
But as he sat there, he thought of how empty the street looked and how wonderful it would be if he could capture Fred and his sweetheart in a cozy pose in the living room or even better in the bedroom.
Screw it, he decided; I’ve got a birder guide in the trunk that belongs to Milton. I can stick that in my pocket and it should give me some cover. It was a lovely late summer afternoon; maybe everyone in the few other homes that lined the street were out or too busy enjoying the day to pay attention.
Michael put the book and his camera into a backpack and walked up beyond the corner house, and that’s when he realized that the scrub between the creek and his target property might provide him with the perfect cover.
He took out his birder’s guide, struck a pose as if he was in search of a rare species of heron, and got down on his knees in the high grass with the marsh behind him and the perky brunette’s house directly in front of him.
Michael looked through his viewfinder and his telephoto lens told him that this was indeed his lucky day. Enjoying the view of the marsh from inside the family room, while in the throes of passion, were Fred and his limber, well-toned playmate. With a rapid moving auto shutter, he quickly documented Fred’s unfaithfulness. It was a magnificent moment…a type of high Michael had never experienced before. He felt triumphant, and he owed it all to the wonders of modern photography.
Michael knew he was blessed to have access to Milton’s cameras, lenses, film, and darkroom. In fact, Milton encouraged Michael to take as many pictures as he liked and to use the darkroom any night he wished. It was a win-win situation. Michael had all he could have wanted at his fingertips. And Milton had an evangelist for the love of photography with an enthusiasm that had left him years earlier. Better still, an emerging sales star convincing new converts that they could find themselves making an important statement from behind the lens.
Milton had learned years ago that expert advice and service were his only weapons against the growing number of national discount chain stores that could sell the same cameras, accessories, and film ten percent or more below his best price. Their one Achilles’ heel was that they employed salespeople who did not know an F-stop from a bus stop.
Still, as much as Milton had become a fan of his young protégé’s impressive array of talents, Michael knew he would be displeased by the lurid black and white images now appearing in his store’s small darkroom.
Oh, yes, Michael thought, as he pulled each new print from a chemical soup and clipped them with a clothes’ pin to a line hanging behind him. Just magnificent!
It was nearly midnight, and Michael was feeling enlivened by the results he was seeing. After his favorite photos dried, he took them back to his private and surprisingly comfortable one-bedroom apartment.
Once there, he made out an eight by eleven envelope to Barbara’s home address and prepared to send six explicit photos to her of Fred at play on a Sunday afternoon. Was this really the man worth leaving your family for? Then it occurred to him. Why should I give all this away?
The goal here was to make Fred suffer for what he had done to his father, his brother, and him. How did he know he would accomplish that by sending these photos? Perhaps, disastrously, he’d be doing the loathsome Fred a favor. For all Michael knew, Fred had been looking for a way to tell Barbara that he had grown bored with her. The photos could do that uncomfortable task for him. The idea that he had invested that much time and energy in stalking Fred and the final result might be to Fred’s benefit was obviously unacceptable.
Exhausted, Michael turned out the light to go to bed. He drifted off with delightful thoughts of various ways to make Fred suffer.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next day, between customers and deliveries, inventory checks, and ordering, Michael kept notes in a small pocket notebook detailing various ways to ensnare his prey.
When his lunch break came, Michael announced that he had an errand to run, and he drove back to Vendola Drive. Armed with the store’s latest sales flyer, in case anyone should think his behavior suspicious, Michael opened the mailbox of the perky brunette and pulled out two circulars addressed to “Resident,” one letter addressed to Mrs. Nora Stevens and a second addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Stephens.
This just keeps getting better, Michael thought. Are the Stevens still married? He knew of a couple of quick ways to check. Heading back on San Pedro Road, Michael pulled off and walked into the county’s civic center, a building internationally recognized because of its striking Frank Lloyd Wrig
ht design.
In the open-air lobby area, Michael picked up one of the pay phones and called his employer.
“Can I take an extra thirty minutes for lunch today, Mr. Cook? I wanted to stop and pick up a gift for my mom.”
Milton, well aware that Michael virtually never asked for any such favors, happily granted him the extra time. Michael’s first stop was the county assessor’s office, where he found that Mr. and Mrs. Stevens were indeed the owners of the home on Vendola Drive. He next stopped at the municipal court clerk’s office. It took just a few minutes to fill out a slip of paper and inquire if there were any filings by or against Nora or Kevin Stephens.
The clerk, one of three on duty at the moment, with obvious disinterest read the request, walked into the back, and returned a few minutes later.
“Nope,” she said when she returned. “We’ve got nothing on either one of them.”
On the drive back to the camera shop, Michael thought about his next step. At this point, it was a safe guess that Nora and Kevin were still married; there were no divorce filings listed at the courthouse to suggest otherwise.
The temptation at this point was to take five stunning black and white photos of Fred and Mrs. Nora Stephens at play and send them anonymously to Mr. Stephens. But if he did, where would that put him? On the upside, Fred might open his door one day soon and be greeted by an angry husband with a gun, or at the very least a fist. But outside of a television drama, that was an unlikely scenario. He could do, as he originally thought, and send the photos to Barbara, but now adding a very important note explaining that Fred’s playmate in these photos is a Mrs. Kevin Stephens and then giving her address and phone number, which Michael was happy to find listed on Vendola Drive in the county’s phone book.
Finally, he settled on a different path. It was time he called Fred and arranged a lunch meeting just for the two of them.
They met for lunch at a popular Italian restaurant called Emilio’s. The comfortable banquettes covered in faux black leather and the slower midweek lunch crowd made it the perfect place.
Michael got only a few hours’ sleep the night before, going over in his mind exactly what he wanted to explain about the pictures and what he would suggest as a fair arrangement to set the evidence he had gathered aside.
Fred arrived ten minutes late; Michael, who had kept an eye on the door, waved him over. Fred was looking tanned and relaxed. Apparently, Michael reasoned, life was good.
“Well, this was nice of you to suggest,” Fred said as he sat down.
Michael thought lunch would be far more pleasant if he saved the real reason he suggested they meet until they finished their meal.
The conversation was pleasant, but somewhat strained. They both agreed that their respective jobs were going well. Michael proudly explained that he was increasing his skills as a photographer. Teasingly he explained how much he was learning about a new range of powerful telephoto lenses and improved printing techniques.
Fred made a half-hearted attempt to pay attention. In truth, he sat there thinking he’d rather be dining with any one of a dozen other people. Not the least of which was the intoxicating Nora Stephens. But he was certain Barbara would be pleased when she learned they had shared lunch, and that alone made this time well spent.
Minutes after they completed their meal, Fred asked for the check.
Michael reached his hand out to Fred and said, “Before you go, I want to show you a few of my latest prints. I think you’ll be impressed.”
Looking at his watch Fred said, “Perhaps some other time. I should be getting back to work.”
“Fred, really, this will take only a minute, I promise.”
Michael removed five eight by ten black and white photos from an oversized white envelope.
The first showed Fred kissing Nora’s neck while cupping her exposed breasts, and that was the least explicit.
“How, where, did you get these, I…” Fred sputtered, as his eyes widened and his voice rose in a low growl.
Michael took pleasure imagining Fred’s gut clinching at that very moment.
“I told you these new telephoto lenses are doing some remarkable things. Incredible, isn’t it? I must have been three hundred plus feet away in that marsh grass across the road from the Stevens’ back patio. I’m kind of jealous, Fred; you certainly have a way with the ladies. And she’s a free spirit, letting you get so close and personal in front of those sliding glass patio doors. What do you think had her more turned on, you or that great view?”
“You little prick, I should break your stupid neck; I can’t believe you were spying on me.”
“Now, Fred. Don’t get yourself in a twist. You’re redder than a radish.”
“Blow me, kid,” Fred said, as he wildly grabbed at one of the five photos, ripped it in half, then in half again, and then once more. Finally, he tossed the now small pieces of Michael’s work back into his face.
“Fred, you’re being pretty silly. You can shred every one of these prints, that won’t matter very much. I work at a camera shop, I can print copies for my mom, your little sweetie Nora, and I think her husband Kevin might want a set for his divorce attorney. It’s not the prints you want, genius, it’s the negatives.”
“You’re some little smart ass kid. You think you’re pretty fucking clever.”
“Me! You’re the clever one. You come to dinner a few times to my mom and dad’s home, and next thing you know you’re gone, my dad’s devastated, not to mention his two sons who are left to pick up the pieces.”
“Is that what this is all about, kid? You want your ounce of flesh because I stole your mommy?”
At that moment, Michael’s right fist, which was hidden below the table, closed into the shape of a tight knot. He imagined the satisfaction he would feel crashing it into the center of Fred’s face, but once again he remembered he was playing for higher stakes. He never needed to learn the art of photography and the exacting science of lenses, aperture settings and film speeds if his only point was to beat Fred senseless. Besides, people recover from a beating; knowing that someone is in possession of a humiliating truth about you and can exact hush money for those indiscretions is a type of pain that can go on for years.
“No, Fred, that’s not what this is about. This is about reaching a simple business agreement. I think three-hundred dollars a month is a reasonable price.”
“What? Kid, you are completely out of your league.”
“Look, dick breath, I’m not going to sit here and negotiate with you. On the first day of every month, you mail a check made out to me and send it to this Novato post office box,” Michael said softly, as he pushed the address forward. By the fifth of month, if I have not received your payment, well, you know what I’ll do with the photos…Mom, Nora’s husband, I don’t know maybe Nora’s mom and dad should also get a set of prints. You know what? At no extra cost, I’ll thrown in one more set of prints for her husband’s mom and dad. You see, Fred, you’ve stepped into a deep pile of shit, and now you’re going to have to pay to keep the stink you’ve made from spreading.”
“I’ll have to pay, or I’ll have to kill you, I suppose.”
“Really, you don’t think I’ll leave instructions to mail packets of pictures out to several addresses if I was to suddenly disappear? You know, the guy I work for, Milton Cook, he already thinks you’re a scumbag. If I disappear or show up dead, he’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life in jail. I think three hundred bucks a month is a lot less painful than that.”
Fred was mired in a state of confusion. Up until now, he had thought of Michael as the pathetic issue of a man whose wife he had stolen so easily. Clearly, he was wrong. This kid had brains and balls. He looked at him anew with a mixture of anger, disgust, and admiration.
“I hope you know three hundred bucks is a lot of money, kid.”
“Fred, if you spent more time selling insurance policies and less time having sex with other men’s wives you’d more easily afford th
e monthly contribution you’re making to my overhead.”
With that, Michael got up, and said, “Keep the prints, they’re my gift to you. And thanks for picking up my lunch. This has been nice. I’m certain we won’t be doing it again.”
“Fuck you,” Fred mumbled under his breath, as he watched Michael walk away, thinking how much he would enjoy killing his wife’s son.
CHAPTER SIX
On the third day of the following month, Michael opened the small post office box he had secured for an annual fee of twenty dollars. There, to his relief, he found an envelope from Fred. Inside there was a three hundred-dollar check clipped to a three by five index card that said simply, “You’ll regret this one day!”
Not likely, you jerk, Michael thought, as he happily tucked the check into his pocket and cashed it at the main branch of the Novato Savings Bank on Grant Avenue.
For the last two days, Michael wondered if Fred would dare him to release his photos to his mother, Nora Stephens’ husband, Kevin, and anyone else he chose to add to that list. But as he thought about the corner into which he had painted Fred, Michael concluded he was delaying his payment by a couple of days in the hope it would cause Michael to doubt the power he held over him.
Indeed, Michael had a few moments of doubt, but they were fleeting. He kept reminding himself that he held the upper hand. The appearance of the check, regardless the tone of Fred’s vaguely threatening note, was all the proof he required that anger aside, Fred would keep making his payments.
Sitting behind the counter at Cook’s Camera and Film early the next morning, Michael wrote down the amount of Fred’s monthly payment times twelve. That equaled the tidy sum that he wrote on the back of an envelope, thirty-six hundred dollars. Not by any means a sustainable income, but a nice addition to what he was making at Cook’s. Best of all, this was all tax-free cash.