The Affair

“I'm not sure how to put it delicately, so I’m just going to be blunt and say I heard your wife, Mandy, is having an affair.”

Anton Case and Percy Goodfellow were sitting at a table in the clubhouse of the Wren Feather Tennis Club, drinking a beer after a singles game. Percy continued, “Because we’re friends, I thought I needed to tell you. Actually, it’s worse. She’s a member in some sort of secret sex society, and it’s not just one guy.”

Anton rolled his eyes, shrugged, and sipped his beer. Then, after a long pause, he said, “How did you come upon this knowledge, and who is it?”

“I can’t tell you that. But, my source says he’s one hundred percent sure.”

“So,” Anton said in a measured tone, “somebody told you. Is that one of the somebodies who claims he boinked my wife?”

“No, he says not.”

“So, somebody told the somebody. Who’s the source?”

“I can’t disclose that, either,” Percy whispered. “I’m the pro here. If word got around that I mentioned anything said to me in confidence, I’d be canned.”

“So, all this is based on second or third-hand gossip from undisclosed sources. Do you really expect me to believe you?”

“Maybe not. But I trust the source.”

“Why tell me?”

“Hey, I mean, you know, we’re friends, and I thought I could run interference. Maybe put out the fire.”

Anton waved his hand, “Humbug. Hey, man, I don’t know your motive in telling me this crazy ass story, but you look like a poker player playing a bad game. It’s not funny and shows me I seriously misjudged you. That you would believe this without evidence, upon rumor, and relay it to me as fact while concealing who said it, I find to be incredible. No friend would do this. Drop it.”

Percy’s face blanched. “I —”

Anton stood. “Waitress, Mr. Goodfellow will pay.” He turned to Percy, “Leave her a better tip than you gave me.”

&&&&&

“Spit of the Dragon, how may I direct your call?”

“Bjorn Storum, please,” Anton answered. 

“This is Bjorn.”

“You’ve had a security breach,” Anton said. The Spit of the Dragon was a members-only exclusive social organization. One might call it secret. The first floor has a four-star restaurant, if it had been rated, a cocktail bar, a sushi bar, three private dining rooms, and two semi-private areas covered with vegetation and indirect lighting. The dress code is from business casual to formal. Members met to enjoy unrushed fine cuisine. 

It was the second and third floors for which the Spit enjoyed its quiet fame. Upstairs, people don’t discuss the weather or sports. No one cares who you are, and no one wants to get to know the “real” you. The guests seek only to play out what are sometimes called fantasies of the flesh. Nothing consensual was off-limits. The dress code is from nothing to whatever you want. What happens there, stays there.

To ensure security, the Club had few rules. But they were strictly enforced. You were never to expose your real identity. Therefore, everyone had a “Club Name.” Anton’s was Thor. His wife Mandy’s was Sabrina. No drugs, legal or illegal. The Spit had several other protocols to protect its clientele from exposure. Exclusivity and privacy were not only primary, but the keys to the Spit’s success. No questions. No answers. No explanations. Nothing. Never a need for plausible deniability.

“Please confirm your Club name and security passphrase.”

“Thor, and no baculum.”

“Listen carefully. Turn off your cell phone location and Bluetooth. Turn on Airplane Mode. Move to a location away from possible eavesdroppers, best with trees around you. Use your VPN to connect via any wi-fi. Then contact user Conall-Cormac on Telegram. Use the Secret Chat feature. Leave the video off. Do this within the next 15 minutes.” The line went dead. 

Anton sauntered to a wooded area about a hundred feet from the clubhouse and plugged in wired earbuds with a mic. He glanced around. Nobody in sight. He started the Telegram app and called. Instead of a greeting, he heard, “Are you in a secure location where you cannot be overheard?”

“Yes.”

“Explain the breach.”

Anton related, as close as he could word-for-word, what happened.

“Where can we find this man Percy Goodfellow in about two hours?”

“At the Wren Feather Tennis Club. He’s the pro.”

“Tell nobody of this. Not even your wife. Go on about your day. We’ll take it from here.” The phone when dead. 

&&&&&

Percy Goodfellow was walking alone when he heard his name. He looked up to see two men dressed in business suits approach him. “Yes,” he said, “what may I do for you?”

The smiling men closed the distance. “We like speak you few moments.” The taller one indicated a table on the lawn that was somewhat distant from any of the facilities. To the shorter man, he said, “Стол вон там,” who took Percy’s bicep to guide him. The grip indicated it was not an invitation.

When seated, Percy asked, “Who are you guys?”

“You no want know, Mr. O’Really. That you name when did pool hall hustle, no?”

“When I played pool, it was Kevin O’Reilly, not O’Really. I—”

“Forgive accent. They sound alike to me,” said the taller man. “Before that, you George MacCloud. A golf hustle. You have same MO. You learn some dirt and blackmail somebody.” The tall man smiled, “How tennis game going?”

Percy’s face drained, “What do you want from me?”

“Name person who told you somebody have sex with wife of Anton Case.”

“And, if I don’t?”

“As they say, you been around block few times. This no request. You give us name. And, yes, please forgive my accent.”

“If I tell you, what happens to me?”

“No our problem. We only know what happen if you no tell.”

Percy had been around the block in pool halls, horse tracks, and upper-class golf resorts. “Okay, look, I need time to move on. How much do I have?”

“As much as you need. We not involved.”

“Don’t I get some sort of time, some consideration?”

“No. What name is?” 

“Christopher Proudhomme. He’s a bartender at Club Cameo.”

“We meet Mr. Proudhomme today. If comfort to you, we never disclose our sources, and we are strong enough to protect ourselves.”

&&&&&

“You Chris Proudhomme?”

He stopped wiping the top of the bar, “And, you are?”

“Here talk to you.” 

The short man leaned across the bar within an arm’s length of Chris.

“I’m busy,” Chris said and started to turn away.

The short man sprang over the bar, grabbed Chris by the upper arm, spinning him, and with a single leg takedown had Chris flattened on the matted floor. The tall man said, “It can wait.”

Chris craned his neck to look up and grunted, “Who are you guys?”

“You no want to know, but you want tell us something. You want stay on floor or at table?”

“I’ll take the table.” The short man moved Chris with a Gooseneck hold, maintaining pain compliance until Chris sat. “You know you’re lucky there aren’t any customers in the bar or one of my regulars would have called the police.”

The tall man smiled. “Not luck. How many people you tell somebody had sex with the wife of Anton Case?” From his pocket, he took a device and drummed it on the table. “Know what is this?”

“No,” Chris said.

“Modern thumbscrew. Slip thumbs through the two holes.”

“Hell no,” Chris said as he backed away.

“Well, my friend, either do it or we kill you. Pick one.”

“Jesus, who are you?” 

The face of the taller man was severe, concentrated. Chris slipped his thumbs into the holes and felt the pressure as the tall man tightened the screw. The bartender-bouncer managed a smile. Then grimaced and clenched his teeth. Involuntarily, his body stiffened and breathing became shallow, then stopped momentarily. Then he shrieked, “Okay.”

The tall man released some of the pressure. Chris’ voice was hoarse, tight with pain, as if it almost still hurt too much to speak. “Okay, look, a guy comes into the Club and has a few too many. He’s all messed up. Probably on drugs, too, because he has a wild-ass look in his eyes. He tells me this cockamamie story about how he and some other guys had sex with Mandy Case. You know, the wife of the fat cat who runs a dozen large business operations. So, I let him talk. That’s what we bartenders do. He goes into detail about some mysterious secret club where people meet up to screw—and more. Pretty kinky stuff. I thought it was all BS and told one customer about it.”

“How many, exactly.”

The screw tightened. “Hey, that hurts.”

“Actually, can crush bone. Once crushed, no repair. How many?”

“By name only one. The others I just described the story, no names.”

“Who was only name?” The small man turned the screw one more turn. 

“Percy Goodfellow.”

“Why him?”

“He paid me five hundred bucks for the name.”

“Why he pay?”

“I hear the guy—”

The screw turned.

“Stop. He’s a grifter and runs small blackmail scams. Bartenders hear lotsa stuff, and he bought buzz from me before. I might have mentioned—” 

The screw turned tighter.

“Let it up. I told the guy I had something juicy that should be worth more cash.”

“Who set the price?”

“I did. Usually, I only get a hundred. But I figured this was worth more. It being Mrs. Case, and all.”

“Who gave you story?”

“He called himself Jordan the Eagle.”

The screw turned in the other direction, and Chris removed his thumbs. “Jordan is guy on drugs and booze?”

“Yes.”

“Never repeat the story. You never heard of Jordan, even if police ask, and this meeting did not happen. Got it?”

&&&&&

Jordan pressed the button on his cell phone to answer the Sekur app. He was not a subscriber, but it was a Chat-by-Invite message. He read the text. “Eagle, this is Bjorn. You violated the terms of service. Your membership is hereby terminated. Do not enter the premises. Further, we forfeit your $250,000 bond and demand payment of $100,000 for each of the four persons we know so far received information because of your breach. If we learn of more people, or the media, you will be charged accordingly.”

Jordan’s face became blood red as his anger rose. He pressed the record button on the message and shouted into his phone. “You’ll get your money. The Big Guy will pay you. But I’ll do whatever I damn well please. Yeah, and I’ll talk. You can’t treat me this way. I’ll blow your whole operation wide open.” Jordan hit the send button.

Feeling proud of himself for not being pushed around, he wanted to listen to what he said. It was gone. There was no recording on his phone or record of the entire communication. 

&&&&&

Just after dusk, Jordan’s cell phone rang. “Who is this?” Jordan asked when he didn’t recognize the number.

“I understand you buyer of rock and snow. I have accent. Sorry. I foreigner. I supply you good price.”

“I’m listening.”

“You know 7-11 at Sixth Street and South Central?”

“Yes.”

“I got what you want half price. If interested, tell me what want, how much. 

“How can you sell it so cheap?”

“Well, when somebody take inventory tomorrow, they find da weights a little low. This one-time deal. Now. I sell and leave country.”

“Do you have a kilo of snow?”

“Yeah. Ten thousand. Half kilo rocks same price. Okay, or I call somebody else?”

“Bring both. See you in an hour.”

&&&&&

The sun had been down for about two hours, but the store’s parking lot lights did not illuminate the rear of the store. Jordan parked and instinctively walked to the corner of the store that was in the shadows and waited.

He heard, “Jordan. Over here,” in a stage whisper and went toward the voice. “You got cash?” Two men stood in the darkness.

“Yeah, as soon as I see the stuff.”

The tall man opened a small backpack. “There. You want test, right?”

“Of course. I’ll try some snow.” Jordan laid out a three-inch line of powder on cigarette paper. The short man held the paper in his left palm as Jordan looked around, pulled a straw from his pocket, and inhaled it all in his nose. “Good stuff. The cash is under the third potted plant at the entrance.”

The following day Hunter Jordan Bidet was found dead, with a kilo of cocaine in his jacket pocket. The coroner’s report showed the deceased apparently inhaled cocaine mixed with fentanyl. The one-paragraph newspaper report said the police suspected no criminal activity and it was just another overdose by a known user.