The Gentlemen's Club

1

Taylor cracked the seal on the bottle of Redbreast 12 Year that he'd bought for just this occasion. He held the bottle aloft as he twisted the cork free. A new town, a new place, a new job. Relief, heavy and pure, melted over him.

Taylor swirled the whiskey in a glass he'd bought just for swirling whiskey, and sipped deeply, gagging momentarily at the unmistakable taste of nail polish remover. A handful of ice was added on top, and Taylor blinked the fresh inklings of moisture from his eyes. He sipped gently, and breathed in the smell of fresh air and cardboard boxes. It smelled like freedom. The walls were still bare and gray, the boxes along the walls still unpacked, the furniture still en route. But, with the light shining in above the river outside, and the cold drink in his hand, it was feeling pretty damn peaceful.

And the quiet. My God, the quiet, he thought.

After his childhood home, then university, and then back with his mother in the townhouse, this was absolute bliss, Taylor decided. Absolute bliss.

The sun was fully gone by the time he started looking for dinner, his eyes flickering up and down the screen of his phone as the options scrolled by. D.C. had a hell of a lot more to pick from than Dansville, NY, where his father had kept the family stashed away for nine months out of the year (valiantly protecting them from the press, "so they could live a life of normalcy").

...And to keep his mistresses and wife as far apart as he could, without suffering through too long of a flight back home.

Taylor swirled the dwindling ice cubes around in his glass, gulped down the last of it, and set it aside. It would be easy to be bitter and cynical, he knew. His friends from college had also grown up with some wealth, and they had all run with that idea. To be angsty young men growing up in their fathers' shadow, to bear the burden of expectations and privilege, to have nothing required of you, and no attention paid... The call to whine a lot about it was understandable, but it had never quite interested him. There were too many exciting avenues left to explore. He was too busy. His father had his life, Taylor had his. Even his mother, he supposed, might have her own things to be caught up in. It all worked rather well for all of them.

Exactly one pad Thai and two more drinks later, his mind was gently twirling, and he collapsed onto his boyhood mattress, which lay unceremoniously and unevenly on the hardwood floor of what would be his new bedroom. Stars shone down through high, wide windows above him.

For the first time in a very long time, the weight of the world slipped gently from his shoulders, and he fell right to sleep.

2

"This is your office here. You'll be sharing it with Dave, Karen, and... Damiqua?" the man attempted, nodding at three young people they had found huddled together in the small back room. A small, darker woman cocked her head in confusion, but the tour continued onward before she could respond.

"You'll have a chance to swing back in here before lunch," his new employer said, shutting the intern's office door behind them, "but we're gonna be throwing you into the thick of it after that. You up for it?"

"Yes, sir," Taylor threw back promptly, instinct forcing a smile. His guide hadn't introduced himself yet, or asked Taylor for his name, but the man had been waiting at the entrance for him, and presumably he knew what he was about.

He was an older, balding man, quite short, and quite overweight, but he had a friendly enough face. He made the effort of eye contact and made sure Taylor was actually following along with his explanations, which was more than he had come to expect from a low-level job like this. Copy rooms were pointed out, a supply room was explored and pillaged, lunch was secured in the appropriate fridge.

"You'll be happy to know you won't be fetching any coffee, or anything like that. We have food services for that. No printing, or copying either, we can manage that ourselves. In short -nothing an intern might have done in my day." The guide grunted and wiped the sweat from his brow as he pulled open another heavy, wooden door, Taylor nodding along behind him. "And now we're right back to the start, with your office down the hall, and mine beside us," he said flicking a finger from one side of the hall to the other.

Taylor glanced at the name placard on the door. "David Kosslings" was embedded in a plastic plaque. He willed his brain to remember it, but felt it slipping away already.

"Before you go to lunch, just make sure you can get signed into your laptop. If not, one of the other interns will take a look with you, or find me. For now, though, I need you on my laptop, so I can show you how this all works, and what I'll need you to start on. Ready?"

Taylor was ready with another "Yes, sir," and then they were off.

And then immediately delayed, as his new boss took one phone call for a full fifteen minutes, and then a second as Taylor stood awkwardly in the corner, waiting to begin, and too anxious to do anything but wait.

The program and the task sounded straightforward. His boss, clearly, was uncomfortable with the technology, and adamant that they walk through each case together. It bordered on painful, to watch fingers struggle slowly to find the right place, to watch his boss -David (?), be somehow less familiar with the system than he was. But after a full two hours of demonstrations, Taylor was able to dash back into his office to begin in earnest.

The other interns shots their heads up as he entered, cellphones hovering beneath their desks, with their screens blinking off. They relaxed quickly when they saw who it was. He waved a hand in greeting.

"It's not Damiqua, is it?" he asked. The woman in the corner shook her head gravely. "It's Monica."

The rest of the day went quickly. The work was finished before lunch, but Kosslings had no time to meet with him again, so instead he finished the day by playing on his phone and waiting for the door to open. If the others were as bored as he was, they hid it better. They kept their heads down and their brows furrowed, occasionally sprinting out the door to disappear and reappear looking even more concerned.

"You ready?" the others asked, just before six P.M., as they shouldered their bags in unison and made their way to the exit. It was the most they had spoken to each other since lunch, which they'd spent huddled over their computers, coordinating some higher project they'd apparently been pulled into, nibbling cold sandwiches in-between. The others nodded and finished tapping out the last of whatever they were working on. Taylor followed closely behind. The day hadn't exactly been exciting, but it had gone by quickly, at least.

"So, how did you get by today?" Monica asked, as they started down the hallway.

"They, uh, didn't give me much to work on..." Taylor started, trailing off as he spotted Kosslings' bald patch through the window to the man's office. He looked busy, typing away as he cradled a phone against his shoulder.

Don't look up, don't look up...

Kosslings' eyes flickered up to meet his as they passed. Then, with a plummeting feeling in his stomach, Taylor saw a single index finger raise upward. Wait, the gesture meant. The others waved, and Taylor waited behind.

Time stretched on indefinitely. His eyes glazed, starring into nothingness. The internet had long since run out of interesting content to explore. Nothing remained but the wait. The fact that he wasn't even hourly hovered over him like a rain cloud. "I want to go home and assemble my dresser" was the only coherent thought he could cling to. The longer he waited, the more certain he was that he had been forgotten, and that his boss long ago left him behind. After a time, none of these thoughts could even stir his anger Only boredom existed now.

The door knob clacked and the door swung open, catching him off guard as he laid his head against the table. He jerked upright, blinking his eyes back awake.

It wasn't Kosslings. It wasn't anyone else he had met that day, either. It was a lanky, older man in a plain dress shirt, his face leathery and suntanned, his hair white and buzzed short. He wasn't quite grim, but he had the air of a grandpa who'd been in the war, and had little time for whatever nonsense Taylor had to offer. He held a letter up in the air between two fingers.

"You'd be Taylor Evans?" the man asked. Taylor nodded. "Then this is for you," he finished, offering the letter to Taylor.

It was heavy, expensive parchment. There was an engraved seal and everything.

"What is it?", he managed as the man stepped back out the door and tried to shut it again.

"Your invitation," the man said, sounding confused at his ignorance. "For tonight. They won't let you in without it. You're not going to forget it now, are you?," the man's eyes widened with what looked like a real concern that Taylor was a moron. "They won't let you in without it."

Taylor barely had time to let out a "thanks" before the man was gone again, leaving him alone once more. He twirled the paper in his hands, and cracked the paper tape holding it closed.

Dear Taylor Evans,

You are invited on the evening of April the 27th to the welcome event for Sherwood Estate Holdings new hires at 8 p.m. at the Lion's Tale Gentleman's Lounge (address below). Formal wear only.

Taylor scanned past the address and found, in smaller font, "Attendance mandatory." He starred blankly at it for a while longer, escape plans endlessly cycling through his mind. How mandatory was 'mandatory'? Which box might his nicer clothes be kept in? Was there even time to get home, change, and get there in time?

Not really.

He was out the door with his bag a moment later. His boss was still doubled over his keyboard, somehow slumped even further than before, plucking away at the keyboard. Taylor swept past him quickly and took the stairs downward three a time, clearing the length of the garage at the quickest pace he could keep without attracting stares.

Three minutes later, he was looking at the back of gridlocked traffic. He took a careful breath in, thinking thoughts of inner peace, and felt it turn black as his mother's name flashed on the screen.

"Hello?" he asked, drooping slightly over the wheel.

"Well, hello stranger. All finished with your first day of work?" The sounds of happy crowds in the background drowned out her voice some, and irritated him a few notches more.

"Not yet."

She let out a gasp of surprise. "But how could they?" She asked. More indignation followed. "They told your father they were lucky to have you!"

Brake lights flickered off for the briefest moment, only to flash back into his eyes as he tried to find the gas pedal.

"Just a meet and greet. Something for new hires. It'll be okay."

She sighed audibly, calmed but unhappy. "Well, it better be. Are they treating you alright? Does it seem like it'll be interesting?"

Taylor's eyes narrowed further. "Mm."

"Maybe they've got a baseball team. That would be fun, wouldn't it? You were so good at it back when you tried."

Taylor had played for two years in college, and had done well for his size. He couldn't hit for match, but he could run like hell. But two years had been more than enough to sap any enjoyment he had left for the sport.

"Have you talked to your father recently? He's going to be over there in a few days, just a reminder. I know he'd love to see your new place."

"Yeah," he managed, after a long moment.

"And-"

She went on for some time. By the time she hung up, he was pulling into his back alley parking lot, and it was already a quarter after seven. He had gone to the office in a dress shirt and trousers, so a jacket and a tie were all he needed to be passably well-dressed. He cast a longing glance at his bottle of Scotch and the pile of takeout advertisements on the island in the gloom of the kitchen, and then it was back out the door, and back into traffic that had only marginally improved.

It was okay. Things were fine. Think of the positives, he told himself.

There would still be plenty of night left after this thing was over. The other interns weren't going to be there -this was all higher ups. People who (not that he wanted to exploit the fact), but they likely wanted to impress his father. It would be people who knew of him, at least, so the small talk wouldn't be too painful or awkward. This was how you got ahead, and made opportunities. This was what he was here for. This was a good thing. It was the whole point in taking the internship.

He breathed in, and breathed out again, feeling calmer. He nearly felt excited. Drinks with old time money in fancy suits, telling him how to climb the ladder, seeing how the Senator's son might help them, in return... The inevitable cloud of cigar smoke was a small price to pay.

"The Lion's Tale" read the squat green letters above a strip of short brick buildings. Taylor glanced at the directions on his phone, and back at the name. It looked like a spa you could find in any suburban strip mall. Not seedy and broken down, not flashing and gaudy. It had all the refinement of a Subway, he thought.

He followed signs for off-street parking. An elderly valet took his keys at the back entrance, and pulled open the door for him with focused effort.

"Welcome, sir," he said, as Taylor passed by. Taylor nodded in return and walked the half block back to the entrance. He pulled a worn, but shining metal door open and glanced around. It occurred to him again that it really did look like a spa more than anything, with a modest fountain in the corners and stacks of white towels. Black plastic chairs lined the wall along a waiting area by the window, and a woman in a loose red uniform smiled at him from the distance.

"Can I help you, sir?" she called over.

"Yeah," he started, fishing for the invitation in his pocket. "Is this The Lion's Tale?"

"Taylor Evans," a voice called out from the far side of the room. A tall man with a red mustache and a gray suit waved him over from beside a doorway. He might have been just over fifty, and had a deeply lined and tired face. "He's with me, Lenore, thank you," he said, waving Taylor forward, letting him pass ahead through the doorway, and closing it behind them.

The hallway that extended past it was awkwardly narrow, and the paint on the walls was starting to yellow at the edges. It was also, apparently, used for storage, and cleaning products lined the way to another door.

"This way," the man said, pushing past again to lead the charge. "Forgive the mess. My name is Frederick. So, welcome. You're working with Townsend's company, yes?" The man asked, pressing his thumb into the keypad of the far door, and shouldering it open.

"Enh-" He didn't know who the hell Townsend was, but the sight beyond knocked the thought right from his head. A wave of cool moisture blew out past the door, like a calm gust along a sandy beach. The sight of white marble columns and clear pools, hip-deep, ran and branched off in the distance. Dim, cooling lights and misting steam from the water gave the place an otherworldly feel, like the bathhouses of ancient Greek gods.. The soft sound of harps came from all around, distant, like it was lost in the fog, or coming from some other realm. It seemed to run for miles.

The air was thick as water from the humidity, and the fabric of his shirt was already sticking to his neck as Taylor began moving again to keep up with the man.

"What is this?" Taylor managed. Every marble tile must have been ten feet wide. It took a handful of strides to cross even one. How could someone have built all this here?

The man named Frederick laughed and pulled open a heavy oak door and let them into a large hall. It was, thankfully, less moist on the other side of it, but no less extravagant.. Old wood, old stone, dim lights...

Old money, Taylor thought. The scary, ancient kind of old money, too. That's what it felt like.

"This is The Gentleman's Club," Frederick said. "Mr. Townsend is a member here, as you know. It's on his authority that you're a guest here tonight."

"Am I the only new hire?" Taylor asked. "And, I'm sorry, I don't really know Mr. Townsend. It was..." he searched for the name, "Mr. Kosslings that hired me.

Frederick raised an eyebrow. "Oh. Hm. I'm not familiar with him," was all he said, as they passed into another pool room again.

Three men in white robes, all carrying glasses of dark amber, one holding half a cigar between his teeth, all red skinned and laughing with the enthusiasm of those well in the sauce. They spared Taylor no attention as they passed, but one of them called out (a little too loudly), "Are we running late, Williams?"

"Not at all," Frederick said, pulling Taylor onward without slowing.

"How... late do these new hire events last?" He cast a look back at the group of men, who had gone back to their conversation, and were doubled over with laughter again. Clearly, they weren't feeling rushed.

"Best not to worry about it, son," Frederick said, as they passed into another, wider hall. Elevators ran along one side, and the deep sounds of a thumping bass emanated from a double door to his right. Through the glass windows, it looked like an old fashioned bar on the other side, packed with the silhouettes of mingling businessmen. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a thin arm and a red fabric before it was lost again. It was a woman.

Taylor turned toward it, but Frederick pulled him onward by the shoulder, guiding him through the door across the hall. "Not here."

Another room of white marble, columns, and wet air. This one actually populated, with four men in the nude lounging against the edges of the pool, trays of shot glasses and empty bottles of Scotch scattered around the ledge beside them. Taylor shot his eyes upward and walked faster toward the next door.

"Do these... all connect?" he asked. "The pools?"

Frederick nodded. "Most of them. You will find that The Gentleman's Club is not known for frugality," he said, enunciating each syllable distinctly. "Come along now. The guest entrance is terribly far away from where you need to be."

Off to the side, a staircase wide enough to fit a bus across descended a full story below them, spilling into a wider lobby. They walked on, passing more elevators, a hallway of meeting rooms, a dozen unmarked doors with keypads.

"What is this place?" Taylor asked.

His guide slowed for the first time, and glanced around. They were alone again, to Taylor's relief.

"It's... the result of generations of work," Frederick said, glancing around them with what looked like religious awe. "Men, who came to America with power, and made sure they kept that power. It's not the most honorable of stories, but every generation has built upon that. There's not much we don't have our hands in, one way or another. And not many countries we don't have a hand in, either."

"There's more clubs like this one?"

Frederick shook his head, and started walking again. "Not like this, no. It's an old rule. Everyone comes back, and everyone comes here. It's a brotherhood. If we ever get too spread apart, or we stop gathering in person, the ties that make us strong start to fall apart. Separate clubs develop separate alliances, pit us against each other over enough time."

Taylor looked away, trying to keep his face placid. It sounded like a men's lodge mixed with some kind of cult. Mixed with delusions of grandeur and obscene wealth, for good measure. In the corner of his eye, through a window, he saw the pool still running along in the distance. Maybe it wasn't just delusion.

"This isn't a new hire thing, is it?"

Frederick gave him a cold smile and came to a halt in a room that held half a dozen doors leading away from it, all unmarked.