The Gentlemen's Club

Through the windshield, Taylor saw three men in suits spreading out around the car. And, between them, Frederick.

"Time to go, sir," the driver said. The partition began to rise again.

His father turned to him, his eyes wide with panic, fighting between fear and rage. "You stay away from them, Taylor. You watch your mother. I'll make sure this ends here. I'll give them anything they want, I swear it," he said, attempting, and failing, to re-do the buttons of his shirt. The door opened quickly beside him and an arm reached in to assist him out of the car. He brushed it off and stepped outside on his own.

"Dad!" Taylor shouted out. The door slammed shut before he could even get the word out.

Scrambling to the window, he saw Frederick opening the door of the other car, and speaking to his father with a solemn look on his face. His father nodded and, with a final look back to Taylor, he stepped into the vehicle. Frederick closed it behind him, and went back into the driver's seat without looking back. One of the security was waving ahead, and Jonathan put the car in motion without hesitation. They were back on the highway and blending into traffic less than two minutes after they had pulled over. His father was gone again, just like that.

The car drove for twelve hours before the welcome signs for D.C. greeted him. He was back. He was already starting to forget where his new apartment had been, where the office building he's spent one full day in would be. He wondered if someone else had moved his things. Perhaps not. The rent would be good for another few weeks. And, somewhere, the checks would be auto-sending on without him. Maybe they'd never notice he left. It wasn't where Jonathan was taking him, though. He knew where he was going long before they swooped into the underground garage, past two security points, and came to a full stop at a third.

"Welcome home, sir," Jonathan said.

Taylor recognized the face of the man who waited beside an unmarked metal door. It took a moment to place him, but it was the man who'd come to his room the night after the... welcome party. The Jersey thug, George.

"Hey, Champ. Still killin' it, I see. Still workin' them brains, ain't ya?" George called over. "Thanks, pal," he called to the driver, rapping on the hood twice with his knuckles and spinning on his heels to direct Taylor onward.

They made their way through the door, and stopped at a black panel on the wall with a much higher level of security.

"Try it out, kid. Hand on the thing," he said, gesturing to the plate. Taylor pressed his palm against the glass. Taylor did, and the door ahead cracked open silently.

"I was still in town, so they asked me to be your guide. Your friendly face in a world of turbulence, and what not. Hey, you're not still mad at me, are ya? No hard feelings?"

Taylor looked at him in disbelief.

George laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "I told you, kid, that ain't my call! Ah, God! Jesus, don't hate me, kid!" he shouted in mock terror. "Don't hate me!"

"Where am I going?" Taylor asked. "Is my father here? Is Frederick coming?"

George waved his questions away and started strolling onward again. "Nah, don't worry 'bout that. We're gonna do our thing, they're gonna do theirs. Not that kinda thing, though," he added quickly. "Nah, big boss has some ideas for you. But first, you're going back to your room, give ya a bit of a rest, bite to eat, and then tomorrow you're off to work. I think you'll be alright."

George chattered on endlessly as they made their way across the facility, through the stretch of marble hallways and past the steaming pools. They passed dozens of others, some lounging in the water, drinking and cigars in hands, others standing, chatting with others. Bartenders stepped in and out of the parties as they were beckoned. Some waved to George, some waved to Taylor. He didn't recognize any of their faces, but the lingering looks they gave him felt familiar. The bar they passed seemed in full swing, and he was glad to pass it quickly. In the end, they reached a panel of elevators he'd been in before, and took it back up to the room he had spent his first night in.

George let him inside the room, and Taylor found his things from the old apartment collected in a pile on the far side. "This is you for now. Pretty sure I got everything, but you just let me know if you need more, okay? Us outsiders gotta stick together, right?"

Taylor raised an eyebrow. "Outsiders?"

George look offended. "Ah, I thought your were one of me! Us poor folk!" he said. "We get by on bein' useful, unlike these useless chumps," he said, nodding toward the far wall.

"This is what I'm going to be doing? No offense," he added quickly, pointing between the two of them.

"Uh huh," George said, frowning. "Don't you worry about it, Champ. They got bigger plans for you. I handle the work I handle. They'll find somethin' else for you. I don't need some up and comer tryin' to steal my work from me. You get your own thing, punk."

George faked a punch at his belly, laughed hard, and swept himself out the door without another word, finally leaving Taylor in peace.

He sorted through the boxes of his things, mostly setting them back down and pushing the boxes aside, until he reached the Scotch. He sat down at the small counter, poured himself half a water glass full, and then began to drink. He was half the bottle in when the doors bolted themselves shut. Then the lights began to dim.

At first, it felt like an automated system, to signal the coming of night. But then he remembered his first invitation here. Somewhere, below him, or above him, or wherever it was, Reinhart would be there in that sauna, shouting out his pseudo-religious nonsense, working the others into a frenzy. And his father would be there at the center of it. Whatever plans they had for his father, it didn't same him from their ritual.

And how long would it be before Taylor was down there himself, joining them? If he was lucky enough to live that long.

Taylor drank until he couldn't stay upright, then finished the bottle from the floor. He slept for a long time, and found the lights still off and the doors locked when he awoke. He was sick into the toilet, then slept again until the doors opened, hours later. It was Frederick that found him. He had the same haunted, distant look in his eyes as he hovered over the boy's face, trying to shield him from the lights.

"My God, son, what've you been doing?"

Taylor shut his eyes again, but struggled to push himself upright. "My father..." he began, but he didn't have the words to finish.

"Alive," Frederick said. "He's sleeping. He's a few floors down from you."

Taylor nodded, and climbed unsteadily to his feet. His breath was awful, and he slunk into the bathroom to find his toothbrush.

"Take your time. And clean yourself up," Frederick called over. "I'm to bring you to Reinhart in an hour. You need to be sober."

"What does he want?" Taylor asked.

"He wouldn't tell me, and I wouldn't ask. But I would like to remind you-"

"Not to defy him, insult him, whatever," Taylor said through a mouthful of foam.

"Yes," Frederick said, sounding nervous.

"I thought I would be mentoring under you," Taylor said as he finished up.

Frederick watched him, and nodded. "I had hoped for that, too," he said sadly. "But it may still come to that someday."

Taylor stripped quickly and stepped into the shower. Frederick was still there, watching, when he emerged ten minutes later. But it wasn't the same. He knew Frederick couldn't have

whisked his father away to safety but... he could have. And instead he drove him here, knowing what would be waiting for him. Knowing the misery would endure.

Frederick had laid out a suit from the luggage beside the bed, and Taylor changed into it quickly without discussion.

"Well, what do you think?" the boy asked, as he finished with his tie.

Frederick was standing, and he starred back at him blankly. "You've done very well for yourself, Taylor. You're one of us. You're safe. No matter what else happens, you will be safe, I promise you. And I know that doesn't matter much to you right now, but it means very much to me. There's still so much more we can do to set this right."

Taylor looked away. That wasn't enough. And it was already too late to fix it. His father was already here. With his pride, and Reinhart's hatred, it probably hadn't been quick.

"He's alive," Frederick reminded. "There's still time."

Taylor looked away again, then nodded.

"We need to go," he said, looking to his watch. Keep your eyes down when you speak to him. Talk only when spoken to. Be respectful."

"I know. I've got it," Taylor said quickly, starting to feel nervous again.

The older man gripped him by the shoulders. "I'm sorry, son. I'm making myself anxious, too." After a hesitation, Frederick pressed him tightly against the wall, his musclde arms pinning him easily. For the first time in the light, he pressed his mouth against Taylor's, his warm tongue brushing gently across Taylor's. And, for the first time, Taylor didn't want it. After a long moment, it ended. "Let's go," Frederick said, his voice shaking.

They walked together the long path to Reinhart's office. It passed in a blur, crossing faces Taylor didn't recognize, hallways and architecture he hadn't seen before. It was almost starting to feel familiar, though. He knew it wasn't the end, but it felt like it as they approached the last long hallway and a set of double doors large enough that they wouldn't have felt out of place on an ancient castle wall. Frederick walked him up to the very last step.

Taylor closed his eyes, took a breath, and knocked.

12

Taylor had expected a servant to answer, but it was the leader himself who pulled the door open, his eyes locked onto Taylor's. Frederick bowed low from the waist, and was dismissed by the wave of Reinhart's wide, tanned hand. Rings of gold glimmered beneath dense tufts of coarse gray and black hairs. Frederick backed out of view, and the sound of him quickly vanished.

The terror of their first meeting ran through him like a lightning bolt. He stood like a giant at the door of his keep, towering over Taylor, the breadth of him was so massive that Taylor could hardly see anything else. He was clothed, thankfully, in a white dress shirt unbuttoned down to his breast, the sleeves rolled up his thick forearms. Every muscle beneath stretched the fabric to its breaking point. Taylor watched them churn beneath the cotton, the stichings pulling tight as he jabbed a finger into the room.

"We need to speak," he said in low voice that rattled the boy's stomach.

After a moment, he could see the man was not going to move out of the way, so Taylor inhaled deeply and slid his way past and into the room. It was less grand than he'd expected, less so even from Frederick's. There was a desk of dark, rich wood, neatly organized, and a wide chair behind it. But other than that there was no furniture, not even for guests to sit. There were no windows, but there was a wide skylight, and this one seemed real enough. There were doors off to the side, likely living quarters. There was no arrogance in the decoration, at least. It was quite unexpected.

Taylor stood beside the desk and waited as Reinhart shut and bolted the double doors. On his way back, he paused to cut and light a cigar from his pocket. When he'd finished, he scratched at his beard and looked the boy over.

"You ran from me," he said at last.

Taylor waited for a moment, debating if this was a rhetorical observation. Then he reminded himself that this man wasn't the type to be rhetorical.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Reinhart blew a cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth, and narrowed his eyes. "I like it when they run," he said, moving behind the desk and sitting down. "And either way The Club proves our power."

Reinhart sighed and shook his head grimly. "Power isn't earned and then forgotten, boy. It's fought for every moment of our lives. It's a vicious world, and one moment of satisfied breath is a knife to the belly.

"That's not poetry. The last leader of this club died halfway down that hallway," he said, nodding back toward the front door, "his friends having smelled the opportunity. They didn't make out as well as they had hoped. It's as much of a jungle in here as it is out there, and you'd do well to remember that. Because you're going to help me remind these fools what the law of the jungle is."

Taylor blinked rapidly, desperately wanting to ask for clarification, but knowing better.

"Frederick came to me, a few months ago, and suggested it was time we put more pressure on your father. He thought you would be the way in."

Taylor felt his stomach sinking.

"He told me your father wouldn't break at your suffering alone. He'd already moved past your mother's suffering. But... if you joined us, if you worked for us, both of you trying to save each other, both of you knowing the price of disobedience, both of you holding the hope of survival so close at hand, your father would be distracted. And that's what we needed. His own jungle would swallow him whole then.

"And, more importantly, it would hurt your family for the things your father has done to defy me. I will say, the plan appealed to me very much," Reinhart said, narrowing his eyes once again.

"It was Frederick that put the pawns into play with my predecessor's death. If I could prove it, he'd be hanging with the others, lashed until we were bored, and left to rot. But a member of the club cannot be harmed without sufficient evidence, and Frederick is no fool.

"He does not want you, and he doesn't want my throne. He wants a friend he can control in this seat. Gregory Thane stands now as my second-hand. He's had a bitter history with Frederick. He only granted you his vote at my request. There's been nothing to suggest the two of them are working together to plot against me.

"And yet..." he went on. "they are," he growled, standing up and looming over the desk in one quick motion. "He's using you to work against me, as well, isn't he?"

Taylor blinked. The old man saw the truth in his eyes, and sneered. "He thinks you'll fall beneath my radar, too, with your father broken. He's playing a very long game. We taught it to him. Soon he'll be loaning you out to friends, to spread secrets and take allies. He'll use you as a third party to make new partners. And, in the end, the knife will be in your hands, and he'll be there shed the tears. All so that bored, unhappy man can cause a bit of trouble."

Reinhart stood again, and rounded the desk. "But you don't serve Frederick. You serve The Gentleman's Club. If I'm not mistaken, Frederick's out of allies and your one vote short. And you're going to earn that vote by rooting these snakes out from our midst."

Taylor instinctively began to nod.

"It's not a question, don't nod at me, boy. It's a command," Reinhart growled. "You're going to return to him, and convince him of your deepening hatred of me. You're welcome to make it sincere. You will regain his trust. Already, he's grown suspicious of our meeting, and he's making plans to cut you loose," he said, flicking one of Taylor's stray bangs with his hand. "He wouldn't risk it, knowing we've talked without him listening in."

Taylor watched as Reinhart puffed his cigar, and watched him silently, waiting for him to continue the conversation. If what he said was true... Frederick had been the cause of all of this. But, on the other hand, it was still Reinhart that gave the command.

"Did Frederick suggest my mother be taken?" Taylor asked.

Reinhart nodded. "And he suggested we kill her when your father gets out of hand again. And he will. It would turn you against your father, and twist the knife in further."

"If Frederick wasn't plotting against you, would you have cared what happened to her?" Taylor asked.

Reinhart frowned. "No. Your father's worried about his city. I have billions more to worry about. His persistence disrupts a finely-tuned engine that keeps this fragile world in balance. Your father was warned of the price to be paid. If her life kept millions more running in order, I would make that call. And, as I said, it was personal.

"Two men, both would have caused your mother's death. The course is not pleasant," Reinhart said. "But only one of us sought it out. And only one of us lied to you."

That's not much of a reason, Taylor thought.

"And the safety you hold now comes from the same ancient rules that dictate who is in control here," Reinhart said carefully. "I told you before, it's not a question. It's not a choice. It's a command," Reinhart said, leaning closer over him.

Just as quickly, the old man turned and pressed his hand against the palm reader on a further door. The way to the back room slid open. "Follow," Reinart said.

Taylor saw a soft blue light, and his curiosity drove his feet forward before he heard the words. The door slid shut as he stepped into the inner hallway. The light was coming from the ceiling, where an aquarium as large as he'd ever seen swam above them. A shark swam past, blocking out the sun for a moment. It couldn't be real, there was no way to fit it into the city, but it was impossible not to believe it. It was like living beneath a coral reef.

"Come," Reinhart shouted, making the boy jump, and forced his feet to keep moving.

Reinhart lead him further in. There was a theater, and a large meeting room (also with only one chair), there was a small bar cart, and a shooting range. It seemed a tangled mess of unrelated rooms, all elegant in their own way, all clearly high-end and well-maintained, but it held none of the sophistication or care that Frederick's place had held. Or the rest of the Club, for tha matter.

Reinhart stopped at the edge of a darkened doorway and Taylor approached it slowly. The old man opened the door and ushered him inside, boltin the door behind them. Looking around the dimly lit room, it was clear what it was for. Reinhart was unbuttoning the last of his shirt by the time Taylor could tear his eyes away from it all.

"Frederick needs to believe I had a reason to call you here. And he needs a reason to believe you'll come back to him, hating me more. A very good reason. A convincing reason. He needs to be certain down to his bones that you are his pawn, and his alone. That you would burn this club to the ground to spite me. That you would die for the cause," he said, dropping his shirt to the ground.

Taylor's foot stepped backward instinctively, but he held it still, forcing it forward again.

Reinhart was wrong. It was a choice. And it wasn't theirs. Frederick wanted Reinhart dead, Reinhart wanted Frederick dead. But Taylor wanted them both to suffer. And that road ended here if he didn't play along. The moment he was done, he would tell Frederick what happened here. Most of it, at least. And then he would do his best to make sure they slashed each other bloody afterward.

The long game. Frederick had learned to play it, and now he would, too.

Taylor stood tall, and waited.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Taylor nodded. It was nothing new now.

"Then let's get started, boy," Reinhart said gravely.

With two large hands, he turned the boy around, and lifted him onto a long, padded board the hung from the ceiling in the center of the room. A mess of straps hung from beneath. Working with practiced hands, Reinhart tied the boy's knees together, and then his ankles to each of the hanging chains, spreading him open.

His wrists and arms Reinhart bound together and strapped against his knees beneath the board, trussing him up like a pig about to be spit roasted. Taylor felt the thick fingers against his back, digging into the waist of his pants. Effortlessly, the soft fabric of the suit was torn from the legs, exposing his underwear beneath.