Authors: Lance Zarimba
Sergio ran his fingers through his damp hair, causing it to spike on top. Then he re-filed everything into his folder, and curtly nodded. “Well, let's see what he has on you.” He reached across me and rummaged through the stack for my folder. Finding it, he smiled as he opened it. “Now, we get to expose Taylor for what he really is.” His hands flung the folder open, and a single sheet of paper floated out and landed on the floor.
I bent forward and picked it up. It was a copy of my driver's license. “That's it?” I said, flipping the piece of paper over.
Sergio shook the manila folder. Nothing else fell out.
There wasn't anything else in my file. No South Dakota OT license, no bank statements, no credit card bills. Nothing. Just my horrible driver's license picture. “You would have thought that he could have gathered something else on me, wouldn't you?"
"You sound so disappointed,” he said. “What skeletons do you have in your closet?"
"I... I... don't have any."
"My, aren't you just so perfect.” Sergio shook his head.
Ignoring him as I placed my one sheet back into the folder, I said, “I bet since Molly signed me up so late, he didn't have time to find anything on me."
"Oh yeah. Like they could find anything on Mr. Perfect."
"You would be surprised."
"Oh yeah, tell me.” Sergio leaned forward and waited.
"I almost got kicked out of grad school for unprofessional behavior."
"What?” The surprised look on Sergio's face was priceless.
"It's a long story, but in short, I wrote a petition against an instructor, uncovered that the chair of our department was falsifying students’ record, sought out legal counsel from the ombudsman, and made an instructor cry."
"Bad boy. Is that all?” Disappointment played across his face.
"Isn't that enough?"
"I was hoping for some sordid sex scandal to improve your grade point average."
"I know that happened with our fieldwork coordinator to get preferential internship placements."
"Did you...?” His eyes brightened.
"No."
Sergio slumped down on the bed.
"I got a speeding ticket, once,” I offered.
"Oh, you're so bad.” Sergio exhaled loudly. “I guess that's why Duane didn't waste any time on you. You weren't worth the bother."
I looked at him, confused.
"He must've looked at my bank book and credit card bills and figured he wouldn't get a cent out of me. And you, ha."
"Thanks a lot.” I picked up the rest of the folders and placed them on my lap.
"You know what I mean.” He elbowed me in the side. “You wouldn't hurt anyone. Not intentionally."
"If I was pushed or someone I cared about was being threatened.” My voice trailed off as I looked down at the pile of folders. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was after midnight. But I was too wide-awake to think of sleep. “Shouldn't we look at the others?” I tipped the first folder open. “I mean, see what they have to hide?"
Sergio leaped forward and picked up the top file. “I can't wait."
"Isn't this an invasion of privacy?"
Pausing for a second with the folder half-open, Sergio shook his head. “This is a fine time to get a conscience.” He looked at the folder and flipped it open the rest of the way. “But Duane did all of this invasion before we did."
"So...” I started.
"So what? You're the one who stole them in the first place. If you didn't plan on reading them, then why did you take them?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Besides, I don't want them to go to waste. I'm reading them."
Looking over his shoulder, I asked, “Whose file do you have?"
"Tom's.” He turned the file so I could read the tab.
Inside, we found Tom's driver's license, a small credit card debt, comfortable savings and checking account balances, reviews and publicity photos of his movies, and a marriage license.
"Whoa! What is this?” Sergio handed me the sheet. “Do you think he filed for this when he was young and confused?"
Scanning the license, I pointed to the date. “Maybe, if he was confused eight months ago."
"What?” He grabbed it back. “Let me see that. Do you think they mistyped the bride's name, like backward? Maybe it should be James Stephanie, instead of Stephanie James."
"I guess we'll have to ask him about it. But it does look like a real license."
"That would make Tom ‘Gay for Pay,’ you know, straight but willing to do gay movies for the money, and that could hurt his career."
"I didn't think many people stayed in the porn business very long."
"No. That would be gross."
"Right. So the important thing is do you think Tom would kill to keep his marriage a secret?"
"Tom's studio would, if they thought it would hurt sales.” Sergio scratched his head. “And probably his agent would, if he thought that he would lose his percentage."
"I met Tom's agent yesterday, and he didn't look very happy with Tom then. Maybe he found out?"
"Maybe we can weasel that out of him tomorrow on the snorkeling trip.” Sergio's eyebrows rose, “So, who's next?"
Logan's name was on the next tab. After the usual financial information, the file was filled with copies of book covers and reviews. Following the critiques was a copy of an e-mail from Logan's agent.
"Check this out,” I said and read the letter out loud.
"Dear Logan,
We regret to inform you that your new book, Kill Me! Kill Me! Kill Me! (A Man After Midnight) is the last book your publisher will be producing at this time. Due to declining sales, they are no longer able to keep a slot open for your series in their annual release schedule.
However, if this new book opens with a bang, they will reconsider signing you to a new three-book contract. After careful consideration, I'm suggesting that you use a possible publicity stunt, which could parallel your novel to draw attention to its release. Remember, sex and scandal sells!
Yours truly,
Sean Harris"
"That's cold,” Sergio said.
"From what I've read about publishing, if the book isn't a blockbuster like Grafton, Grisham, or King, its shelf life is about thirty days."
"Look at this.” Sergio pulled a stapled packet of paper out of the folder. Photos of the same man separated copies of each book's dedication sheet. The man's name was the same for each book's dedication. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. “You think everyone is gay."
"Until proven otherwise.” He smiled.
"Whatever. Who's next?"
Sergio grabbed Geoff's folder off the top of the pile. Inside, he found a newspaper article. “Listen to this.” He read from the article,
"Florida's Finest Fired!"
"Detective Geoff de la Vega was indicted for the shooting of his partner, Fernando Kingston. After a surveillance team had set up a sting for a local smuggling ring, de la Vega and Kingston entered the premises of Tabago Shipping Company. Both men were caught in cross fire, resulting in Kingston's death. Ballistics revealed that the bullet that killed Kingston was fired from de la Vega's gun. Suspicion to de la Vega's involvement in the smuggling operation had been an ongoing investigation in the Miami police department. Along with repeated reprimands for intoxication during work hours, de la Vega has been suspended from the police force without pay.
"Do you think he should be bartending?” Sergio asked.
I shook my head and looked at the folder. “That explains how he got here and possibly why he hates this job."
"I think he needs to re-evaluate his life and choose a different profession."
"Could you do anything else besides being a hairdresser?” I asked.
"What else would you do?” he countered.
I shook my head. No matter how frustrated I became at work some days, I hadn't been able to find a different field. “I haven't found one yet."
"Neither have I. It must be in the genes.” He reached over and picked up the next two folders that were stuck together. Nothing too revealing was discovered about David and David, who ran an import/export business in New York. A few bank letters revealed that the business was having some financial troubles due to lost shipments of pieces of art. Their insurance company was still investigating these losses, but reimbursement was pending.
Gary's file revealed an overdrawn and over-extended man. His credit report made Sergio look like a millionaire. No clear record of steady employment could help explain his money flow, but odd deposits peppered his statements. He had an arrest for steroid use and sales, but it wasn't enough to do any jail time. Why was he working here?
John's folder was fat with photos of him and copies of the ads he modeled in. All of them showed a lot more of him than I wanted to see. His finances and investments looked profitable.
Cha-Cha, born Charles Champion, had worked in Las Vegas, New York, and Hollywood. Her talents ranged from stripper to escort, showgirl to bartender, and massage therapist to movie star. She had done it all and had the rap sheet to prove it. Many of her arrests and job changes appeared due to violent outbursts when she was ignored.
"Way to go.” I turned to Sergio. “She wasn't the best person to upset on this trip."
"No drag queen is going to scare me."
"She's starting to scare me,” I said, flipping through the rap sheet. “I wouldn't want her to do anything in that file to me.” I pointed at assault with a vibrator, and then to a hairy man shaved with an Epilady, which made Sergio cringe. After that, I put the sheets back together and closed the folder.
"Don't worry, I'll protect you from her."
"But who's going to protect you?"
Ignoring my comment, he opened the last file. Mike owned and operated Club Fred. Four times a year, he would rent an entire resort, and open it up to gay visitors. He had yet to return to the same resort. “I doubt they'll let him come back here,” I mused.
"It looks like Mike hires travelers, like me, ones who can't afford the trip, but can offer a service to his guests to make their vacation complete."
"So, who else is on Mike's payroll, besides the guys running the Club Fred table?"
"Now, that's an interesting question. I'll see if I can find out from Mike, in a roundabout way.” Sergio yawned and stretched his arms over his head.
"Well, I can wait for that,” I said, handing the stack of folders to Sergio. “I'm beat, and my eyes are killing me.” I stood up and walked to the bathroom. “I need to take these contacts out and get to bed. Besides, we really need to get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow. We're going snorkeling in the morning, remember?"
Before going down to breakfast, Sergio used his remaining pair of scissors to unravel the stitching on one of the box springs. I wrapped the stolen folders in a towel and inserted the whole package inside. Sergio carefully folded the fabric to match the seam and quickly sewed a running stitch, or so he told me, to conceal his handiwork. We scanned the room one more time and made sure our hiding spot appeared secure.
An hour later, our tour boat headed out, right on time. Guys filled the deck and Mariachi music blared out of the tinny speakers. White water bubbled and turned underneath the hull. Tom, Logan, Sergio, and I sat in the white plastic deck chairs and watched the horizon swallow the resort.
As the boat pulled away from the dock, I noticed Geoff taking photos of our departure. Before I could comment, the horns blasted the event music and drowned out anything I would have said.
When the music ended, Mike stepped into the middle of the deck. “Seal Island is two hours straight ahead,” he spoke into the intercom of the boat, before the regular music returned. “A fog bank is hiding it right now, but we'll be able to see it clearly as we sail closer and the sun burns off the humidity.” He droned on in his well-rehearsed tour guide speech.
Sergio's face appeared pale in the morning sun. “Are you feeling all right?” I asked. Sergio hadn't told me if he had snorkeled before, so I assumed he had. But come to think of it, he hadn't said much on this outing.
"I must've had too much to drink last night,” Sergio said, rubbing his temples and then his stomach. “Or stayed up too late reading."
"Do you need an aspirin?” I asked, patting my left pocket, which wasn't there. I looked down. Swimming shorts with no pockets. “Sorry, I left them...” I said, pointing back to the resort.
Sergio's pallor slowly turned green. Aquamarine to be exact. The boat rolled over a swell as we veered slightly to the right. Sergio clutched his belly and closed his eyes, trying to ride out the waves of nausea.
This was going to be a very long trip.
Two hours later, we reached our location, but Sergio still sat in his chair with his head hanging down between his knees. He moaned in a low voice.
"Are you going to be all right?” I called.
"Yeah, go ahead and enjoy.” Sergio waved us away with his hand. “Let me die in peace."
"Suit yourself,” Tom called, stepping off the boat and into the brine.
The back of Logan's head bobbed in the ocean as he swam toward the island.
Slipping my facemask into place, it fogged over immediately after forming a tight seal around my eyes and nose. My mouthpiece tasted of rubber and salt. I bit down on the teeth-guard, took a deep breath, and pushed my body off the boat. Once submerged, the fog thickened.
Tom said, “You have to spit on the lens in the water and then put it on wet. Otherwise, it'll fog up.” He dove under the surface and was gone.
Treading water, I followed his directions and suddenly found that the water was crystal clear, warm, but refreshing against the tropical sun. Huge clouds filled the blue-green sky as the wind blew harder.
Dog-paddling away from the boat, I attempted to submerge my face, now that I could see. Tom arched his back and dove deep into the water. I dog-paddled at the surface; my breathing still wasn't under control.
Gradually, stroke by stroke, my face slowly entered the water, and the underwater world came into clear focus. I smiled to myself; Molly would be so amazed at this adventurous side of me. My disposable underwater camera slapped against my wrist. With all the trouble controlling my breath, I had forgotten it was there. This was so cool. I could say that I took this picture of swimming seals, an underwater picture. And the impressive part was that I took it
myself
.