Corinthian Club
by C. F. Pierce
part 1
“This can’t be right,” mutters James, stepping into a noisy bar with musty air blowing hard from overhead vents. Studded leather jackets and tattooed forearms raising whisky shots reinforce the notion of wrong place, some mistake.
On a small stage, four men in black play a familiar tune from decades past. The singer with long gray hair in a ponytail wails “Time Is On My Side” and reminds James of someone. Half-bald with wire-rimmed glasses, the percussionist sits behind a bass drum with a decal printed with the words “NO REGRETS.”
Turning to walk out, the newcomer spots the only man in the establishment wearing a dark suit with bold pinstripes, complemented by a pink tie. The well-dressed silhouette raises his hand, waving him over to a dark booth in the back. At that moment, James realizes in some dismay he is indeed where he was summoned.
“You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here,” says the man who requested his presence.
“I’ll admit it, Mr. Dutton, when I walked past the massage parlor and sleeping bags on the sidewalk, I was a little perplexed,” replies his dark-haired companion who slapped on a white dress shirt, matching blue jacket and tie for this unexpected meeting he hoped would be over before midnight.
“This club is one of my first investments. I keep it for sentimental value. It’s discreet, a good place to go when I don’t want to be recognized.”
Between the overdressed men and the stage is a square wooden dance floor where patrons sporting tank tops with college logos chat it up, flout the No Smoking sign, guzzle foamy beer in tall glass mugs, and chuckle at band members old enough to be their dads.
“I’ve got a problem,” says Dutton.
The first time he sat in one of the thick leather chairs in Dutton’s Century City penthouse, James marveled at the imperial presence. Suspenders, titanium Rolex, hair slicked back. A look James himself would not imitate, but one that filled him with fascination.
Dutton revealed what his father taught him as a child. The key to success is taking what you want, no matter how you get it. Little League baseball, despite young Dutton’s interest, was discouraged. “The only real sport is business. Winning is destroying the competition.” Following that model was the only way to avoid the patriarch’s contempt.
James had heard stories about Dutton’s business practices: stiffing contractors, reneging on pledges to charities. Still, when asked if he would help out with some projects, James could not refuse.
The bright-eyed server with short blond hair and black T-shirt with the words Corinthian Club in white letters approaches the booth. If she tried ordering alcohol herself, she would be asked for an ID.
“Guinness,” says James.
“Ginger ale,” says Dutton. He smiles and adds, “I hope they’re not working you too hard. Beautiful girls like you shouldn’t have to work too hard.”
James inhales more of the oddly scented air and notices patrons dancing to “Money, That’s What I Want.” “What is the problem, Mr. Dutton?”
“It’s not about taxes or permits or zoning. It’s... you won’t believe this: something along the lines of sexual harassment.”
“Really?” James smiles. “What did you do? Did you compliment one of your 20-something assistants on her new outfit?”
“Something like that,” says Dutton, sliding his fingers up and down the smooth fabric of his tie.
It’s hard to hear him over the music. The singer stands motionless, both hands wrapped around the microphone, wailing a soulful ballad. James wonders where he might’ve heard his raspy voice. The guitarist strums a black Fender Stratocaster with a white pickguard and a maple neck like the one James has stashed in a hard-shell case on his closet floor under dark suits and white dress shirts. He can’t remember the last time he picked it up.
“My real estate development company has interns. Most are in university, but some are seniors at the local high school, not quite 18 years old. I happened to mentor one of them. I invited her to a company party at the Santa Monica Grand Hotel.”
James looks hard at Dutton, without shifting his focus.
“The hotel is a block from the beach. Top rooms, by the way, have spectacular ocean views, better than all the other five-star hotels near the coast. According to her statement, I gave her a tour, showed her one of the suites, offered her a Coca-Cola laced with sedatives and took advantage of her. She says she woke up naked the next day. She doesn’t know how her clothes were removed. The last thing she claims to have remembered is my escorting her to a room and offering her the drink.”
“You understand, if she is a minor, even if this were consensual, there is a huge problem.” James tries to control the emotion in his voice. He thinks of his own teenage daughter at home in Encino, where he used to live with the woman who was now his ex-wife.
“People make up all kinds of stories when you’re rich. Yes, I invited her and others to a party in a hotel. I may have shown her a room. But that’s it. Everything else is a big lie.”
“Then you should be fine.” A muscular bartender in a green apron is smiling and chatting up customers by the whisky rack. Rubbing his forehead, James scans the tall glass bottles with glossy gold labels and lettering in black font.
“James, you know me. You know I would never do anything like what I am being accused of. But even if I were that reckless and impulsive, I would take precautions to not leave any evidence pointing to me.”
In James’ peripheral view, a young couple is swing dancing to “Jailhouse Rock,” twirling on the small dance floor and moving in and out like an accordion. The bespectacled drummer is all smiles, battering the hollow boxes around him with the ferocity of a born-again Keith Moon. At the last chorus of “Dancing to the Jailhouse Rock,” James silently sings along, remembering the exhilaration of playing music, even in places like this one.
“If the police arrest you, say nothing,” James advises his client.
“I know that,” replies Dutton. “I was hoping you could persuade the family to settle and make this go away.”
A somber heavy presence approaches the booth. “Are you Mr. Dutton?” a deep voice utters.
In the dim light, James squints at the short brown military cropped hair, black browline glasses, white shirt, black tie, and leather jacket. I hope I am wrong, James says to himself.
Drums and bass are pounding in the background. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Blake,” says Dutton.
“James, this is the father of the young lady I was telling you about.”
“This is the girl’s father?” says James. raising his eyebrows. He grasps his mug of dark beer, takes a long sip then realizes he should not be surprised. After all, this is Dutton.
“I asked Mr. Blake to come here,” says Dutton blandly. “I’ve always believed you can negotiate anything,” he says enunciating every word before slowly repeating the last one: “An-y-thing.”
James sits up, biting his lip. Had the true purpose of this meeting been revealed, he would have resisted. Hot and lightheaded, James presses his forehead with his fingertips. Maybe it was due to the alcohol after a long day following a sleepless night. He stares at Dutton, listening to the bluesy guitar solo in the background, vaguely aware of servers around him, carrying colorful drinks in tall glasses. He inhales more of the toxic air conditioning, tapping the wooden floor with the tips of his hard leather shoes, testing it for stability. James perceives the lounge as the interior of a large ship somewhere at sea, sailing in the dark.
“Your lawyer doesn’t like your suggestion,” says Blake, hovering over the booth. “I was told to come here. I figured it would be something like this,” he says with a smirk. He motions James to move over, proceeds to sit down across from Dutton.
“What do you mean?” Dutton snaps back. “I know something terrible happened to your daughter. I had nothing to do with it. But since it took place at my hotel, I want to make it right.”
Blake glares at Dutton. James knows the look. He’s seen it before in conference rooms with long mahogany tables, in courtrooms with uniformed officers. It’s a red flag.
James recalls Angel, a client with a tattoo of a green cobra on his neck. Angel gave him that look after a jury found him guilty of assault with a deadly weapon. Then he lunged at his defense attorney, punching him in the nose. As a result, James became a serious student of Tae Kwon Do, despite having no prior interest in martial arts.
“You want to talk. I think we should talk outside,” says Blake, sitting up straight, inching his torso closer toward the table until his chest touches the edge. He looks like he is about to say something else when the music stops and a voice comes over the public address system: “Ladies and Gentlemen, No Regrets will be back in 15 minutes.” The band, with the exception of one member, descends the stage and strolls to the bar.
The gray-haired singer takes a straight path toward James’s table. A determined gait, all smiles. “Jimmy? I thought I recognized you when you walked in. I said, ‘I know that guy.’”
James looks up, eyes wide open, noticing the singer’s gold earring. He hasn’t been called Jimmy in years.
“Ritchie? I thought you looked familiar when I saw you on the stage, but I wasn’t sure,” James manages to blurt out as memories flash through his mind.
“In the flesh, dude. The Rebel Rockers. Remember? It’s only been 25 years or so. Who’s counting?” He laughs out loud. “Hey man, you still look the same. Still have all your hair, same color.”
James studies the face before him, wrinkled forehead, bags under the eyes, in search of the Ritchie from his past. It takes him moments to recognize the edgy blond-haired singer with whom he once shared a stage. What strikes James above all is the serenity emanating from clear blue eyes locked in his direction.
“What are you doing these days, man?” asks Ritchie.
“I’m a lawyer,” says James, avoiding Blake’s glare.
“Cool. Still got that red velvet jacket?”
No words come out of James’s open mouth.
“How ’bout your Stratocaster? Still playin’?”
“These days, only in my dreams,” replies James, suddenly recalling the recurring one where he is on stage before a standing-room-only crowd in a dark auditorium playing a spirited string-bending solo, his fast fingers dancing on the neck of his guitar while he’s grinning from ear to ear. “How strange, so real,” he murmured, waking up the last time it happened, needing a few seconds to snap out of it.
Copyright © 2024 by C. F. Pierce
