Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha
Wednesday, September 2, 4:05 PM
Tropicana Blue Club, Orinda CA
Narrative Reconstructed by Peter Howard
Glen almost got himself a ticket on the way from Livermore. He should have been on top of the world as the Grenada High Matadors had twenty seven legitimate gymnast prospects and twelve swimmers.
But lunch with his parents had fanned his suspicions and fired his anger. The Marcus Jackson interview conducted by Samantha Wells and published in the Amador Herald this morning convinced Glen, more than ever, that Mike Gianni had played him.
At Tropicana Blue’s locked door Glen pounded with a club like fist. The bouncer that answered would be not be a problem, Glen knew, being intensely aware of the figure's around him, he could assess who was a threat and who was not. Of those who were a threat, he could get a pretty good idea of how to hit that one to put him down with the lowest possible effort.
“I want to talk to Johnny, Right the fuck now,” Glen growled evenly.
The man nodded, held up a finger indicating ‘wait’ and closed the door.
Glen fumed, and was about to bang on it again when it opened.
“Why, Glen Carrington. It’s good of you to come by,” said Johnny DeSilva.
“I need to talk to you,” snarled Glen.
“So, talk.”
“Can I come in?”
Johnny eyed glen for a moment, then pushed the door open wider, so Glen could pass.
“I was just in the middle of a very important meeting,” Johnny said as he led him up the hidden staircase to his office. “I hope this is important.”
“It is!”
“Good,” said Johnny. He opened a heavy door, which revealed a plush office that was entirely decorated in black and chrome save for a smoked glass wall to one side that looked out over the show floor. On one wall was a desk, and opposite the glass wall a large oval bed draped with black velvet coverings. Directly in front of that were two couches facing each other, and on the wall opposite the desk, where they had entered, was a small bar.
On one of the three couches in the room sat a smallish older man and a svelte, fit black woman who oozed sexuality out of her pores.
“Mr. Carrington, this is Mr. Golding and his lovely friend is Jasmine. She’s a dancer.”
Golding and the very naked Jasmine stood, offering hands for Glen to shake. Glen took them dispassionately.
“Mr. Golding is a chemist with Tucker-Kline. He might be able to concoct an athletic cocktail for your prospects…”
“I’m a chemist, it’s true,” said the bookish looking man who appeared to be about fifty.
“Glen here is with the U.S. Olympic Team. He’s finding our next batch of gold medallists for the Santo Domingo games,” Johnny winked. “Mr. Golding, something has come up. I won’t be long. Why don’t you have Jasmine show you our new dancers?”
After pleasantries were exchanged, the couple finally left and Johnny took a seat behind his massive black executive desk. He pulled out a cigar case and offered one to Glen.
“Dominican,” said Johnny. “Cubans are overrated.”
“I’ll pass.”
Johnny made a show of clipping the end and lighting the massive role of tobacco. He puffed on it, filling the area with acrid smoke, then looked Glen in the eye.
“So,” he said, blowing smoke rings. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Onto the desk, Glen slapped down the copies Michael Gianni had given him on Friday.
“You’re involved with Gianni, aren’t you?”
Jonny began to chuckle. “What exactly gives you that idea?”
“Because this stuff is very carefully concocted with valuable info I can’t use. Every single one is connected to my mother, my father, or both, and I know for fact you have a lot more pigeons you string along.”
“Well,” Johnny said. “Now you’re out to get even with Gianni, when you had no legitimate reason to get even with me. What did I ever do to you?”
“Take a wild guess!” said Glen. “But I know he’s involved with you, somehow.”
“So what if he is? What’s it to you?”
“I don’t like being played.”
“Nobody likes being played,” said Johnny. “But when you run in the circles your father and I run in, you deal with it. You accept the punches and roll. The hardest thing is to know your limitations. Michael Gianni, he is so far out of your league, crossing him might cause you to disappear.”
“Bull!”
“Glen,” said DeSilva leaning forward, and looking quite serious. “Gianni is far out of my league. I don’t cross him, either.”
Glen put his arms akimbo. “So you’d like to get even with him too?”
“They really do make jocks big and dumb,” Johnny’s well crafted California accent slipped to its Jersey roots as he shook his head. “I’m saying,” he continued. “If you have any idea what’s good for you, you won’t make an enemy out of Michael Gianni.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Kiss his ass?”
“If he drops his drawers, yeah! Kiss it! This guy will mop the floor with your family, your friends and make you watch before he finishes with you!”
“And you know this how?”
“Because that’s what I do! I know. It’s my job. Knowing is my business. Not unlike your business, actually. You find out what’s out there and sell that back to those that want to know.” DeSilva paused as Glen shook his head. “Gianni came to me to get dirt he could use to pay you off. Whatever it is he wanted, I don’t care. It’s not my business.”
Glen smiled. “Samantha Wells,” he said. “Today’s Amador Herald.”
“What?” DeSilva’s brow went up.
“It had to do with Samantha Wells and her family, Carmen Sanchez and Marcus Jackson,” The expression on DeSilva’s face was filled with shock and anger for only an instant, but that was enough to tell Glen he’d hit pay dirt. Glen took the pen off DeSilva’s desk and wrote down an address on a post-it note. “That’s her address. Have at it.” Glen strode out, noting that DeSilva had picked up the note and was intently looking at it… yes, Michael, Glen thought, I will get you back!