by Martin Brown
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Juliette drove home with a throbbing headache. In a daze, she pulled into the driveway of the bungalow cottage she rented, located behind a home near the corner of Locust and Elm. Robotically, she walked into her snug bedroom, which only twice she had used as a rendezvous with her lover, for fear that her landlady’s prying eyes might see one of the town’s better known citizens coming to visit his sister-in-law unaccompanied by his wife.
She threw herself on her bed and sobbed for a long time. Later, she dragged herself toward her refrigerator, where there was a very cold bottle of Riesling wine awaiting her. Juliette needed, if only for a few moments, to escape into that wine’s crisp sweet embrace.
In search of a corkscrew, she went into the old cabinet drawer that hung under the narrow counter that served as the kitchen’s food prep area. Amazed when she first saw the limited space of the cottage’s kitchen, her mother declared, “If you ever have a man over here, you two would have to get married before cooking a meal together.”
Juliette’s mother, a woman of good social pedigree, claimed that she could trace her lineage back to the noble pilgrims who stepped upon Plymouth Rock. “We may not be native Americans, but we’re certainly the next closest thing!” she often reminded her youngest daughter.
Sweet Jesus, Juliette muttered to herself. How could she doubt for a moment that her mother, father, sister, uncles, aunts, cousins and all the saints in heaven would not disown her for the erotic fantasies she had shared with her brother-in-law? Most importantly, she knew that there was no such thing as keeping a secret from God.
In addition to that corkscrew she had gone in search for, she removed from the drawer a knife of great value, a Zwilling J. A. Henckels carbon steel blade. This was an instrument that could make fast work of slicing open a wrist quickly with a minimum of effort and hopefully little pain. With a glass of wine to soothe her nerves, she walked trance-like toward the bathroom. There, she kneeled down before an ancient claw-footed tub and turned on a mix of hot and cold water. Soon, she told herself, this disaster would be behind her.
This is insane, she thought, as she stood and tossed the knife into a basket of towels. The only place this knife belongs is in the neck of that repulsive creature, Michael Marks. But what then, she reasoned. She had no doubt that days after the discovery of his body those horrid photos would arrive on the desk of the editor at the Independent Journal and perhaps everyone else she knew, from her school’s principal to her father and her sister. It was a happy thought to imagine Marks on the floor, blood spurting from his jugular and his surprised face suddenly frozen in a death mask. That was a pleasing but pointless fantasy. She’d had her denial, her anger and her grief. It was time to call Herb and put this pest behind them.
Early the next morning, the phone woke Michael from a sound sleep.
“Hello,” he croaked in a nearly unintelligible greeting.
“Is this Michael Marks?” a voice that conveyed both authority and sincerity asked crisply.
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Herb Fancher. Juliette, my sister-in-law, tells me that you have a private matter you want to discuss with me.”
Michael, now fully awake, replied, “I most certainly do.”
“Fine, my office is at the corner of Blithedale and Sunnyside; let’s say this morning at ten?”
Michael, long in customer service, nearly responded by saying, “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.” Instead, he held back and casually said, “I’ll be there,” and clicked off before Fancher had a chance to say the last word.
What time is it, Michael thought. Six-forty-five! That fucker!
He laid back on his pillow and threw the blanket over his head. But, of course, there was no hope of falling back asleep. As a smile crept across his face, he considered the now obvious fact that Juliette must have called Fancher soon after he broke the shocking news to her.
He knew in a moment that Herb was going to impress him in the style of the fictional character, Sherman McCoy, the wealthy bond trader of Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities. McCoy, a wealthy upper crust New Yorker thought of himself as a "master of the universe."
He can think he’s a god for all I care, Michael thought, as he steeled himself for what would undoubtedly be an unpleasant conversation. The simple truth was that he was holding the high card. And as he had already seen in other high stake games, even when played on the level of a John Walker, when the guy sitting in front of you is holding four aces, there is no logical choice but to throw down your cards and hope that next time you have a better hand.
Michael had no doubt, particularly after the wakeup call Fancher had made to him, that this would likely be his most unpleasant encounter to date. That was perhaps fitting. After all, he had never found himself holding photos that could cause such a wide variety of repercussions.
Michael got out of bed, dressed, and made himself a pot of coffee. Taking his cup with him outside onto the deck, Michael was greeted by the cool air and the fresh scents of early morning in the canyon. Perhaps, he thought, I should make it a habit to get up early. The canyon was certainly lovely at this time of day.
Events moved far quicker than he had first imagined. Just last week he had considered dropping the whole matter, only to find that Juliette was not any more trustworthy than his mother. He thought she would consider her options for several days before dropping this mess into the lap of her brother-in-law. She must have panicked, Michael reasoned, and Herb was obviously the only person she could talk to about this.
Michael, like so many merchants before him, presented both a problem and a solution. But what, exactly, would be the solution this time around? What amount should he demand and for how long? In all previous acts of extortion, he demanded what he considered to be a reasonable sum, payable for an indefinite number of months and years, without any consideration of an end point. It was simply assumed that this end would come when the evidence he had lost its value. A death or a divorce were two possible examples. Shifting circumstances can cause the value of photographs to vanish overnight.
In this instance, he chose to ask for a substantially higher payment, but for a relatively brief period of time. This, in Michael’s view, might resolve one persistent concern he had about Fancher. For all that Herb and Juliette had at risk because of these photos, it occurred to Michael that these two people likely were drawn to behaving recklessly. How long would it be before they got themselves into some other disaster that might be just as damning to their standing, both with their families and their community? A shorter period to pay might be far more palatable to a businessman who was accustomed to financing big projects and then moving his focus elsewhere. The idea may or may not be agreeable to Fancher, but it was certainly worth a try.
At precisely ten o’clock, Michael presented himself to the receptionist at Fancher Construction. He was told to take a seat, “Mr. Fancher will be with you shortly.”
Ten minutes later, Fancher strolled into the reception area, hand outstretched.
“Mr. Marks?”
“Yes,” Michael replied, somewhat surprised by Fancher’s warm tone, as he stood to take Fancher’s hand and shake it like two good friends happy to once again see each other. Obviously, Michael thought, this was a show that Fancher was putting on for his receptionist and the few staffers passing within earshot.
Fancher dropped the happy pretense the moment he closed his office door.
Although Michael had seen him in casual settings with his wife and disrobed in the throes of passion, the Herb Fancher he was presented with today was yet one more version of the same person. He wore an open collared white shirt, and a blue linen sports jacket, with tan slacks, and brown slip on shoes.
Having been too busy admiring the lovely breasts and flat abdomen of Juliette, he never gave much attention to Fancher’s broad shoulders and well-defined physique.
“I don’t need to tell you that your meeting yesterday caused Juliette a good deal of d
istress,” Fancher began, as the jawline that framed his flat face tightened. He had blue gray eyes that stared intently and angrily at Michael, as though he was the disappointed father or the angry sibling.
“I don’t doubt that,” Michael said casually, attempting to give the impression of cool detachment. “She probably wishes she never met me.”
“That’s an understatement,” Herb responded, as the corner of his month twitched downward.
After taking a pause and giving Michael a stern look, Fancher continued, “Clearly, there is only one thing you’re after and that is my paying you to keep the contents of these photos private.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, before we go any further, I’d like to see these three photos that have Juliette so upset.”
“I have them right here,” Michael replied, as he pulled from a nine by twelve white envelope the eight by ten black and white photo prints that he had, for his private amusement begun to call: Blow Job, Yeehaw, and Cuddle-Up.
Fancher did not have to study each photo for more than a second or two to realize the total havoc this collection would create. Juliette’s high degree of agitation was more than justified. Like the proverbial rock hitting the water, the ripples would go out in all directions, starting with the dissolution of his marriage and the end of his political career.
“I assume you have more than just these three.”
“Eighteen in all. I mean, I took over forty photos totally. But, in my line of work, clear definition of the subjects is essential. That’s not always easy to get when shooting from a distance.”
It flashed across Fancher’s mind to leap out from behind his desk, lift Michael out of his chair, and throw him violently to the floor, but what would he achieve by that?
The commotion would send one or more of his staff running to his office, and worse would raise an endless series of questions as to why the boss had his hands around the throat of this cherub-faced young visitor he had just greeted so warmly minutes earlier.
No, if he were going to murder this pudgy pervert, Fancher reasoned, it would have to be at another time and place. At this moment, it was far wiser to make some type of arrangement and take the immediate threat off the table. But Fancher did toy with the idea of torturing Michael, somewhere in a cabin, away from prying eyes and big ears. Nothing like the games of torture he enjoyed with his sister-in-law. Dominating her helped to release the anger he carried inside for so many of the women in his life, starting with his mother.
“What’s your price?”
“One thousand a month, every month for five years.”
“That’s sixty-thousand dollars, you little prick,” he growled in a low scream.
“Yes, I know it is.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“True, I could have gone for a lower amount, say four or five hundred per month with no expiration date. Problem is, I don’t trust you.”
“Don’t trust me?” Fancher said, at the very edge of losing his temper.
“Yes, that’s what I said. A guy like you is probably going to screw up in some way even more spectacular than this. Once that happens, there’s a good chance that the photos I have won’t be worth very much, just one more footnote to an unhappy life.”
“You know what would give me a happy life right now?”
“I know, shooting me. Well, get over it. You fucked up and you got caught. You know a set of curtains on the big view window you have in the back of your place would have cost a lot less than sixty thousand dollars,” Michael said, as the pencil Herb was holding tightly in his hand suddenly snapped.
Ignoring Herb’s anger, Michael realized he had not enjoyed a shake down this much since his lunch with his mother’s lover, Fred.
“Now you might need to make a couple of cutbacks to pay me for my good work. But on the upside, you won’t have to see me again. Just send the check starting the first day of next month to this post office box, and we can both go our separate ways.” Michael pushed a piece of paper across the desk, on which he had written, “Michael Marks, photographer.” Below, he gave a post office box number with its Novato zip code.
After a few beats of silence, fully aware that the angry flush of Herb’s face meant he was still giving homicide serious consideration, Michael calmly observed, “Kill me, and I’ll die fast, but you’ll die slow. After seeing your life, your family, and your entire future torn apart. Play smart. Sixty payments and you can forget I ever existed. Think of me as your official photographer. Use me at groundbreakings and such. Hopefully, I’ll be able to fit you into my schedule. ”
“I’ll give the idea some thought,” Fancher grunted disapprovingly.
Michael got up to leave. As far as he was concerned, their meeting was over.
“There is one thing you owe me,” Fancher said.
“What’s that?”
“The other fifteen photos.”
“Huh?”
“You said you had a total of eighteen prints; you’ve given me three. I want to see the rest of them.”
“Making more prints is not a great idea. Every print out there is one more chance that your secrets are not safe. In truth, I would prefer taking back those three prints. The only real purpose of giving you those was to prove the quality of the images that I have. All the negatives I keep are stashed in a safe deposit box. Only one other person has the key to that box, and that’s my best friend. Anything happens to indicate my death was deliberate, and that box is opened and prints of those negatives are sent to a list of Bay Area news outlets.”
As on other occasions, this story of Michael’s was a ruse. There was no one he would trust with such a responsibility, not to mention the story he would have to concoct for this phantom linchpin to keep secret all of his acts of blackmail.
But for Fancher and others with difficult secrets to keep, the idea of dealing with an actual case of extortion created enough of a criminal aspect to the entire transaction that their ultimate desire, invariably unstated, was to keep their heads down and simply do as they were told.
“Alright,” Fancher said after further thought, “I want those other 15 prints when I’ve completed all my payments. As for these three, I’m keeping them in a secure place.”
“Fair enough,” Michael said, hoping this concluded their transaction.
Something about Fancher made Michael more uncomfortable in his presence than any of his other targets. Obviously, none were pleased by his desire to extort money from them, but some, best exampled by John Walker, treated it more like a business transaction. Perhaps it was the sadomasochistic angle, or the dangerous involvement he had with his sister-in-law that made Fancher such an uncomfortable capture. And perhaps he would have been wiser to ask for one lump sum. Take twenty-five thousand and call it a day. But it was easier to bury a thousand a month in your company’s records or your own checking account. A twenty-five thousand dollar check is far more difficult to explain away. Never mind, he thought, the deal was done. It was time to simply take the money and run.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Michael backed away from the business of finding new targets for the next several months. To his relief, he had no need to pay a second call on Fancher. His payments, like those of Fred, Marv, Ward Williams, and Walker, came in on time at the start of each month. Fancher’s money and silence sent a clear unspoken message: Here is your money; I never want to see you again.
Michael was fine with that. His was an unpleasant business, and he knew that. The only acknowledgement he should expect from any of his “clients,” was his monthly fee for staying silent, which meant keeping his wickedly obtained photographs to himself.
Still, there was an unacknowledged pain that he felt over throwing Juliette aside. He knew she was a victim of her own depravity and he was merely the instrument of her punishment. Yet, he fantasized that she might have loved him, and he, in turn, might have committed the selfless act of burning the negatives which evidenced Juliette’s wicked beh
avior.
But that was all make believe, of course. In the real world, Fancher’s thousand-dollar monthly payment alone paid Michael’s rent, utilities, phone, and cable bill. Mrs. Fitzsimmons had no problem with Michael’s suggestion that he pay his rent in cash. She was only too happy to ignore the income when preparing her taxes.
Michael’s new job with Walt was even better than his position with Milton. Walt generously gave Michael two pay raises in his first six months at the store and, like Milton, he made his darkroom available whatever time, day or night, Michael needed. In addition to Michael’s helpful service to the shop’s customers, Walt greatly appreciated his civic-minded behavior. He volunteered to cover the start of the Dipsea Race and document in photos the town’s annual arts festival. Before long, he was asked if he could cover photography services for local chamber events and the Rotary’s holiday party.
Ears and eyes always at the ready, Michael picked up plenty of random gossip, which he entered every night into his notepad before going to bed. There was the odd story about Diane Ruby, who had been caught by her husband when he returned home from a business trip one day earlier than expected, sharing a bed with his secretary, a woman with whom he was also having an affair.
There was Dale Weber, a local orthodontist, a longtime married gentleman, who had made one too many passes at his dental hygienist, and now was the subject of a sexual harassment suit.
Michael came to think of all this gossip as creating a steady buzz of background noise. Scandal, he reasoned, would always be there, no matter what city he chose to call home. He kept his notes, considered a variety of possible targets, and counted his money, which kept adding up.
Michael toyed with the idea of asking Walt if he could buy a share of his camera shop, but then held back because of his concern that Walt may no longer see him as a hard working young man deserving of steadily increasing compensation, but rather as an individual of means, or worse with Walt’s socialist leanings, well settled because of unspoken family money. If he was to become involved in partial ownership of a retail camera operation, he decided, it would need to be with someone other than Walt.
