“Hello! Welcome to Fitness First,” she said, merrily, with a British accent that was a bit on the posh side of the spectrum.
“Hello.”
“I’m Jeanette, the membership services coordinator here. How can I help you today?”
“Well, Jeanette, my name’s Finn, and I’m looking for a gym while I’m over here, so is there any chance you could give me a quick tour?”
“Absolutely, but, if you don’t mind, I’d like to first meet in my office and answer any questions you might have,” she said.
“Oh, you don’t have to bother. I know my way around the gym, as I’ve spent half my life in these places.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” she said, as she eyed me from head to toe and gave me an appraising smile.
“And you obviously have as well,” I said, returning the compliment.
She smiled.
“Well, thank you, Finn, but, unfortunately, corporate management likes us to always start with a little Q and A, so if you don’t mind, could we do at least a minute before going on the tour?”
“Yeah, sure, assuming I can last a full minute.”
She laughed.
“I imagine you can, now, please—come this way,” she said, with a smile as she pointed towards a glass walled office.
She walked ahead, and my eyes unconsciously fell upon her seriously pert and well rounded backside, which was made all the more obvious by her tight body hugging exercise pants. Sweet firing glutes! Her posterior was a piece of artwork and showed all the telltale signs of some serious time on the squat rack. Before I could bring my eyes back up to her face, however, she abruptly turned around, but, oddly, smiled when she caught me enjoying the view. That made me wonder if perhaps her outfit and this whole office part were merely a purposeful ploy to help lure in male members—so to speak. It was certainly making Mr. Happy pretty happy to be here.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, as she sat down on the other side of the desk.
I did as instructed, and she asked if I would like some water. I said yes, so she reached into a small refrigerator that sat beside the desk and pulled out two waters and handed me one.
“Cheers,” she said, as she clinked her bottle to mine.
“Cheers,” I responded.
At that point she proceeded to ask me all the obligatory questions, then gave me her practiced sales pitch about how their gym would be able to fulfill all my fitness goals. When she was done, it was finally time to go on the tour, and I once again fell in line behind her very fit backside. We ventured out onto the main floor, and I did a quick sweep of the crowd in the hope that I might find Farid. It was imperative that I spotted him before he spotted me, as I didn’t want to spook him or have a very unplanned public reunion before I was ready to conduct my official meeting.
First up on the tour was the busy machine section, which was bustling with plenty of people, many of whom had pale skin, and were therefore likely expats from Europe or the United States. Next up were the free weights, and this area attracted a more diverse crowd, with the majority looking beefy, sweaty, and pushing some pretty serious weight on the various benches and equipment. So far, there was no sign of Farid.
Last on the itinerary was the cardio area, where they had state of the art tread mills, elliptical trainers, and bikes, all occupied by busy looking professionals with earbuds in their ears and iPads and magazines in their hands. In this section, I could literally feel the increased heat and humidity permeating the air due to the excessive amount of sweaty people.
“Last, we have the locker rooms,” she said, proudly.
It was apparently a major selling point, but I doubted anything could possibly compare to my room back at the hotel. She led me to the door and said she’d be waiting for me while I went in for a look. Needless to say, I had to proceed with caution, as Farid was very likely in here. I walked inside, and my fears were immediately justified when I saw a security man standing just beyond the door. I nodded at him, but he just stared ominously, so I moved on to the steam room and shower area. There, I came upon two men with the usual sunglasses, earpieces, and dour lifeless expressions of bodyguards. It was a purposeful look meant to dissuade would-be attackers, and it had been proven to be effective by numerous studies conducted by the United States Secret Service. The idea was that the bad guys never knew where the good guys were looking—which meant that they might be looking at the bad guys.
The steam room door abruptly opened, and the two men assumed alert postures as Farid stepped out wearing a towel around his waist. He strolled over to the showers, and he looked fit and apparently hadn’t fallen prey to the laziness of sudden wealth and early middle age. Of course, the same could not be said for his ridiculous facial hair, which was more than stubble but less than a beard and reminiscent of those embarrassing scenesters that populated every urban locale. What had the UAE done to my friend?
He suddenly paused, stopped in mid stride, and turned back in my direction. Shit! It appeared he might have seen me, and, worse still, recognized me, so I brought my hand up to rub my head and slowly looked away in an attempt to subtly conceal my face. It apparently worked, because he turned back and continued towards the shower. It was definitely time to leave the gym, as this was clearly not going to work as a meeting place. I went out and joined Jeanette, and we returned to the front desk.
“So, are you ready to sign up?” she asked.
“I enjoyed the tour and meeting you, but I have to think about it.”
“Would it help if I gave you my number?”
“It might.”
“Good, then feel free to call me—even if you don’t end up joining the gym,” she said, as she wrote her private cell number on the back of her business card.
“If I manage to stay in town long enough, I will definitely be in touch,” I said, as I pocketed her card and headed back out into the heat.
The car was still double parked in the same place, and I was soon back in the temperate air-conditioned environment.
“Well—is there any chance it’ll be a good place to stage a meeting with Farid?” Bill asked.
“No fucking way, but I did like the membership coordinator,” I said.
“Yeah, Jeanette is seriously attractive.”
“Oh, so you know who she is?”
“Of course, every guy in Dubai is secretly lusting after her.”
“So, does she give out her number to all the potential members?”
“No, so if you really did manage to get it, you should hold onto it, or, better still, call her.”
“Good to know.”
“Alrighty then, let’s go get some lunch, then afterward we’ll check out his house.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dead Men Don't Wear Jogging Shorts
BILL TOOK ME to a new upscale restaurant called Toro Toro, and it was Latin American theme with three main categories: from the land, from the sea, and from the garden. I already knew I’d be going with land and garden, as I had never developed much of a taste for seafood outside of tuna fish, crab cakes, and the occasional sushi when I was incredibly drunk. So, after gazing at the menu, I ordered steak and potato tostones with poblano chilli and bell peppers—all of it topped with a hearty and delicious rich truffle, chimichurri, and parmesan marinade. The waiter left, and a short time later our lunch arrived, and we dined and talked, and it allowed me to learn about Bill’s daily existence in the UAE. Officially, he was a cultural attaché for the embassy, but unofficially he was a CIA officer monitoring terrorist financiers, and that required a lot of networking and liaising at official functions. So, he pretty much knew everybody who was anybody, and it would surely make him an invaluable asset in getting to Farid.
I was, of course, also curious about his connection to the Topless Agenda, but, as it was a secret society, I had to broach the subject carefully. After a number of cleverly worded questions, I learned that Bill was a close personal friend of Senator Matheson. The two of them had met as y
oungsters while serving in the Navy JAG corps and remained close friends to this day. Needless to say, neither of us actually mentioned the Topless Agenda by name, but his knowing smile was enough for me to be pretty sure he was some kind of affiliate or junior member.
Lunch eventually came to an end, and, with Bill generously picking up the check, I needed to thank my host, for my mother had always taught me to be gracious whenever someone bothered to deliver, cook, or buy me a meal.
“Thanks for an excellent lunch,” I said.
“No need to thank me. This one was on Uncle Sam.”
“Then make sure you thank him for me.”
“I will.”
“So, I guess now we go see Farid’s house?”
“Yeah, and it’s out on the Palm Jumeirah Island, though calling it a house is an understatement. Mansion would be more accurate.”
“So Farid has a mansion, a Bentley, and a life of leisure that any rational person would kill for—yet somehow, I’m supposed to talk him into giving it all up.”
“I guess that’s why you get the big bucks.”
“Then the Notorious B.I.G. was right—mo’ money, mo’ problems, though I can’t help thinking mo’ money problems is better than no money problems,” I said.
Bill laughed.
“Alrighty then, I’m going to hit the bathroom,” I said, as I stood up and placed my napkin on the table.
I walked past the various diners and found the bathroom back near the hostess station. It was empty, but I still chose one of the stalls instead of the urinals, as I preferred the privacy, roominess, and lack of spray back that you often experienced in the latter. Just as I started emptying my bladder, another customer entered the bathroom, but he decided on one of the urinals. I heard his zipper, then he uttered a low groan and began peeing and soon let loose a long slow growling fart. As usual, I instantly had a case of the giggles, but I managed to keep it locked down until finishing up and giving Tag Junior the obligatory shake. I zipped up and headed over to wash my hands at the sinks, which sat opposite the urinals. I soaped up my hands, and, as I vigorously rubbed them together, I used the mirror to glance at the farter and nearly shit my pants. It was Farid, and I instantly realized I should have already discerned it was my old friend purely by the unmistakeable tone of his fucking fart. Now, I had to think fast and wondered if perhaps I should use this brief window of opportunity to make contact, but, before I could act, the door opened, and I saw that our newest arrival was one of Farid’s security goons that had been at the gym. He stepped inside but remained at the entrance and proceeded to look particularly irritated.
“Farid, I’ve told you a hundred times not to go into a public bathroom alone,” he said.
“For fuck’s sake. Can’t a man get a little privacy?” he asked.
“No.”
The security goon turned his attention to me, and I nodded only to receive a menacing glare in return. This was definitely not the time to talk to Farid, and I desperately hoped that he didn’t turn around and recognize me. I grabbed a towel, dried my hands, and moved swiftly towards the door. The guy moved over and blocked my path and stared for a moment, and I wondered if he recognized me from the gym. His expression softened ever so slightly, and he stepped aside, allowing me to continue out through the door, where I soon found Bill waiting next to the hostess stand.
“We’ve got to get the fuck out of here. Farid and one of his goons are in the bathroom,” I said.
“Shit! I probably should have already warned you.”
“You knew he was here?”
“No, but I discovered this place following him. It’s his favorite restaurant.”
“Well, then we’d best be going.”
We hurried out and took a seat in the waiting car, and Ted drove us out of the parking lot and merged into the bustling traffic, heading north towards the nearby Palm Jumeirah Island. We turned left and crossed a small bridge and officially left mainland Dubai and continued past the various buildings before making a right turn onto Al Fardh Street, which was the first branch of the palm shaped Island. It looped around then headed out past endless luxury condos and McMansions before at last reaching Farid’s esteemed residence. It sat on the coveted last spot at the end of the spit and was by far the largest and most luxurious home I had thus far seen in the Palm Jumeirah development. We parked three houses away, then Bill explained the various security measures we were up against.
“The house has all the latest security, including infrared, sonic, laser, and motion sensors. There are cameras on every point of access and sixteen full time security people working two shifts, twenty-four hours a day. The two nearest houses are where the majority of the security people live while a select few live in the main compound.”
“Jesus, how did you find out all that?” I asked.
“We bribed a tech from the security company.”
“So, I take it that it’s kind of a waste of time to even come out here.”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
We stepped out of the car and walked towards the compound but headed off the main street to a beach access path. There, we headed up the shoreline and pretended to be tourists enjoying the view as we walked around the sandy point that skirted Farid’s property. A short distance ahead, two men stepped out of the shadow of a palm tree in order to let us know that they were there. I smiled and waved, but neither man returned the gesture.
“They’re decently trained,” I said.
“Why do you say that?”
“They didn’t wave back, because it meant taking their hands off their triggers.”
“Maybe they’re just assholes.”
“Maybe—but they’re decently trained assholes.”
We continued on to the beach access path on the other side of the spit then made our way back to the car.
“What’s the security like at his work?”
“Even better.”
“And when he goes to the nightclubs it’s the same security assholes?”
“Yep.”
“So, unless I’m a blonde with big bajumbos, we’re mostly fucked.”
“Yep.”
“Shit.”
We drove back to the hotel, and they dropped me off to give me a little time to relax and recoup before meeting up later for dinner. Bill, meanwhile, was going to look into the guest list for the party at the Royal Palace. If Farid did indeed end up being in attendance, then I would have the distinct pleasure of spending another evening with Olivia. I went up to my room and, upon stepping inside, was once again floored by the extreme opulence. It’s funny, I was philosophically opposed to the idea that money brought any kind of true happiness, but looking at my current accommodations made me wonder if that was a lie perpetrated by the wealthy to keep the poor people happily in their place. I yawned and looked at my watch then realized how out of whack my personal clock was with the actual clock on the wall of my room, and I decided I might need to take a little nap. I leaned back on the main couch and looked out at the skyline of Dubai and felt my eyes close and the world recede into the blessed respite of an afternoon nap.
I woke up and looked at the clock to see that I had been asleep for a little over two and a half hours. I was definitely feeling better, and I sat up and noticed the hotel’s guest guide on the coffee table. I had some time to kill, so I scanned it and saw that they had a world class spa and gym on the eighteenth floor. Perfect! I would get a little exercise before dinner. I headed upstairs and changed into some shorts and a T-shirt then headed out to the elevator. It arrived a moment later, and I began the six floor journey up to the eighteenth. The climb was technically twelve floors, but each of these levels were comprised of two story suites identical to my own. It was probably an unnecessary waste of space, but I suppose it gave every guest the feeling, and reality, that he or she had a much bigger room than was available in the average hotel.
The elevator stopped, and, as expected, I exited to find floor to ceiling wind
ows with yet another spectacular view of Dubai. I gave them a passing glance then headed left into the gym and came upon the cardio section to find it was a bit humid from the crowd of sweaty people. Music was blaring from the speakers in the ceiling, but nearly everyone was wearing the obligatory earbuds that came with their smartphone. They were a nice way to shut out the world and focus on your workout, but, to me, they were yet another barrier to actual human interaction.
I decided to start with the treadmills, but there were only two available, and they happened to be right next to each other. The left one was beside a particularly pretty, though slightly synthetic looking, twentysomething in a wonderfully form fitting pink Lulu Lemon outfit, while the right one resided beside a sweaty and oddly pungent smelling middle aged guy. So, my choices were either pointy or stinky. Needless to say, I hopped onto the one beside the pretty twentysomething and went through the complicated sequence of giving my age, weight, and workout preference before the treadmill started moving. A moment later, I was joined by yet another twentysomething, but sadly this one was a male, and he stepped onto the empty treadmill to my right. He was a fit looking fellow-infidel and was wearing a conspicuous pair of red satin running shorts that made me wonder if the nineteen eighties Dove shorts fad was making a comeback. I looked over and nodded, and he gave me a particularly nasty look in return, so it would appear that my new neighbor was an unfriendly asshole. He turned his attention away from me and to the screen on his machine, where he went through the same startup sequence that I had just completed. The treadmill started moving at a breakneck pace, and it was only by a miracle that he reached a full sprint quickly enough to stay aboard and not get jettisoned off the back.
Gordita Conspiracy Page 20
