STORY’S ABOUT TO get very interesting, so I thought I’d move locations and get comfortable.
I’m at Balzac’s again. Nice place. Ceramic coffee cups; and more of the peanut butter squares. They’ve got a crunchy bottom, marshmallows in the middle, and about a thousand calories. Don’t get them if you have bridgework.
Two of the walls here have the same yellow brick that makes up much of the exterior of the old tannery building. It’s comfortable if you can get a bench seat. It does get a little busy around lunch time; every software company in the building heads down here for coffee. I’ll have to make a note to grab a bag of coffee beans on my way out.
No sign of the old guy today. But, if I’ve shown anything, it’s that there are a lot of coffee shops in town—I might see him yet. I don’t know which is more troubling: having him follow me around, or not seeing him follow me around. I know it sounds paranoid, but I was looking over my shoulder even before this case. It’s going to take some time before I feel comfortable.
To the commenters who say that I shouldn’t advertise where I’m going to be: I don’t hit publish before I go to the location.
Idiots.
The Vine Athletic Club was one of those swanky new-age fitness clubs that, from the outside, looked like any other big-box building on the east side of town. It had a spacious parking lot and a large marquee-style sign above the doors, making it look more like a stylish movie theatre than a workout club.
Just coming through the main doors of the club, I could feel my wallet getting lighter. Dark industrial carpeting covered the floor of the lobby and ran from the front rotating door to the juice bar and complementary cucumber water station.
For this trip, I got dressed up in my yuppiest clothes: khakis, a pair of Sperry Topsiders, and a pink Polo shirt I’d found at the local Goodwill. Popped collar, of course. I’d even dug out a fake Rolex I purchased as a joke.
The Ray-Ban Wayfarers were my own.
The woman at the front desk wanted to sell me a trial package, saying it was all the rage with the new money crowd and the tech millionaires. I played up the part with extra ham, knowing no rich person would pay for a trial membership. I demanded a day pass before I’d put any money down.
It worked, and she complemented me on my bargaining prowess—a tactic which might have worked on me if I actually planned on getting a membership. I dismissively thanked her and grabbed a rolled-up towel as I strode through the entry gate.
Past the gate, the cinema-style carpeting gave way to grey linoleum tile and a more industrial-looking aesthetic. I ascended a short set of stairs and found my way to a balcony overlooking the Olympic-sized pool. Looked like they were doing some kind of aqua-fit class. There was a hot tub and a smaller recreational pool as well.
At the far end of the pool, I could see the doors to the men’s and women’s locker rooms. I went back downstairs, walked for a bit, then found the general locker rooms and the Platinum membership men’s lockers. They were sequestered behind a separate key card lock—one which my trial card wouldn’t open. So, I got my phone out and pretended to be on a call until some aged gentleman in a suit came by. I looked at him and rolled my eyes at my phone. He smiled, and we entered together.
I now had a not-insignificant problem: I didn’t know what Jim’s locker number was. To make matters worse, assuming I found his locker, I’d need to pick the lock. That was something I couldn’t do if anyone else was watching. I’d have to come up with a plan, and I’d have to do it before people started getting suspicious.
The older guy in the suit went in around the corner, so I was left alone by the main door. There was an ornate wooden box with a Lost & Found sign on it by the used towel bin. In it, I found a pair of flip-flops and swim trunks which looked like they might fit. I sighed and knew what I had to do.
I grabbed a nearby change room, stripped down to my underwear, and slipped on the abandoned swim trunks. Luckily, they were dry. And they were a couple inches too big, so I tied them extra tight. I then balled up my clothes and put them in a nearby leather lounge chair. Then to a sink, where I splashed water over my hair and shoulders, slicking my hair back. Unraveling the towel, I threw it over my shoulders. I then went to the courtesy phone by the chair and dialed the front desk.
I gave them Jim’s name and told them I’d locked my key in my locker. It was cold, and I was in my bathing suit, and could they please hurry with some bolt-cutters and a spare lock?
I worked at the local YMCA in my teens, and this happened more often than you’d think. I cut maybe a dozen locks off in a single season.
In a couple of minutes, a skinny kid came in, sporting the Vine Athletic colors, and a two-foot set of bolt cutters. I waved at him while drying my hair. He walked straight to locker number 14 and confirmed this was my locker. I nodded and continued wiping my hair. He cut the lock and handed me a new lock and a key. I told him to add it to my account.
Unfortunately, he didn’t leave. I said thanks. The kid smiled, but didn’t budge. I wrapped the towel around my waist to hide the fact that my trunks were still dry. I said thanks again, and that they didn’t need to babysit me.
The kid said it was company policy. They just needed to make sure I was in my own locker so they could sign off on it. I shrugged. What could I do?
I removed the old lock and handed it to him, then took a deep breath and pulled the locker open. It was one of those tall, thin lockers about chin height, with hooks at the top and a place for two shoes at the bottom. There was a blue hoodie over one hook, but that was it. Except for a box, or canister at the bottom, just over a foot tall and 20 centimeters in diameter. It was wrapped in a flimsy nylon duffel bag and jammed into the bottom of the locker.
The kid looked at me quizzically. I shrugged and grabbed the hoodie. I put it on and zipped it up. That action satisfied neither of us, so I crouched down to look at the box at the bottom of the locker. The duffel bag appeared to have fallen down around the canister, but on closer inspection, it appeared to have melted. About a quarter of the height of the cylinder was its lid, secured to the bottom with a clamp on each side. It was shiny. There was a tall square handle sticking out of the top of the lid, like a kettle bell.
“What’s with the stainless-steel box?” the kid said.
“Looks like a shielded canister. Used for storing—” I said, reaching out to touch the box.
My hand yanked itself back when I felt the burn. My fingertips were on fire.
I jumped up, grabbed the kid by the shoulders, and shook him hard.
“Get everyone out! Right now. Everyone!”
I slammed the locker door shut, grabbed my clothes, and ran. On the way to the front door, I pulled the fire alarm and didn’t stop running until I got to the parking lot.