“Here we are. You first, young lady.”
“Thanks. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”
At the ornately carved mahogany stained door, one of the men pushes a button and they wait. The door opens a crack and they are greeted by a liveried black doorman. Short, wiry with pomaded hair and reeking of aftershave lotion, he is the proverbial milk chocolate color of mixed race parents. Bowing and smiling courteously, he swings the door wide and proffers, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to The Club.” He looks like Sammy Davis Junior in his tuxedo and black tie. “I’m Oliver and I’m here to serve as well as meet and greet.”
“Go right in Miss. I know you. And, Mr. Andrews; good to see you again. And you sir?” he said, turning to me.
“He’s my guest Oliver. I can vouch for him. He’s from Guardian on the fifteenth floor. I do business with them. He’s Okay and is good to go.”
“If you say so, Mr. Andrews. Wait here, please sir. You’ll have to be vetted by Mr. Carter.”
I stroll down the foyer surveying the artwork on the walls as I wait. “Pretty fancy place you have here Oliver. Several of these paintings are originals. You must do a good business,” I remark.
“We manage. Yes, we manage, sir. We try hard to serve you and yours.”
As Andrews proceeds to the lounge area, he whispers under his breath so that Oliver can’t hear, “See you inside after you’ve been vetted by Carter. By the way, once more, what’s your name again?”
“I’m Squires. Karl Squires. I’m with Guardian Associates.”
“Got it. You’re gonna’ like The Club.”

“Here’s Mr. Carter now. Mr. Carter this is Mr. Squires, an associate of Mr. Andrews. He’s with Guardian on the fifteenth floor,” says Oliver officiously.
Carter is black. Really black — the dark chocolate black of a Caribbean heritage with a lilting accent to match. He sports a huge diamond stud in his left earlobe and a cat’s eye pinkie ring on his right hand. Black Belgian shoes complement his tailored ecru Italian silk suit. His frown is intimidating, but his manner is suave and smoothly oleaginous; he feigns obsequiousness and subservience but he emanates a threatening, ominous ambiance. A bulge beneath his left shoulder suggests a weapon.
“So nice to have you join us. How did you hear of our organization?”
“Oh, the word is circulating in the building about your rather unusual relaxation spa.”
“I know your company, Guardian. Welcome to our premises. Can I see some identification?”
“Here’s my card. Will a driver’s license do?”
“Your business card is enough if you’re a friend of Mr. Andrews and work here in the building. How long have you been with Guardian?”
“Seven years. I got transferred to Mobile, seven months ago, from Atlanta.”
“Your card looks Okay. Go right in. I’ll have a visitor’s pass printed up for you today.”

Kurt entered the lounge cautiously. The pungent odor of marijuana was pervasive. The smoke, in the dimly lit room made it as hard to see as a foggy morning in a delta bayou. Through the haze he could make out at least a dozen overstuffed chairs and couches occupied by people using bongs or smoking hand rolled joints. Several were using ornate Turkish water pipes as they lazed back in the comfortable recliners. Most appeared sleepy, tranquil and dreamy.
By golly, the tipster was right. This is a dream house. It’s not a crack house, I thought to myself. Right here in downtown Mobile. In an executive office building top floor penthouse at that. They all seem to be high rollers too; whales, executives or top businessmen; many from right here in the building – no one would believe this set up – it’s perfect for them and right under our DEA noses.

“What’s your pleasure, Mr. Squires?” said Carter as he approached me. “There’s a self-service bar with liquor on the far wall. Here at the smoker’s kiosk we have lots of choices. Let me recommend some of this Turkish Black or the Mexican Gold. This south of the border product is absolutely high end stuff. Some munchies are on the table.”
“Thanks for your help and advice. I’ll try the Mexican. Put it in a bong for me, will you?”
“As you wish. Most of us here just help ourselves but since you’re new, I’ll assist.
By the way, the dues are paid monthly – cash only. You’ll be billed in addition for whatever you use. No credit cards. Cash only. We will give you an ID number. We don’t use names here for reasons you are well aware of I imagine. Just sign for what you use here on the register in the kiosk. ”
“I got the idea. Pass that bong over and I’ll take it from there.”
Easing down in a leather recliner, I took a hit from the bong and waited.
Whoa, this stuff is tough. Made me dizzy already. Not used to the pot the high rollers use. It shouldn’t be too much longer I mused dreamily. They’d be here in short order.
I could see Andrews and the young secretary on a corner loveseat, heads together, amorously whispering to one another as they shared a smoldering Turkish water pipe.

In just minutes, Carter strode over and sat down next to me. His brow was wrinkled and he looked troubled. As he leaned forward his coat gaped open. I could see the huge menacing automatic pistol in his shoulder holster.
“I’m concerned about you. You say your name is Kurt Squires. Right?”
“That’s right.”
“Then why the initials AKM on your briefcase?”
“Uh. Well… I use this briefcase at times. The owner’s name is uh… Adrian Martin. Adrian Kurt Martin. My name is Squires. Kurt Squires, but I use Adrian’s briefcase now and then. I work with him.”
“Sure you do mister. But I don’t think you belong here. I just talked to the Guardian home office people in Atlanta. They tell me you’ve only been with them for ten days.”
“No. That’s not right. I’ve been with them for seven years. There’s been a mistake.”
I can’t verify you or your story. I want you outa’ here right now. Don’t ever come back and I wouldn’t recommend you speak to anyone about our club facilities. Oliver can be ugly if he has to be. He’s a black belt and he’s been known to hurt people. Let’s go. Out. Now!”
“Okay. Hold on a minute. I have to use the facilities first and then I’ll go.”
Acquiescing, Carter nodded toward the men’s room in the far corner. “Over there.”
“Use the john. I’ll wait for you at the door. Go do your business.” He obviously wasn’t fooling.
Entering the men’s room, I slipped into a stall. Flipping open my cell phone, I dialed the waiting Swat team’s number.
“Better hit ‘em now, Ed. I’m in the men’s room. They’re on to me. I blew my cover; forgot my assumed undercover name. They tumbled to I’m not who I said I was. Come in blazing. Better make it quick. I’m worried about this Carter guy. He’s packin’.”

The DEA team broke in. A flash-bang smoke grenade bounced into the lounge and exploded, astonishing and bewildering the stunned smokers. The black clad, swat team, guns waving, bellowing and shouting, burst into the lounge. The startled and confused patrons could only stare dazedly, like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Carter, taken completely by surprise had no opportunity to use his weapon.
The leader of the DEA team yanked the men’s bathroom door open and called, “you in there Adrian?”
“I’m here. That you Ed?”
“Yeah, it’s me. You okay?”
“Sure thing. Just a little confused. Had to smoke some of that Mexican Gold.”
“Adrian, you’re too old to be hitting a bong or smoking that high end stuff.”
“You’re damned right about being too old. I forgot my undercover name.”
Dangerous, when you blow your own cover, you know.
It just may be time to retire.