Mark Rollins' New Career and the Women's Health Club

By Tom Collins

Mark Rollins has sold the technology company he founded to a large multinational corporation. The transaction left him with more money than he can ever spend, a large empty office building, and far too much time on his hands. He repurposed the building into an exclusive fitness club for socially elite, wealthy women of Nashville, Tennessee. Against the backdrop of daily life in the fitness club, sixty-six year old Rollins becomes a father figure to club members who turn to him when they have a problem. When a club member's husband is reported missing from his upscale Nashville home in the old-moneyed community of Belle Meade, Rollins sets out to solve the mystery exposing himself and his family to unexpected danger from organized criminal enterprises. Rollins, with the aid of his loyal team of computer experts, uses his money and friends in high places to unravel the mystery and protect those close to him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Collins
• Release date: Aug 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9780985667375

Book preview

Chapter 1

Attorney Raymond Walker

Raymond Walker met me with a smile and an outstretched hand just inside his office door. His teeth were unnaturally white. His hair was dark, slicked down and grazing the top of his collar—Euro style. He was tall—6’ 2 or 3. He wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t thin. He was every bit a man in control, dressed for the part he played as a successful and respectable attorney, a society figure, a rainmaker among rainmakers. But he was scum, and I knew it.

Good morning, Mr. Rollins, he said smoothly. My secretary said you have a private matter that needs my help?

Yes I do, Mr. Walker. It seems you have been harassing the new Mrs. James Davis, and she has asked me to intervene on her behalf.

Walker jerked and then pulled back his offered hand. Who are you?

Mr. Walker, I can have you disbarred within a week. It appears that you have been cheating your clients, and I have the proof.

What the hell are you talking about?! Get out or I will call the authorities! Walker whirled around, turning his back to me and goose-stepped to his antique campaign desk as he reached for the phone.

Yes, Mr. Walker, you do that. You call the police. Of course, I will have to turn over my copy of your billing records to them. You have been padding your bills, Mr. Walker. Take a look at the circled items.

Walker moved behind his desk and sat down, still with a sense of authority. I placed the printed reports on the desk and pushed them toward Walker across the burled and leather surface. He looked. He twitched. He studied the top page. He raised his head slowly to glare at me across the desk. There were now beads of sweat on his upper lip. He snarled, pushing the report aside and commanded, Where did you get this? Who is the ass that gave these to you?

Actually, Mr. Walker, they came from your computer system. It is too bad that your law firm didn’t spend just a little more for your billing system. If you had purchased Juris® or the Themis System, for example, it would not have been as easy for my people to hack into your billing system and look around.

Back in command, Walker was on his feet. Those are just simple billing errors—careless mistakes. You can’t come into my office and bully me. I ruin people like you in the courtroom. Whoever you are, come after me and I will take you down—so far you will never get up again!

Look, Walker, what is the deal with you and Irene? Why won’t you leave her alone?

It is none of your goddamned business. He returned to the high-backed judge’s chair where he sought the protection of his desk. He was in control again. Walker leaned back with a ‘king of the hill’ arrogance—à la Bonfire of the Vanities. She owes me. And I collect my due. She was nothing but a body when I hired her out of UT. I made her one of my secretaries. She sure as hell wasn’t qualified. I paid her plenty in exchange for her services. I still want that, whether she’s married or not! James Davis was a client. That’s where the little gold digger got her claws into him and thought she could get away from me. If she wants to hang on to Mr. Moneybags, she has to keep putting out. It’s that simple. You tell her that. I get what I want from her when I want it or Mr. Davis gets a set of some remarkable photographs of a very flexible Mrs. Irene Davis.

Walker, you took advantage of Irene. She was a naive girl when she came out of the University of Tennessee. You enticed and seduced her. Then you threatened and coerced her! You frightened her until you weaseled her into a compromising situation and you have blackmailed her ever since. She would never let a scumbag like you in her bedroom if you hadn’t threatened and blackmailed her.

Walker leaned forward, elbows on his desk, fingers locked together, thumbs under his chin. He spit his words out slowly, with contempt, It doesn’t matter how I got in, or stayed in, her bedroom; I did. Now she is mine. She is mine whenever I want her. So big shot, you go back and tell her that’s the way it is and that is the way it is going to be. It is going to be that way just as long as I want it to be.

You know, Walker, my guys did a little more than just look around when they were in your computer system. No one is going to buy the error thing. Last month there were 46 incidences where you billed different clients for the same hours. And that is just the month of October. There is more—a lot more. Over-billing is only one issue. That will get you disbarred. The Willinghill trust funds transferred to your personal checking account will send you to jail.

Piss off. I don’t know who you are, but be clear about one thing. You mess with me and Mr. Davis gets the pictures.

What pictures are those, Mr. Walker?

Walker turned to his oversized high-definition flat computer monitor so that we could see it together. When the pictures appeared on the screen, it took a moment for the impact of the images to reach home for him. When they did, he jerked upright, puzzled. Then the air slowly left him. His shoulders dropped. His face went slack. He just looked at me, trying to understand what was about to happen to him.

I should have mentioned, Mr. Walker, that my guys are artists when it comes to digital images. These are very clear pictures of you and your lover, are they not? Replacing the image of one person with another and doing it so the alteration isn’t detectable is hard enough—replacing a female sex partner with a male sex partner—now that takes the skill of real artisans. They did a nice job, don’t you agree?

Struggling to regain control, Walker spoke. It started as a whisper and then built into an enraged hiss. You can’t do this to me! This is a shakedown. I’ll sue you. I’ll prove you doctored those photos. Whoever this man is in the photo—I’ll get him on the witness stand.

Come now, Mr. Walker. You are a married man with four children and a wealthy wife. You actually want me to believe that you would use as your defense that I doctored photos of you and the secretary that you coerced and blackmailed into having sex with you? You want me to believe that you would use as a defense that you were only stealing trust funds and milking your clients with phony billing records? I don’t think so, Mr. Walker. By the way, the man in the photo is a well-known gay porn star. He was murdered last month right here in Nashville. They think by a jealous lover. Do you play chess, Mr. Walker? We call this checkmate.

The arrogance left Walker. His question came hoarsely, Who … are … you?

My name is Rollins, Mark Rollins.

The music producer?

No.

You’re the guy with that club, The Women’s Health Club?

That is correct, Mr. Walker. The new Mrs. James Davis is a customer of mine. I get upset when one of my clients is upset, and you upset Mrs. Davis. It stops. It stops now. Do we have an understanding?

Yes. We have an understanding.

"Oh, before I leave you, Mr. Walker, let me add that I have a zero tolerance policy regarding such understandings. If you so much as say hello to Mrs. Davis, my friends at the State Bar will receive copies of your billing records. My friends in the district attorney’s office will learn of your trust fund irregularities, and my friends at The Tennessean and Channel 5 will each receive a set of those very interesting photographs. For extra measure, so will your best clients and the other partners in your law firm.

By the way, Mr. Walker, I dropped by your home earlier today to give your lovely wife the news that you had arranged for a lifetime membership for her in the WH Club. It was a wonderful surprise and she can’t wait to thank you tonight. One other thing, Mr. Walker; you have exactly 90 days to get your house in order regarding your client trust accounts. My friends have arranged to have your trust records audited by the State three months from today. Good luck and good day, Mr. Walker."

His strength gone, Walker only nodded. I made a tip of the hat motion with my right hand, without a hat, of course, and made my exit.

As I left, I noticed that Walker’s new secretary was, to use his words, a body. I left my card with her and a free one-year membership in the WH Club.

Chapter 2

The Women’s Health Club

I am the owner of an unusual business born out of boredom rather than the necessity to earn a living. In fact, I’m rather wealthy. I am in that fortunate position where money just keeps rolling in. My job is to spend it, waste it, invest it in pet projects, or turn it over to the professional wealth management team at Goldman Sachs. The Goldman people are responsible for the fact that money just keeps rolling in and piling up—faster than I can use it. And I have never been one to go second class.

I own an exclusive club for very wealthy women. It is a place where they can work hard to keep their seductive figures and hang on to a youthful appearance. The WH Club started simply as an elite fitness facility and expanded over time to include just about everything a rich girl or a wealthy woman wants. We have resident divorce lawyers, a platonic escort service, top hair and makeup artists, a nip and tuck department, wardrobe consultants, expert fitting and tailoring professionals, a shopping service, a car service, a tanning facility, and more. You name it. If our club members will pay for it, we add it to our menu of services. I have other people who run the show, and somehow I have become the problem solver for my members. When they are troubled and/or upset, they come to me. I make things right. I make their problems go away. It is strictly legal—or, I should say, I never seriously break the law.

It all started six months after I sold my software company to a large international enterprise. I founded the company to develop and sell business software for law firms. The acquisition left me with lots of money and lots of time on my hands. My wife, Sarah, started asking, Don’t you have somewhere to go?

Well, let’s see. There was the cleaners … I’m one of their best customers. I created my own casual dress style—tan trousers and black polo shirts. Both require dry cleaning. So I make one to two trips to the cleaners every week. Now don’t get me wrong—I have a closet full of the finest custom-made suits and shirts for my use when the occasion requires it. My rule as the head of Themis Legal Software was to always dress better than the attorney I was meeting with. I have never been big on jewelry. My Baume & Mercier watch is impressive but over twenty years old. I randomly alternate wearing two unusual gold rings with oval carved stones. I also have my favorite cufflinks and wedding ring. And that’s it.

Then there is the country club … I had started playing golf a couple of years before I sold the company. I’m not very good at it but I’m determined not to let that stop me from playing. Joann is my golf buddy. She was one of the executives in my software company and like me, wasn’t part of the buyer’s plans following the acquisition. Joann is quite the athlete. Soon after we agreed to a one-day-per-week routine of playing 18 holes, she suggested a quarter per hole. She has collected a lot of quarters, and it doesn’t look like the win/lose ratio is going to change any time soon.

That brings up the other places I was going and continue to go—to various doctors. Take this week, for example, my golf is on hold for the time being because I injured my knee. I tore my meniscus and Dr. Jason Reed, a Nashville knee specialist, did the surgical repair at Baptist Ambulatory Surgery Center. The knee still hurts like hell, but Reed promises I’ll be back on the golf course in a few more weeks. So the Tennessee Orthopedic Alliance is now added to my growing list of doctors’ office visits.

This week I also had a CAT scan and made one of my many frequent follow-up trips to see my oncologist. I was diagnosed with colon cancer three and a half years ago—it was borderline Stage IV and the outlook was grim. My younger brother, Glen, happened to be on the Board of Tennessee Oncology and hooked me up with a rising star, Dr. Benjamin Franke, who had just started a study that combined the tried-and-true chemo treatments with new experimental drugs. The experimental protocol did its magic and, at least for now, I am cancer free.

The path to Cancer Survivor was not an easy one—major surgery with a two-week hospital stay. A year of chemo is a year of hell. But as the saying goes, What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Recovery was a long road. Fortunately, my daughter Margaret, Meg as I call her, is a fitness guru with a Doctorate of Physical Therapy from Belmont University. Shortly after getting out of the hospital, I worked out a deal with Meg. She became my personal trainer. Three days a week my daughter puts me through a routine to increase flexibility and strength. We use free weights, bands and exercise balls. Until I opened the WH Club, Meg and I worked out in the second floor play room of my home, a room added several years ago to accommodate six young grandchildren. Meg’s workout made all the difference in my recovery and may have been as important as the experimental drugs in saving my life. I suggested that she write a book titled How I Got Even with My Daddy!

My poor body was feeling so mistreated that I added Felicia to my schedule. Felicia is a therapeutic massage professional and for one hour every week Felicia had me all to herself. My time with her is an hour of dim lights, aromatherapy, and relaxing sounds during which time she proceeds to push, bend, and beat my muscles into submission. Felicia is now on