He buttoned his jacket and began walking again, carefully, differently, because of pressure on that left hip and thigh.
He came out of the alley and turned north on the dark street. He was alone. People didn’t walk in Los Angeles at night. Only an occasional prostitute.
He began to feel ill.
Footsteps sounded. His head jerked around. A woman was strolling on the other side of the street: young, dressed in tight pants, blouse, and very high heels. She was blonde and pretty, and glanced across at him.
He heard heavy breathing. His own.
The girl turned and began walking the other way.
Strolling. Walking the street. Up and back.
He opened his jacket and stepped into the street. He was ready to cross . . . when headlights flared and a car pulled to the curb beside the girl. The driver said, “Sorry I’m late. They tried to make me work another shift. How’s that sweet mother of yours?” And they were gone.
Frank buttoned his jacket and walked north. Nausea tickled his gullet. His head throbbed.
Near the corner he gagged, bent to the curb, and threw up.
Tacos and enchiladas for dinner. And that cabby’s head . . .
He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and stood still. The little eyes in the big face blinked. Then, slowly, he continued walking toward Sunset Boulevard, the Strip, the Hollywood Hills.
TWO: Saturday, July 29, a.m.
She had taken the midnight-to-eight-a.m. shift because she wanted a rest. She’d handled too many men the past month. Tourists were fattening the customer list, and her bank account. But enough was enough.
She also wanted to read. Nice reading at the desk in front, being both receptionist and staff. Nice reading with the place quiet, the city quiet.
Nice being alone, except for the occasional customer who spotted the Grecian Massage sign while driving up Grover half a block from Sunset. Most of the Sunset Boulevard massage parlors had been closed in the recent crackdowns. Bad for other businesses, the citizens groups and police said. Brought crime and violence to a neighborhood. Same on Santa Monica and Hollywood boulevards.
Perhaps. She doubted it, but perhaps. She didn’t really pay much attention to the other girls and their men. She herself had no man, except for her customers.
And she wouldn’t have a man until she was through with this scene. And until she met someone she rather doubted existed.
She turned the page, smiling at Philip Roth’s sexist insanity, and heard the bell tinkle. She put the book down, marking her place, and glanced at her wrist-watch. Two o’clock. Only then did she look up.
The man was old: late sixties or early seventies. He was a little drunk, and very nervous. He’d once been big—tall and husky. You could see the bone structure, the sagging folds of flesh. He was now gaunt, raw-boned. He had a few gray wisps of hair, a grayish stubble of beard.
She stood up. His eyes went over her, quickly, guiltily, and he cleared his throat. She was five-five, dark-haired, full-breasted, full-bottomed, long-legged, serious and pretty and dressed in a mini toga, a pale pink wisp of nylon with matching bikini panties from Fredericks of Hollywood. Arthur insisted all his girls wear the same outfit.
“I’m Diana,” she said, smiling easily. “Would you like a massage?”
He cleared his throat again, and laughed. His laugh was very deep. His voice, when he said, “Yes, a massage,” was a basso’s, suiting what had once been an impressive physique.
She liked that. She liked his suit, a blue pinstripe, a good suit, even though his jacket was rumpled and his tie pulled awry and his shirt wilted at collar and cuffs.
She walked around the desk, which brought her close to him. He smelled of alcohol and tobacco, and while she neither drank nor smoked herself, she didn’t mind it in some men.
She took his hand, something she didn’t always do. “This way, please.”
She took him all the way to the back, even though the other three booths—little alcoves, side by side, holding a massage table and chair, separated one from the other by curtains—were empty and closer to the front where she could hear the bell. Only the back booth had solid walls and a solid door. It was the one the girls used when they thought they saw a full trick—coitus—shaping up.
She didn’t see that, though it could be. She only wanted the privacy that would relax him.
She opened the door, throwing the wall switch. He stepped past her, glancing around. He looked at the massage table, the chair stacked with towels, the ceiling fixture.
“Why don’t you disrobe and lie down on the table? Cover your middle with a towel.” She turned to go.
“Uh . . . on my back or stomach?”
“Stomach, to start.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Just to get some lotion.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a drink here?”
“We used to serve wine, but the police and ABC used it as a means of hassling us, so we don’t anymore. I think you’ll find you won’t need it.”
He began to speak again, but she went out, closing the door behind her. She wondered how far age had gone in ruining that fine man. She hoped not too far, at least in performance, so he could come away with the victory that an orgasm represented for most of his generation.
She didn’t think of age in relation to herself, but knew that twenty-eight was no longer young; not in this business. And she felt a good deal older than twenty-eight.
She took the squeeze bottle of lotion from the locker, and the credit-card machine from the drawer. She did it this way whenever possible, reducing the obviousness of payment. In the Lotus Massage they had made her run the credit cards through at the reception desk, a distasteful operation for both her and her clients.
When she entered the room, he was lying on his stomach, face pressed into the little pillow. He had a towel across his bottom, and one across his back and shoulders too.
She put bottle and machine down on the chair and removed the top towel. He shifted weight a little.
She stroked his shoulders—broad, the bones showing through. Freckled skin and some muscle tone. Not a bad torso.
“You’re built well. Are you a police officer?”
He turned his big head and stared at her. She said, “We have to ask that of each client. To avoid entrapment.”
“Do I look like a cop?”
“Like a chief, a commissioner.”
He smiled, putting his face down again. “I’m Harold Lowndes, general insurance, retired.”
She got the machine.
