The Glitter Dome (26 page)

But Martin Welborn wasn't thinking about Paula. She flashed through his mind for an instant. Then she was gone. The talk of loneliness triggered more fearful images. They had buried Elliott Robles today. He had thought about going to the funeral. He had thought about sending a mass card. But just because Elliott was Mexican didn't necessarily mean that his family was Catholic. There weren't many Catholics named Elliott. There weren't any Mexicans named Elliott. Except that funny little junkie, Elliott Robles
.

“
You took my business out on the street,” Elliott Robles had said to him when Martin Welborn made the fatal mistake during the interrogation of Chuey Verdugo. Elliott had terrible fear in his eyes when he said it. And then, after a while, he looked resigned. Was it because of all the drugs he shot? All the stealing he had to do to get the drugs? Perhaps it was acceptance that Martin Welborn saw. Perhaps he didn't hate the detective for his unforgivable, fatal blunder. Perhaps. It was comforting to think so. To make believe
.

Martin Welborn thought of another gang member who once told him, “You take my guns away and get me wasted, I'll come back to haunt you.” Would Elliott Robles come back to haunt him? To haunt him as Danny Meadows had done?

They had arrived at the Meadows' house that day before the radio car. The screaming woman stood in front and never said an intelligible word. She didn't even gesture or point. She just looked at the house and screamed
.

“Screamed,” Martin Welborn muttered.

“What?” Al Mackey said. He had been dozing. “You see something?”

“See something?”

Martin Welborn was trembling. Like the afternoon in the captain's office when they were given the Nigel St. Claire case, when Marty's eyes went in and out of focus so strangely. Al Mackey couldn't see those long brown eyes in the darkness of the detective car. Marty had the sweats. The eyes.

“You okay, Marty?”

“Okay?”

“You, uh, think maybe we worked long enough for one day? I think we worked long enough for two days. I don't think we're gonna find a little blond whore named Jill if we sit here for a week.”

Martin Welborn unfolded his handkerchief, wiped his brow, folded it neatly, and put it back in his pocket. “Must be getting hot flashes.” He grinned. “Happens in our midforties, they say. Got to get used to it. It's hell growing old, eh, my boy?”

“Yeah, hell,” Al Mackey said, looking at his partner closely. Whatever it was had passed. The only reason he was going along with Marty in this silly stakeout for a whore who was given a phone number that probably had nothing to do with their murder victim was that the Nigel St. Claire case had given Marty some fresh juice. For the first time since Paula Welborn left.

“I think we could sit here for a week and not find a blond whore named Jill.”

“I agree with you, Martin Welborn said finally.

“We just have to slog through it, Marty,” Al Mackey said. “We're not going to get any breaks in this case. We already know there's no Jill known to Hollywood Vice. Tomorrow we check with Sheriff's Vice. Then Administrative Vice. Then we start calling the Bentley dealers.”

“There are
lots
of Bentleys in California,” Martin Welborn reminded him. “What do they say? If California seceded from America it would be the seventh richest
nation
in the world?”

“Yeah, and I got a feeling most of those Bentleys are right around here,” Al Mackey sighed. “And probably
Lloyd
is an alias anyway. Or the car's registered to somebody else. Slog it out, is all we can do.”

“There
is
another possibility,” Martin Welborn said.

“What's that?”

“Go in the massage parlor and ask for her.”

“I'm sure they're gonna be delighted to give us the address and phone numbers of street whores they employ as part-time masseuses.”

“Go in as a
customer
,” Martin Welborn said. “Con them out of the information.”

“Who we gonna get to go in?” Al Mackey said.

Martin Welborn looked at his partner and smiled. “You've always been a better con man than I could ever hope to be.”

And that was true enough. A massage parlor john. Al Mackey hadn't had a massage since he was on U.S. Navy liberty in Japan in 1955. She was sixteen years old, as light as a moth with the hands of a wrestler. The massage lasted five minutes, the sex one hour. In those days he could cut it.

“I don't think I got enough money for a massage,” he said, looking through his billfold.

“What do they cost?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Couldn't be more than twenty dollars, could it?”

“For the kind they give around here, I imagine it's more than twenty dollars,” Al Mackey said. Marty
should
have been a priest.

“I've got thirty-five dollars,” Martin Welborn said, handing the money to his partner.

“I've got twenty-three. That should be enough to convince them I'm for real and loosen a tongue.” Loosen a tongue? Maybe this assignment wouldn't be too bad!

“Give me your gun and badge. Better give me your ID card, too, in case somebody looks through your things while you're lying in the spa, or whatever.”

Al Mackey picked up the binoculars for the first time and looked at the unimpressive entrance to The Red Valentine. It was an ordinary storefront except that the windows were totally painted out and the door was framed with blinking light bulbs. Show biz.

“Most of the customers been wearing suits like me?”

“All kinds of dress,” Martin Welborn said. “You look all right.”

“Don't think I look too much like a cop?”

“You look like a not-so-successful insurance man out for a night on the town. You certainly
don't
look like a cop.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'd say the weight loss since the last divorce has made you look
less
like a cop than before.” Which was a kind way of putting it.

When Al Mackey walked through the blinking doorway into a red-carpeted room with gold velour wallpaper, the receptionist leered at the emaciated customer. “Welcome, dear. Looking for a relaxing rub?”

“Yeah, business made me kind of tense today.”

“Regular massage is twenty-five. Aphrodite Special is forty-five. Spa and steam is twelve dollars extra. Course you don't look like you need the steam. Some guys sweat off five pounds in there. You don't need to sweat off nothing.”

What is this shit? He came in here to let them guess his weight? He looks
less
like a cop than before? Al Mackey decided it was garbage burgers, fries, and peanuts for the rest of this week. Never mind what it did to his stomach, he was going to put on some
weight
. A guy could only take so many cracks about his body.

“I guess I'll take the regular massage,” he said.

“Oh.” The disappointment was ill-concealed. She pushed her heart-shaped rose-tinted glasses up on her nose. She had the ubiquitous Bo Derek hairdo but she certainly wasn't a ten. Not even a five and a half. “That'll be twenty-five. You pay now.”

“What's the name of my masseuse?” Al Mackey asked.

“You been here before?”

“Two, three times,” Al Mackey said.

“Well, we have Trixie, we have Gina, and we have Laurel tonight.”

“Don't know them,” he said. “Last time I was here, I had a girl I really liked. I think her name was … let's see … Joy?”

“Don't know no Joy,” she said. And
that
looked true enough in her case.

“Wait a minute. Not Joy, uh, it was … Jill. That's it. Jill. Is she here tonight?”

“Jill? No, she ain't been around for a few weeks. She only works part-time.” Then the receptionist grinned and said, “You had Jill give you a rub, it was a
romantic rub
, I bet.”

“It was!” Al Mackey cried.

“You didn't get no massage from Jill for twenty-five. You musta got the Aphrodite Special. Maybe even a
extra special?
”

“I sure wish Jill was here,” Al Mackey said.

“Okay, honey, we can take care a you now I know what you need. We got two other girls for the Aphrodites. We got Laverne. We got Juicy Lucy.”

“I don't know.” Al Mackey hesitated. “Maybe I oughtta come back some other time. Jill and me really got along.”

“A course, a course. I understand,” the receptionist said impatiently. “I know what kind a massage you need. Why you think they call her Jackin Jill?”

“Jack and …”

“Jackin Jill. Jackin Jill! I know what you want. Now, Laverne's a spade. You ain't prejudiced, are ya?”

“No but . .”

“And Juicy Lucy's a Jap. Only been here six months from Tokyo. Speaks pretty good English, though. You won't have no trouble making
her
understand.” The receptionist giggled at that one.

“If only I could get with Jill again.”

“Listen, Juicy Lucy knows all those massage tricks from Japan. In fact, she taught Jill how to give massages.”

“Oh, I see,” Al Mackey said. “That's different. As good as Jill? She a friend of Jill's, is she?”

“Matter a fact, they are. You still like Jill better after you try Juicy Lucy, you tell me, I'll make an appointment and you can come back and see Jill.”

“Well, I guess I can't go wrong,” Al Mackey said.

“That'll be an extra twenty. Juicy Lucy don't give nothing but the Aphrodite Special.”

Al Mackey hoped Captain Woofer wouldn't balk when they turned in an expense chit for this one. Forty-five bucks!

“You decide on the spa?”

“Hell, no!” Al Mackey said. Forty-five bucks.

It was a tiny room with one table containing oils and lotions, towels and washcloths. There was a massage table covered with clean sheets and a towel folded across the end where his head would go. There was a wooden chair and two wall hooks with a few coat hangers. There was some jazz being piped in on a scratchy little speaker with a loose wire. And that was it. Forty-five bucks.

He was expecting plush pillows, Persian rugs, maybe a little pool with a fake waterfall, some sexy Japanese wall paintings. Where's the goddamn bar? He was starting to get nervous. After all, this
was
his first massage except for the twelve-dollar special in 1955. He needed a drink. He looked outside the little room where the receptionist had directed him. He couldn't hear anything like the revelry he'd expected.

There
is
no goddamn bar! Just half a dozen little cubicles like this! The steam and spa was probably a splash-down with a Water Pik.

At least she was young. She wasn't particularly pretty, not like the one in 1955. She wore shorts and a tank top, like a skater. She said, “You take off clothes, please. You ray down on table. I be back.” And she was off.

Al Mackey took off his coat and pants and hung them up. He worried about his wallet, but what the hell, how much could they steal? And how could anyone dip into his pants without him knowing? When he didn't feel two little hands on his ass he was going to look for that wallet. He got down to his underwear and faltered. What the hell. Line of duty. He stripped off the ragged jockey shorts and tucked them in the pocket of his suit coat. He didn't want her to see them. That
last
bitch he married never even saw to it that he had decent underwear.

He lay prone on the table and waited. The music was getting more scratchy. Forty-five bucks.

The door opened and Juicy Lucy came back in with some fresh towels. “You want Aphrodite Special?” she giggled. “I very good. You rike, I sink.”

“Yeah, last time I had Jill give me one,” Al Mackey said, watching her pour some lotion on her hands and rub them together.

“Jill good girl. I teach her. You want oil or rotion?”

“I think Jill used oil.”

It felt erotic the moment she poured the warm oil down his back. It stopped feeling erotic when she started working on his neck and shoulders. Goddamn! She was brutal!

“You so skinny, she said. “Sometimes hurt bony guy. No meat. Bones hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I didn't know you had to be Arnold Schwarzenegger to get a massage.” He was getting sick of all these cracks.

“Who?”

“Never mind. Listen, when's Jill coming back?”

“You rike Jill, yes?” she said. “Jackin Jill. You rike me too. You see.”

“I like you already.” Al Mackey said. “Oooww! Easy on the spine, will ya?”

Things got better when she did his legs and toes. No pain. He was still on his stomach. Guys paid money for this torture? “Listen, when did you say Jill's coming back?”

“Okay,” she said in exasperation, “you want Jackin Jill business quick? I try give good massage first! Okay.” And she dumped half a bottle of scented baby oil down the crack of his buttocks.

“Wow!” Al Mackey cried.

Then, with him still on his belly, both her little hands were all over him. “You not patient,” she said. “You wait, it get better. You no wait. Jackin Jill. Jackin Jill. All you want, Jackin Jill!”

“Wow!” Al Mackey cried as she kneaded his buttocks. The hell with Jill. The hell with Marty. It was 1955 again and he was a young
bull
!

But suddenly, when he was getting semi-stiff, it was over.

“Finish,” she said. “I give you
super
Aphrodite, for cost twenty dollar more.”

Al Mackey jumped off the table and ran to his pants. Fuck you, Amazing Grace. The answer was in the
hands
. He was a massage parlor junkie!

He only had thirteen dollars and some change.

“I don't
have
twenty dollars,” he cried.

“Massage over.” Juicy Lucy shrugged.

“Wait. Wait. I've got thirteen! And some change!”