Long Time No See (14 page)

He pressed the bell-button under the box. Nothing. He pressed it again, ready to reach for the inner-lobby door when the buzz sounded. Nothing came. At the end of the row of mailboxes, he found the super’s box, and pressed the button under it. He waited several moments and was about to press it again when an answering buzz came. Leaping for the handle on the lobby door, he opened the door and stepped into a larger space that was dry with contained heat. Against the wall on his left, a pair of radiators hissed and whistled. A single elevator with a pair of spray-painted brass doors was on the rear wall. On the right of the lobby, taped to the wall there, Carella saw a piece of cardboard with the word
Super
hand-lettered onto it, a black arrow under it. He followed the arrow and knocked on the door to apartment 10. A man’s voice said, “Yeah, who is it?”

“Police,” Carella said.

“Who?”

“Police.”

“Shit,” the man said.

Carella waited. Behind the door he could hear shuffling and muttering, those famous vaudeville performers. At last the door opened. The superintendent was a white man in his late sixties, Carella guessed, wearing rumpled blue trousers, a tank-top white undershirt, and badly scuffed red velveteen house slippers. He looked grizzled and bleary-eyed. Through the open door to the room beyond the kitchen, Carella could see the edge of the bed with the covers thrown back. He suspected he’d wakened the superintendent, and further suspected he would not be overly receptive to questions about Stephanie Welles. The super’s tone immediately confirmed all suspicions.

“Well, what is it?” he said.

“Sorry to bother you this time of night,” Carella said.

“Yeah, well you already bothered me, so what is it?”

“I’m investigating a homicide, and I’d—”

“Somebody in this building?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I’m trying to locate a woman named Stephanie Welles. I thought she might have—”

“She ain’t home,” the super said.

Carella looked at him.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Working. She works nights.”

“You mean she still lives here?” Carella asked.

“Of
course
she lives here. Why are you here looking for her if she don’t live here?”

“She doesn’t live in Chicago?”

“Do
I
live in Chicago? Do
you
live in Chicago?”

“I thought she’d moved to Chicago.”

“No, she ain’t moved to Chicago.”

“Where does she work, can you tell me that?”

“You planning to bust her?”

“What for?”

“It’s legal what she does.”

“What does she do?”

“I won’t tell you where she works if you’re planning to go there and bust her.”

“I want to ask her some questions about the woman who was killed.”

“What woman?”

“Her name is Hester Mathieson, would you know her?”

“No.”

“Would you know anyone named Jimmy Harris?”

“No.”

“Or Isabel Harris?”

“No.”

“Ever hear Miss Welles mention any of those people?”

“I don’t know her that good,” the super said. “I only know she works nights, and I know that what she does is legal. So if you’re going to go running down there tryin’ to bust her—”

“Running down where?”

“Where she works.”

“Where’s that?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you,” the super said, and started to close the door. Carella put his foot into the wedge. “Get your foot out of there,” the super said.

“I can find out where she works,” Carella said. “But that’ll mean more trouble for me.”

“So?”

“So then I’ll come back about your garbage cans.”

“My garbage cans are fine.”

“Or the pipes in your basement. Or the electrical wiring. Mister, I’ll find something, believe me. I’m very good at finding something.”

“I’ll bet,” the super said. “But you ain’t gonna find Stephanie Welles by threatening me.”

“Where does she work?” Carella said. “And stop pushing that damn door against my foot.”

“You going to bust her?”

“I’m going to question her about a homicide victim.”

“She didn’t kill nobody.”

“I thought you didn’t know her too well.”

“I know her well enough to know she didn’t kill nobody.”

“Where does she work?”

“Place called The Tahitian Gardens.”

“What is it, a massage parlor?”

“It’s a health club.”

“Sure,” Carella said.

“It’s legal,” the super said.

Carella took his foot out of the door, and the super slammed it shut.

The Tahitian Gardens was crosstown and slightly uptown on Talbot Avenue, four blocks from the Calm’s Point Bridge. As short a time as ten years back, one might have said that The Tahitian Gardens was “in the shadow of the el.” But there no longer
was
an elevated train running above Talbot Avenue, and so the turn of phrase, however fresh, did not now apply. Then again, ten years ago there was no such thing as a massage parlor in the city for which Carella worked, and so The Tahitian Gardens could not possibly have been there in the shadow of the el, or even in the shadow of the Law. Or, more correctly, if The Tahitian Gardens
had
existed on Talbot Avenue ten years ago, it
would
have been in the shadow of the el and also in the shadow of the Law. Today, it was neither. All clear, Harold? Try to concentrate, Harold.

The facade of the massage parlor was decorated with real bamboo poles and straw matting. The name was scorch-lettered into a wooden sign nailed to a pair of bamboo poles that formed an “X” across the door. A shorter piece of bamboo served as a handle. Carella opened the door and stepped into a room similarly decorated with bamboo and matting, but softer looking than the outside facade, in that it was lighted with subdued reds and greens emanating from bulbs hidden behind valances or tucked into niches. Some four feet from the door was a desk. A girl sat behind the desk, her back to the wall. She glanced up as Carella came in. Judging from her looks, she was either Chinese or Japanese, maybe Polynesian, certainly Oriental. She was wearing a Madame-Gin-Sling costume, the material looking like brocade, the collar coming an inch or so up on her neck, the sleeves short, her naked arms wreathed in jade bracelets. She smiled as the door whispered shut behind Carella.

He smiled back. He had not yet decided quite how to play this. If he identified himself as a cop, they might not even let him inside without a warrant. On the other hand, if he
did
manage to get inside, he’d have to identify himself to Stephanie Welles if he expected to get any information about the dead woman. He was still debating his approach when the girl behind the desk said, “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

He decided on a scam, hell with it.

“That depends on what you’re offering,” Carella said.

“Well, sir, why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll explain it to you.”

“I wish you would,” Carella said.

He took a chair beside the desk. The girl swiveled her own chair out toward him. The gown she wore was long and slitted to the thigh. A fringe of black underwear lace showed in the slit. She was wearing black satin shoes with extremely high heels and ankle straps. The telephone on her desk had a multitude of buttons on it, none of them lighted at the moment. The wall bearing the door had a fish tank set into it. The tank swirled with tropical fish and iridescent bubbles. To the right of where Carella sat, there was another door. It opened suddenly, and a girl wearing what appeared to be a bikini bathing suit came out, glanced at him briefly, walked directly to the desk, said “Benny,” and put a pink slip of paper on the desk.

The Oriental girl repeated, “Benny,” and took the slip and wrote something on it. The other girl turned, glanced at Carella again, opened the door, and went into the other room. The door closed slowly behind her.

“That was Stacey, one of our girls,” the receptionist said.

“How many girls are there?” Carella asked.

“Six,” the receptionist said.

“What’s
your
name?”

“Well, why do you want to know that?”

“I’m just curious.”

“My name is Jasmine.”

“Ah, Jasmine.”

“Yes. I was about to explain that this is a private health club, and that for a small renewable initiation fee, we offer the use of our facilities—including the shower, the sauna, and the whirlpool—plus unlimited bar service, and of course a massage by one of our girls, or by two of them, if you prefer.”

“Two of them, I see,” Carella said.

“We offer a half-hour session for twenty dollars and an hour session for thirty dollars. You understand, don’t you, that an hour would normally cost forty dollars if we were doubling the price for a half hour, but instead—”

“Yes, it’s quite a bargain,” Carella said.

“It is.”

“And for that I get a massage and…”

“Use of the facilities.”

“And free drinks.”

“Yes.”

“What would
two
girls cost me?”

“Double what one girl would cost you.”

“Oh. No bargains on that.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Jasmine said, and smiled. “I should explain to you that the girls work exclusively on tips. Whatever arrangements you make with them is private and personal.”

“I see,” Carella said.

“So what would you prefer?” Jasmine asked, and picked up a pencil and moved into place a pink pad upon which there was printing Carella could not decipher in the dimness of the room. “One girl or two? Half hour or hour?”

“Is an hour the longest I can have?”

“You can have two hours for sixty dollars.”

“Can I take a half hour and then change my mind and decide on an hour if I need more time?”

“Well…We’ve never done it that way before.”

“I see,” Carella said. “Well, let me see if I understand this, okay?”

“Take your time,” Jasmine said, and smiled again.

“This is a health club, and what you offer for your initiation fee is the facilities of the club and a girl to provide a massage. Whatever
other
arrangements I make with any of the girls is strictly private and personal and works on a gratuity basis.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“You said a
renewable
initiation fee…”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you must renew it each time.”

“I see. I pay each time.”

“Yes.”

Translated from the English, all of this meant that The Tahitian Club was renting Carella the use of a space for twenty dollars a half hour or thirty dollars an hour, and providing him access to one or two prostitutes who would perform sexual services for mutually agreed-upon additional fees. The club, if charged with violation of PL 230.25, Promoting Prostitution 2nd Degree, would undoubtedly claim as its defense that a person was advancing prostitution
only
when knowingly causing or aiding someone to commit or engage in prostitution (here at The Tahitian Club, all arrangements made between client and girl were strictly personal and private) or—

Providing persons or premises for prostitution (the club was a health club providing only massage, free drinks, showers, sauna, and whirlpool) or—

Operating or assisting in the operation of a house of prostitution or a prostitution enterprise (for the hundredth time, this was a
health
club!) or—

Engaging in any other conduct designed to institute, aid, or facilitate an act or enterprise of prostitution (sauna and whirlpools and massages and free drinks did not constitute an aid to the act of prostitution, and a single swallow did not a summer make).

“I’ll take just one girl for a half hour,” Carella said.

“All right, sir, what’s your name, please? Just your first name, please.”

“Andy,” Carella said.

“All right, Andy, how did you hear about us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did someone hand you literature on the street, or did you read one of our ads?”

“No, a friend told me about it.”

“All right, Andy, would you like to pay me now, please? That’ll be twenty dollars.”

“Yes, sure,” Carella said, and took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and wondered if the police department would reimburse him for the outlay. He could just see himself walking into the clerical office and handing Miscolo a chit for a visit to a whorehouse.

“Thank you,” Jasmine said, taking the bill and putting it into a metal cashbox in the top drawer of her desk. There were a great many bills in that box.

“If you’ll take this pink slip now,” Jasmine said, ripping the top sheet from the pad, “and step into the lounge, one of our girls will take care of you. I know Stacey’s free if you—”

“I had a particular girl in mind,” Carella said.

“Oh,” Jasmine said, and raised her eyebrows. “Then you’ve been here before?”

“No, my friend told me to ask for her.”

“Who?” Jasmine said.

“Stephanie,” he said, and cut himself short before he gave the last name.

“Stephanie?”

“Yes.”

“We have no Stephanie.”

“That’s her
real
name,” Carella said, and decided to go whole hog. “Stephanie Welles.”

“Mm,” Jasmine said. “But you see,
all
the girls here use their real names. They’d have no reason to
hide
their real names.”

“I know,” Carella said. “That’s probably why she told my friend her real name, don’t you think? Because all the girls use their real names and she had nothing to hide, right?”

“Mm,” Jasmine said.

“So could I have her?” Carella asked.

“Well, as I told you—”

“I know she works here.”

“Well, why don’t you just go inside now and see if you can find anyone named Stephanie? Whatever transpires between you and any of the girls—”

“Yes, is personal and private.”

“Right.”

“Thank you. Can you tell me what Stephanie looks like?”

“I don’t know anybody here named Stephanie,” Jasmine said, and smiled.

“Okay thanks,” Carella said and rose and opened the door on his right.

The room beyond was decorated just as the reception room was, with bamboo and straw. On the wall to the left of the door was a bar that ran its entire length. On the bar top there were half-gallon bottles of scotch, vodka, gin, and rye, as well as quart bottles of club soda and quinine water. A bucket of ice rested beside a pitcher of water and a dish of sliced lemons and limes. Plastic glasses were stacked along the wall behind the ice bucket. The wall opposite the bar was semicircular in design, lined with high-backed wicker chairs painted white and cushioned with pillows in brightly colored fabrics. Sitting in two of those chairs were a blonde and a brunette, each wearing the same bikini sort of costume the girl Stacey had been wearing. Both looked at Carella and smiled as he came into the room.

“Hi,” the blonde said. “I’m Bobbie.”

“Hi, Bobbie.”

“I’m Lauren,” the brunette said.

“Hello, Lauren.”

“What’s
your
name?”

“Andy.”

“Would you like a drink, Andy?”

“Not right now, thank you. I’m looking for Stephanie.”

“She’s got somebody with her just now,” Bobbie said.

“Think she’ll be free soon?”

“I guess,” Lauren said. “Why don’t you have a drink meanwhile?”

“Scotch and a little water, please,” Carella said.

“Could I have your pink slip, please?” Bobbie said, and got out of the wicker chair and walked across the room.

The costume, Carella now saw, was similar to what a stripper wore, the bra top clasping in the front, the G-string bottom covered with what appeared to be a scarf of the same material and color as the bra, tied diagonally across it. Bobbie was wearing high-heeled ankle-strapped pumps that gave her legs a singularly long look even though she was no taller than five six or seven. In the other chair, Lauren was looking at Carella. The bra top she wore seemed skimpier, perhaps because she was fuller in the bust. Neither of the girls looked older than twenty-five. Neither was beautiful, but both were attractive. Moreover, they looked clean-scrubbed, fresh, and wholesome.

“Here you go, Andy,” Bobbie said, and smiled. “Scotch and water.”

“Thank you,” Carella said, and carried the drink to one of the wicker chairs.

“You’ve been here before, I take it,” Bobbie said.

“No, I’ve never been here before. Or
any
massage parlor, for that matter.”

“Then how do you know Steff?”

“A friend recommended the place to me.”

“Oh, and he liked Steff, huh?”

“Yes.”

“She must’ve liked him, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…She’s Shana, you know.”

“Here, you mean.”

“Yeah. Shana. That’s her name here. That’s a nice name, I think. Shana.”

“Bobbie’s nice, too.”

“Well, it’s not bad,” Bobbie said, “but Shana’s better. If I had it to do over again, I think I’d call myself something like Shana. Maybe Sherry. Something like that.”

“Mm.”

“Though there’s a lot of Sherrys around.”

“There’s a lot of Bobbies around, too,” Lauren said.

“But not a lot of Shanas. That’s my point. Steff picked a good one. I wonder where she got it from.”

“There was once a Shana, Queen of the Jungle,” Lauren said.

“No, that was Sheena.”

The door to the reception room opened and a short fat man smoking a cigar came into the lounge. He was wearing a heavy brown overcoat that seemed to weigh him down. His shoulders were slumped, his face was windblown, his hair was disarrayed. He came puffing into the room, and the first thing he said was, “I need a drink. Fix me a drink, Blondie.”

“It’s Bobbie,” Bobbie said.

“Great, it’s Bobbie,” the fat man said. “Fix me a bourbon and water.”

“We don’t have any bourbon.”

“Great,” the fat man said.

“We ran out just a little while ago,” Lauren said. “We had a lot of bourbon-drinkers today.”

“Great,” the fat man said again, and puffed violently on his cigar. He looked distraught to the point of tears. It almost seemed he had come in here for the bourbon rather than the pleasure of the company.

“How about some rye?” Bobbie said. “That’s like bourbon.”

“Okay, rye,” he said. “Rye and water.”

“Could I have your pink slip, please?” Bobbie said, and the fat man handed it to her.

Carella hadn’t yet figured out the accounting system. Bobbie had written nothing on either of the pink slips; she had merely placed them on the bar, under an ashtray. Sitting in the wicker chair, sipping at his drink, he studied first the louvered doors on his right and then the bamboo-covered door just beyond the far end of the bar.