by Bill Bernico
Gloria punched me in the arm. “I don’t care if they’re running a special where the first visit is free,” she said. “You keep your hands to yourself.”
I held both hands up in surrender. “Strictly business,” I said, and hugged her. “I promise I’ll be a good boy.”
“You’d better,” Gloria said, softening and falling into my embrace.
After supper, I slipped into a casual golf shirt and slacks with brown loafers. I pulled a tan windbreaker over the outfit. “Do I look like a typical John?”
Gloria’s brows furrowed. “Why are you asking me?”
“I don’t know,” I said, laughing. “It’s just something I said. Of course you wouldn’t know what a typical John looks like. This shouldn’t take too long. I should be back in an hour or two. Harbinson wants me to call him after I check on his wife’s employment status.”
“Employment status,” Gloria said. “That’s one way of putting it, I guess. Couldn’t you just check her W-2 and see what she put down for occupation?”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” I said, and left the house.
I drove to the address Harbinson had given me on Sunset Boulevard. I parked across the street and a little way down the block and waited for Shirley Harbinson to make her appearance. I didn’t have to wait long. As ten minutes before six she parked her car in a small lot alongside the building and walked in. I gave her a few minutes to get situated, wherever that might be, and tried to look casual, like a John might coming into a place like this. Another man walked up the sidewalk just ahead of me.
I opened the front door and a small bell tingled overhead. The man I’d seen on the sidewalk was standing in front of a counter, counting out bills from his wallet. I looked around him and could see Shirley Harbinson sitting behind the counter, taking the man’s bills and stuffing them into a cash register. It looked like Burt Harbinson had worried for nothing. Shirley was apparently the receptionist. When she’d finished taking the man’s money, Shirley Harbinson stood and walked to the end of the counter, where she took the man’s hand and led him to someplace unseen down a hall and through a door.
All right, I thought, she greets the John, takes him to a room and then comes back to the desk to continue her receptionist duties. That thought was dispelled when a different girl took the seat that the receptionist’s desk. She looked at me and summoned me over with two fingers. “What can I do for you today?” she said in a sugar sweet voice.
I looked around nervously and stammered, trying to find the right words. “I, uh, this is my, uh. I usually don’t...” I said.
“First time?” the sweet young thing behind the counter said. “There has to be a first time for everyone. But here at Massage Heaven, we know how to treat all our customers gently and patiently. My name is Penny. So, tell me what you’re looking for?”
“Well,” I said, “how much does a massage cost?” I hoped I sounded naive enough to be convincing. The fact was that I had never visited a place like this before and had no idea what these kinds of services cost.
Penny looked longingly into my eyes. “Your basic massage is twenty-five dollars for thirty minutes.”
“Basic?” I said. “What do you mean? Is there more than one kind?”
“Well,” Penny said, “with your basic massage, we work on the neck muscles, shoulder muscles and so on, down the back to your waist. We also work your calves and thighs to make sure you’re not tenses up at all.”
“And that all takes thirty minutes?” I said. “What’s the other kind of massage?”
“That would be the premium package,” Penny said. You get everything that the basic package offers plus you get the happy ending.”
“Happy ending?” I said. “What’s that?”
“Without going into too much detail,” Penny said, “it’s the ending part of the massage where you leave happy.”
I played dumb and furrowed my brows. “I don’t...,” I said, and then smiled, as if her meaning were suddenly crystal clear. “Oh, I see. Is that it? Is there another level?”
“Well,” Penny said, “there is, but that is up to the individual girl who’s doing the massage. Each massage therapist has a different specialty and each has their own special name for that extra service. So, yes, there is another level, but now, I don’t have a particular name for it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I think I get it. But I was wondering, do I get to pick which therapist I want? I mean, do you have pictures for me to choose from?”
“Like a menu at a restaurant?” Penny said.
“I guess,” I said.
Penny reached behind her and pulled a three-ring loose-leaf binder from the shelf and opened it to the first page on the counter between us. “There are a dozen therapists in here,” she said. “You can choose from any of the first six in the book.”
“What about the other six?” I said.
“That would be the weekend staff,” Penny explained. “They’re only here on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.”
I paged through the first six therapists in the book. I stopped on page four when I found myself looking at Shirley Harbinson’s photo. He looked a lot more exotic than she did on the three by five Burt had given me. She was dressed in a low-cut outfit with some sort of pushup garment beneath it, creating cleavage up to her eyebrows.
“This one looks nice,” I said, pointing to Shirley’s photo.
“She’s with a customer right now,” Penny said. “It could be another hour before she’s available.”
“An hour?” I said. “Didn’t you tell me that the massage only took thirty minutes?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s for the basic package. Shirley’s customer selected level three, so unless you want to wait an hour, I’d suggest you select another therapist. I’m available.” Penny turned to the last page and pointed to her glamour photo on page six.
I held a hand up to Penny. “Nothing personal,” I said. “I mean, you’re a beautiful woman and all, but I think I’d prefer Shirley. Maybe I’ll stop back in an hour.”
“Okay,” Penny said. “We’re open until one a.m. I guess I’ll see you later.”
I left the establishment and returned to my car. I sat there, wondering how I was going to tell Burt Harbinson that his wife was turning tricks at her new job. I had no idea what I was going to say to him or how he’d take it. But I knew I had to do it one way or the other. I plucked Burt’s phone number from my pocket, flipped open my cell phone and dialed. Burt Harbinson’s phone rang twelve times before I closed my phone and sat there in a bit of a stupor. I felt sorry for poor ol’ Burt. I can just imagine how I’d feel if I found out that Gloria was working in a place like that.
I was just about to drive away when I saw another man walking up the sidewalk toward the front door or Massage Heaven. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. When he pulled the door open and turned sideways for a second I recognized him. It was Burt Harbinson and he was carrying a handgun down at his side. I jumped out of my car and waited for the heavy traffic to let up before I could dash across the street and back into the massage parlor.
Just as I pulled the front door open, I hear a shot and a few seconds after that I could see Burt down at the end of the hallway. He had his arm clamped around a nude woman’s throat, the gun pointing at her temple. It was Burt’s wife, Shirley. The look on her face told me that Burt was not playing around with her. The look on his face was one I’d seen once before in a hostage standoff that I had witnessed while riding on patrol with Lieutenant Eric Anderson of the L.A.P.D.
Penny was standing in the reception area, screaming hysterically. I pushed her out of the way and told her to stay down and take cover.
I held up both palms toward Burt. “Burt,” I said calmly, “put the gun down. I know you don’t want to hurt anybody.”
“Stay back,” Burt yelled. “This is between me and Shirley.” He pulled back with his arm, lifting his wife off the floor several inches. “Isn’t it, Dear?”
His tone was bitter and angry and he was gritting his teeth.
Shirley Harbinson tried to speak, but all that came out were choking, gasping sounds. She kicked her feet, trying to gain a foothold on the floor. Her face was turning a bright red.
“Let her breathe,” I yelled at Burt. “You’re killing her.”
“So what,” Burt barked. “She belongs dead after what she did to me. Receptionist, my ass. I found her in that room, riding that man like she was in a fuckin’ rodeo.”
“What did you do, Burt?” I said, trying to inch my way closer to him.
Burt took the gun away from Shirley’s temple and pointed it down the hall at me. “You stay back, Cooper,” he yelled.
The door to Burt’s left opened and a nude man crawled out into the hallway on his stomach, dragging a trail of blood behind him. He tried to drag himself with one hand while his other hand was clamped over the leaking wound in his stomach.
“Burt,” I said, pointing at the wounded man on the floor. “We have to get that man to a doctor or he’ll die.”
“Good,” Burt said. “I hope he does.” He returned the gun barrel to Shirley’s temple. “And she can join him.”
“No,” I yelled. “Burt, stop for a minute and think. So far, you haven’t killed anybody and if you let me get that man a doctor, you won’t be charged with murder. I know you don’t want to kill anybody, Burt, so why not back up and let me pull that man out of here and get him a doctor. I’m sure if you stop all this now and get yourself a good lawyer, who knows, maybe you can get off with assault. Think Burt, think before you do anything else. There’s no going back if you do.”
Burt lowered the gun away from his wife’s head and I thought for a moment that I was getting through to him. To my shock and surprise, he lowered the gun, aiming it at the man on the floor. He pulled the trigger again and put this next shot squarely into the back of the man’s head. The man stopped crawling and bled out very quickly. Burt turned the gun on his wife and pulled the trigger again. Shirley’s head exploded in a spray of red that splattered the hallway wall. Shirley slumped to the floor and made a mess with her own pool of blood.
Instinctively I pulled my .38 from under my arm and pointed it at Burt. “Drop it, Burt,” I yelled. “It’s over now. Put the gun down. I don’t want to shoot you.”
“You won’t have to,” Burt said and stuck the barrel of his handgun under his chin and pulled the trigger for the third and last time. Burt’s body fell like a marionette with its strings cut, landing on top of his wife’s body. The gun fell from his hand and landed in a pool of his wife’s blood.
I holstered my .38 and rushed toward the three bodies. There was no getting around the huge pool of blood that had formed beneath the three bodies. I had to step directly into it in order to press my fingers into Shirley Harbinson’s neck. I couldn’t find a pulse and quickly stepped back again, leaving bloody footprints all the way back to the reception area.
Penny was still cowering beneath the front counter, still crying. I stepped behind the counter and dialed the police, telling them what happened and to send an ambulance.
It was nearly nine o’clock before Lieutenant Anderson had finished questioning me and securing the crime scene. I agreed to some in first thin tomorrow morning and repeat everything to the stenographer. I told Anderson if he needed anything else tonight, that he could reach me at home. He agreed and let me go.
By the time I got home it was nearly quarter to ten and Gloria was waiting up for me. She made an exaggerated effort of looking at an imaginary wristwatch when I walked in the front door. “How long does it take to check on a client’s wife and then leave again?” she said. “Or did you take time for something else?”
When I didn’t smile or react at all, Gloria read my face and stopped grilling me. I took two steps toward her and she held up one hand. “Stop,” she said, pointing to the floor behind me. “You want to wipe your feet, Mister?” She came over to where I stood and looked down at the marks I’d made on the floor. She looked back up at me with alarm. “Is that blood?”
I slowly nodded before I bent down and untied my shoelaces. I slipped out of my shoes and walked into the living room. Gloria followed and we sat on the sofa.
“What happened?” Gloria said, genuine concern filling her voice now.
I told her about the events that had unfolded in the hallway of Massage Heaven and how three people had died that night because of one man’s inability to deal with a bad situation. Gloria squeezed my hand and laid her head on my shoulder. We sat there in silence for several minutes, each of us appreciating the other’s presence.
Trying to break a tense moment, Gloria looked up at me and said, “I don’t suppose you got paid up front?”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head.
92 - Separated At Birth
I sat at the bar, next to my lifelong friend and retired cop, Dean Hollister. He and I had known each other since we were kids. Our fathers had worked together, first in the forties as cops and then as friends when Dad left the force to open Cooper Investigations. Dean and I had both followed in our fathers’ footsteps; me as a private eye and Dean as one of L.A. finest. We were both retired now with plenty of time on our hands and almost nothing to do. I helped out occasionally at the office when my son, Elliott and his wife, Gloria needed an extra body, but for the most part, I had my days to myself and could do pretty much whatever I wanted.
By the time Dean had left the department, he had risen to the rank of Lieutenant, the same position his father, Dan had held before him. Dean and I had spent so much time together over the past sixty years that we could finish each other’s sentences, read each other’s thoughts and know each other’s moves before we did them. It was what made us a good team, whether we were on a case or just fishing on the lake.
We’d been at this bar before many times. It was one of our favorite hangouts and it was within walking distance from my house in Glendale. We’d been here longer than we had intended, but it really didn’t matter, since neither of us was driving and neither of us had any place we needed to be.
“One more and that’s it for me,” I said, upending my glass and setting it back on the bar.
“Wuss,” Dean said.
“What did you call me?” I said.
“A wuss,” Dean repeated. “You’re a wuss, Clay Cooper. Do you have someplace else you need to be?”
“No,” I said, “but I know my limit and one more is it. You can stay if you want to, but I’m walking home after one more drink.” I held up two fingers and the bartender came back over to our end of the bar carrying a bottle. He poured two more shots into each of our glasses and topped them off with seltzer.
Dean lifted his glass in a toast to me. “To,” he said and then paused. “What do we drink to?” he said.
I pointed across the bar to two old guys and said, “To those two guys. That’ll be us in ten years.”
The two men raised their glasses, too and we toasted each other.
Dean rolled his eyes. “That’s a mirror, you dumb ass,” he said.
I took a closer look at the two old men across from us and then looked at Dean. Sure enough, that was us. Something struck my funny bone and I broke out laughing. Dean had already taken a sip from his drink and when he saw my reaction, he sprayed the contents of his mouth all over the bar and began laughing himself.
The bartender returned to our end of the bar and shook his head. “I think you two have had enough for one night,” he said. “Time to go home. Come on.”
“We were just leaving anyway,” I said, and slid off my stool. Dean followed close behind and we walked out of the place and down the sidewalk, toward my house.
We gone half a block when I looked up at a billboard and saw a large round yellow smiley face with the caption, ‘Have A Nice Day’ written below it in a font that was supposed to look like it was written by some kindergarten kid who had just learned to print.
I pointed at the sign and looked at Dea
n. “Now who do you suppose benefits from that billboard?” I said.
“Huh?” Dean said, looking up.
I stopped walking and turned to Dean. “I mean, don’t people who put up billboards usually have something to sell so they can make enough money to pay for the cost of the billboard?” I said. “This guy’s not selling anything and there’s no way to recoup his advertising costs, so why put it up?”
“I don’t know,” Dean said. “Maybe it’s some rich guy who just wants the rest of Hollywood to cheer up. What do I care if he wants to waste his money?”
“Just seems like a waste of money,” I said and continued walking towards home.
Dean had to double-time a few steps to catch up with me. “So how are the kids doing with the business?” he said. “Any new and exciting cases?”
“Business is a little slow,” I said. “They haven’t called me in to the office for nearly three weeks now. The economy is weak and I guess people aren’t spending money on things like private eyes.”
“But you’re still getting along, aren’t you?” Dean said.
“Me?” I said. “Sure. I still get my social security check every month and I don’t need that much to get by on. Funny, but I always thought I’d need more than I do, but I always end up with a little money left at the end of the month. What about you? You’re not old enough for social security yet.”
“Another eleven months and I can start collecting,” Dean said. “But remember, I put thirty years in with the department. I have a pretty hefty pension to keep me going. Next year at this time, I’ll also have the social security checks to put in the bank. I’ll still live on just the pension and put the social security checks in a special account. I figure in two years I’ll have enough in there to buy myself a new boat. Then we can get out on the lake with our cooler full of beer and have us a time.”
“So tell me,” I said, “why do we still clamber for work if we’re so set?”
Dean shrugged. “Probably just for something to do,” he said. “Life can get a little boring if you don’t have a reason to get out of bed in the morning.”