Ed McBain - Long Time No See

“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 1 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 ah 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.