The Glitter Dome

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “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!”

  “Nope. Twenty dollar,” she said, picking up her towel as Al Mackey’s semi died aborning.

  “Do you take Master Charge?”

  “Cash money.”

  Christ, he had a thirty-dollar Timex! “Listen, I’ll come back and pay you … tomorrow! You be here with Jackin Jill and I promise I’ll give you a hundred dollars for a double massage.”

  “You no have twenty now. You have hundred tomorrow. Yes yes.”

  “Look, I don’t carry cash on the Strip. All these hooligans running around.”

  “Okay, I give you super, but you owe Juicy Rucy.”

  “All right!” Al Mackey sighed, lying back down. The Super!

  “Now,” she whispered, “I show you where Jackin Jill learn her trick.” She leaned over and kissed Al Mackey on the cheek. Kissed him. That he didn’t expect. “Oooohhh,” he sighed. My little cherry blossom! Then she started tickling his buttocks and thighs. He felt the hair on his legs stirring. He could hardly feel her hands. Was she going to knead his balls like bread dough? What?

  She then tickled him lightly along the spine. She purred and whispered to him in Japanese. She was probably calling him a stinking disgusting round-eyed degenerate, but he didn’t care.

  “It good?”

  “It good!” he sighed.

  So far she had not touched his genitals. When she did he was going to inflate like a goddamn life raft. He was ready. Then he felt just one fingernail touch the hair on his balls.

  “Oh, my God, it’s been such a long time!” he cried.

  She put two fingers down there and began tickling not just the hair, but the sacs themselves.

  Get ready, Lucy-san. Al Mackey’s going up like a rocket!

  Except that he didn’t. She touched them for perhaps ten seconds. She had never even gotten to his cock. He felt something warm and wet on his stomach.

  “My God!” he yelled in despair.

  “What?” the startled masseuse cried.

  Al Mackey turned over and sat up. The telltale deposit told all. She took his semi-limp member and shook it disgustedly. “This not my fault. This you fault.”

  “Oh, God!” he cried. Misfires were one thing! But premature ejaculation? Was there no end to the humiliation!

  “I earn money. I try to do best.” She gave the drooping whanger another sneering shake. “This not my fault. This you fault.”

  “I know, I know!” Al Mackey cried. “God, I know!”

  Al Mackey let himself be led to a prefab plastic shower stall where the masseuse scrubbed the oil off him and sprayed him down with a jet of lukewarm water. So much for the Japanese bath. At least she tried to dry him off, but he took the towel and did it himself. He tried to get back to business despite his desperate depression.

  “I meant it about tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ll be here at eight o’clock. I want to see Jill.”

  “And me,” she reminded him.

  “Right.”

  “Hundred dollar.”

  “Right, right.” He nodded.

  “You have this … thing go wrong with Jackin Jill?” Juicy Lucy asked, while Al Mackey slipped his necktie over his head and zipped his fly.

  “Look, I’ve never had trouble with sex in my life!” he said. “Everything works right!”

  “Yes yes,” she said.

  Maybe it was the kiss, he thought, as he waited at the traffic signal to cross Sunset with some wired-up Brooke Shields clones. She had blindsided him with that kiss. It was the last thing he expected. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been kissed tenderly.

  The light turned green and he crossed with the chattering bubblegummers. He felt so old. Maybe sex was over for him. Who needs sex? Does Jerry Brown need it? He’s only the fucking governor. GOD, IT’S ALL OVER!

  “Well, all your little muscles relaxed?” Martin Welborn grinned when Al Mackey got in the car.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Al Mackey said sourly. “And you aren’t going to. Jill might be there tomorrow night. I didn’t want to push it too far, but I think I have a date with her and Juicy Lucy at eight o’clock.”

  “Who’s Juicy Lucy?”

  “Do you have enough change left to buy me a cup of coffee? I need a cup of coffee.”

  “You spent it all?”

  “Massages aren’t what they used to be,” Al Mackey said. “Nothing is.”

  13

  The Burbank Bomber

  The homicide team was twenty minutes late the next morning. Luckily, Captain Woofer was at a coffee klatch with the Chamber of Commerce and wasn’t there to catch Al Mackey and Martin Welborn dragging in.

  Al Mackey was horribly hung over from an evening of Tullamore Dew and a furious dream-chase of a giggling Japanese masseuse who knew the Truth. After kicking the cat off the bed three times, Al Mackey awoke in the morning to find it had clawed to shreds the underwear he had dropped on the floor. He was forced to admire an animal who could punish with such inspiration. The vicious bastard was better than a set of thumbscrews.

  Mar
tin Welborn hadn’t chased his ghosts. He’d been chased by them. He had dreamed of Elliott Robles. It was fragmented.

  You took my business out on the street, Sergeant Welborn! Where can I go?

  The dream awoke him at three A.M. He managed to go back to sleep after an hour of night sweats. He dreamed about Danny Meadows. He awoke crying out. He did not go back to sleep at all after that.

  Their morning coffee hadn’t yet been touched when they were surrounded by the Weasel and Ferret on one side, Schultz and Simon on the other.

  “Okay, Winkie and Blinky, you two got your little peepers open yet?” the Ferret asked. “We got a few transmissions for ya, somewhat garbled but maybe you can figure em out. A whore named Jill? She’s the seventeen-year-old daughter of a nickel-dime bookie owns a restaurant on Sunset. Her real name’s Peggy Farrell and we already pulled her juvie package this morning while you two were laying in bed playing with pee pees.”

  “Both our mommas went south,” Al Mackey said, grimacing from the squadroom coffee. “No pee pees.”

  “Peggy Farrell has two busts for runaway,” the Weasel said. “Both times released to her daddy, Flameout Farrell, the world’s crummiest cook and bummed-out bookie. But get this! She’s been seen with this dude in the black Bentley at her daddy’s place! And dad-o says Lloyd-of-the-Bentley keeps coming back, supposedly to get down on a horse but really to find out where the hell’s Jill.”

  “I know it ain’t our case,” said Simon, “but we made some calls this morning and found that Just Plain Bill Bozwell moved out, with no forwarding address. And there’s nothing in his package about any gook associates.”

  “We already knew that.” Al Mackey nodded.

  “It’s anybody’s case,” Martin Welborn said. “We want you to work on it as much as you care to. We appreciate it.”

  “There ain’t an F.I. in this department on Bozwell. None at the Sheriff’s Office either,” Simon said. “Maybe he just hired the slopehead for the night, like he claims. Maybe you just should forget him, concentrate on the others?”

  “We’ll take a crack at him when he shows up for his preliminary hearing,” Martin Welborn said.

  “Oh yeah, robbery called and said the preliminary’s been continued,” the Weasel said. “The defense needs two weeks to prepare the case more adequately. Sure. Probably try to scare off the goldbugs, something like that. Well, that’s robbery’s problem.”