Telegraph Hill

by John F. Nardizzi

  Moon was probably not using her real name. She had been described by Moran as exceedingly gorgeous—he ought to notice that.

  A small aperture in the door cracked open, startling him. A tiny face appeared: “Hi, you want massage? You been here before?”

  “Yes.”

  The Lilliputian door closed.

  The buzzer sounded, the door swung open, and he entered a gray hallway. An Asian woman of indeterminate age stood there, evaluating him with a stiff smile. She wore a tight black cocktail dress that accented her slim form; she had bare feet, and short hair over a face that, having seen forty years, still bore in the eyes a sliver of childlike grace.

  “Who’s working today?”

  “Who you see before?

  He slurred something that sounded like ‘Lynn.’

  “Who? Jen?” she asked, frowning.

  “Yes. But I’d like to see everyone today.”

  She paused, smiling. “You want to see everyone? Ah, handsome man likes to shop.”

  Ray nodded and the girl disappeared. He heard some rustlings behind a screen, and the sound of skin being slapped into shape. He looked around. Neon lights, and a television blaring a Chinese language soap opera. He noticed a small sign on the wall that spelled out the rates, with a warning:

  Prostitution is illegal in CA. Please do not ask for sexual services.

  After a minute the girl returned, still smiling. “Here,” she said, gesturing behind her.

  Just beyond her hand stood three Asian women, all dressed in silk cocktail dresses showing legs and cleavage.

  His eyes moved immediately to the woman on the end. She was heavily tanned, possibly Thai, with long black hair and perfectly formed features. She had a body that cried out for attention. She looked about thirty or so. The other two women were attractive as well, but he instinctively knew that the tan woman at the end was Moon.

  Ray smiled ruefully, feeling suddenly on the spot: apparently he was now expected to dismiss two of the women. All had a readiness, a certain animal watchfulness to their eyes. These were not passive girls, although he did not doubt that they could convince a customer otherwise.

  “I'd like all three”—the girls laughed politely— “but her first.” He pointed to the lithe beauty on the end.

  The two girls melted away. They would wait for other customers, the usual herd of pent-up men. They walked behind a screen and resumed listlessly watching the soap opera.

  The girl locked eyes with him momentarily, smiled, and took his hand. She said nothing as she led him down a darkened hallway and into a room lit with a small table lamp. A massage table, a fan, several bottles of ointments, oils, powders and other liquid applications. White towels on a hook. The walls were covered with a print showing a spray of red flowers and several photographs.

  Ray admired the girl’s athletic body, barely concealed by her dress. She looked at him coolly: “You can take a shower and I'll be back. Would you like something to drink?”

  Ray noticed that she spoke flawless English. “Water is fine. I didn’t get your name.”

  “Vicky,” she said. She left in a sparrow flight of silk.

  Ray undressed. He adjusted the shower water, and stepped in, letting the hot water flood the fatigue out of his muscles. He finished, stepped out, wrapped a towel around him, and lay on the table. He smelled jasmine mixed with disinfectant. He looked closely around the room, which was decorated with what appeared to be the woman’s personal effects: pictures of various people, a bamboo-framed painting showing a scene in an Oriental garden, and several long tapered candles.

  Five minutes passed, and the woman returned, closing the door behind her.

  She placed his water glass on a table next to him, and smiled. This was a well-rehearsed act for her, Ray thought, just another slab of meat waiting to be manipulated.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Yes, I used to see a girl named Jen.” If she was suspicious, she gave no indication.

  She dimmed the lights to a pleasant gloom. Grabbing a bottle of baby oil, she began to massage his back.

  Ray relaxed. He didn’t want to bring up his search for Tania until he had a chance to gauge her, and he was enjoying her hands on his body. She massaged his muscles, digging deep, squeezing, kneading. His body, relaxed but steaming. He considered the possibility that she might do something more. He looked at her, but she gave no sign either way. She started to massage his shoulders and then pounded his back muscles as if tenderizing a pork chop.

  After ten minutes of deep massage, he felt her fingers ease along the inside of his thigh. Light, light touches. Very slow now. Her hands were very warm. She continued the massage, and her hand grazed his cock. Was it intentional? Accidental? He felt the familiar urgency. Either way, the result was the same—he was heading into a tar pit of primordial instincts.

  She began to lightly drag her fingers over the back of his thighs, and he felt the better part of himself come alive.

  He would resist. Yes, he could. This was business, he needed to approach this professionally. He ground his pelvis into the table to keep himself from getting too aroused.

  Moon continued, humming softly to herself. Soft, soft hands. Her hands felt warm, liquid gold. She continued to work, humming softly, seemingly half-present.

  With a sigh, Ray propped himself up on his elbows. “Do you mind if I ask you something? Is your name Moon Li?”

  Her face was a stone wall. She mumbled something. Ray sat up.

  “It’s OK. I just want to talk while I get my massage. My name is Ray. I’m trying to get in touch with a friend, Tania Kong.”

  Moon leaned back, fading into the gloom.

  “Please. I work for her family. They are worried about her. Can you help me?”

  He stood up. Moon backed off. A muteness about her—she was marshaling her defenses, scuttling for cover. He wrapped a towel around his waist.

  “I’m hoping you can tell me a little about Tania. The last time you saw her. Do you know if she’s OK?”

  Her eyebrows were raised slightly, drawn inwards. Her mouth was pulled back in a small knot. Still not displaying agreement with anything he said. “How do you know my name?” she asked.

  “I got your name from a friend of hers who met you once.”

  Moon fingered her hair absentmindedly. Her lips were pulled back tightly. “I have not seen her in over one year.” Her eyes went to the floor.

  “So you knew her?”

  “Yes. A little.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “No.” Moon’s face impenetrable. Ray tried a different tack.

  “Moon, I know this is unusual. Can you tell me if she needs help?”

  Still nothing.

  “I’m not a cop. I’m not here to turn this place upside down. No one benefits.” Ray leaned forward. “Can you tell me if she is OK?”

  Moon stared at Ray as if searching his face for a rippling of deceit. After a time, she stirred. “I think that she’s OK. I have no reason to think she’s hurt. What do you want to know about her?”

  Ray paused. He might as well divulge what he knew; it might put her at ease. To get information, you had to give information, and he suspected that many details of Tania’s life would be known to Moon anyway.

  “I did some research and found court records that showed Tania was arrested for working as a . . . courtesan.”

  Moon smiled. “What a nice term to describe what we do. Are you a poet?”

  “Sometimes. You can only trust a poet for the first couple of lines. But I have no problem with what she was doing.”

  “You shouldn't. You came here,” she said. “And you’ve been here before, right? Like you said?”

  He shook his head. “First time. I came here to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “To find out if you can help me get in contact with Tania. Can you help me? Her family has not heard from her in years.”

  “You’re not a cop?”<
br />
  “No. I’m a private investigator.”

  Moon stopped and looked him over. Then she sat down in a small chair. “Tania worked as an escort—a courtesan as you say. She worked at a private house in Chinatown.”

  “What kind of house?”

  “Professional massage house. It was close to downtown for the businessmen. And then at night, the regulars who lived on Nob Hill.”

  “Were you close with her?” Ray asked. He sat down and begin to pull his clothes back on.

  “Yes.”

  “What is she like?”

  “Tania’s a wonderful girl. Very sophisticated, attractive. Beautiful legs. She was one of the most popular girls in the house.”

  “Tell me about the house,” said Ray, buttoning his shirt.

  “Why do you ask these questions?” asked Moon.

  “Her family is worried about her. No one has seen her in years. I can help her—if she needs it.” Ray concentrated on keeping his dark eyes calm and flat.

  Moon considered it. She explained that Tania had used the name Michelle when she worked. At the time she was reading books on alternative religions, spirituality. She defied the stereotypes of an escort: she had been well-educated overseas and invested much of her earnings in the stock market.

  “She never told why she was in the life. She was smart, she could do other things. She wanted to start her own business. Some of her clients were businessmen, lawyers, athletes—famous people in the city. She used to see a famous athlete. Very famous.” Moon gave an exaggerated wide-eyed look.

  “Who was that?” Ray asked.

  “Football player.”

  “Raiders or Niners?”

  “Oakland,” Moon nodded. “He has all these muscles. He’s strong! But when he sees Tania, he’s like a little sheep. He wants her to tie him up and whip his ass.”

  He noted the present tense: sees, wants: “She still sees the football player.”

  Moon gave him the stone-face. “I don’t know.”

  “You said she was popular. In demand.”

  “Tania made a name for herself. She was what the clients call GFE. ‘Girlfriend experience,’” said Moon sarcastically. “Like the real thing.”

  “Did you work with her?”

  “Sometimes. We made a lot of money together.”

  Moon seemed to have overcame some of the inhibitions that had earlier held her back, but there was still a cold, caustic edge to her tone.

  “What are most of the clients like? Good guys? Wackos?”

  “Why do you think they’re any different from you?” she asked.

  Ray laughed. “I came here seeking enlightenment.”

  “Oh sure! You are all alike—horny men!” Moon laughed, enjoying the bullshit. “It’s not easy. We try to fit every man’s fantasy. They want to screw for five minutes. Then they want someone to listen while they complain.”

  “They pay you just to talk?”

  “Sometimes. Men don’t show their feelings, right?” she said, sarcastically drawing out the word ‘feelings’ like a talk show host.

  Ray finished tying his shoes. “They talk about problems with their wives?” he asked.

  “They’re the problem. Their wives are fine. It’s everything else—their jobs, their bosses. Money. Unhappiness. We‘re like psychotherapists.”

  “Except less clothing,” Ray said. “But you probably get better results too.”

  Moon nodded. “One guy came in today and said: ‘I’m ready for some poon.’ Such a blunt way of getting to his needs.”

  “Poon, what a great word.”

  Silence. Moon looked more relaxed, but she still dodged the question of where Tania was living.

  “Where did you last see Tania?”

  “Here. She and I shared an apartment together during…”she stopped. “Before she disappeared.”

  Her face quivered, and her left hand whispered against her cheek.

  “During what?” Ray asked.

  Moon said nothing.

  “You were lovers.” He said it quietly, not asking a question.

  Her eyelids flickered slightly wider for a split second, then pulled down quickly, like shade in a private room. “For a time.”

  “Did you work with Tania at all during your therapy sessions?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Is that how you both first met?”

  Moon nodded. “A client called, and asked for two Asian girls. Big deal, right? That's the most common request. The guy was a dotcom businessman. He owned some computer company in San Jose. Nice man. Lots of money and no one to share it. He rented a suite on the top floor of the Mark Hopkins. That was the first time I met Tania. I was nervous. She knew I was new to the business. She helped me, took care of me.”

  Ray resisted the urge to develop this scenario further.

  “How often did you work together?”

  “Every week after that first meeting. The guy talked about us with his friends, and we got a lot of calls. They wanted us together.”

  “And you were comfortable with her by this time?” said Ray.

  “Very much. She looked after me.”

  “When did you last hear from her?”

  “A while," said Moon. Her eyes were lanterns shining through half-closed shields.

  “Any clients take a special interest in her?”

  “They all did,” said Moon. “Unlike most girls, she put her heart in it. She does that with everything.”

  “Anyone that you remember having some hesitation about?”

  “No.”

  “She ever threatened by anyone? Anyone she worried about?”

  Moon thought for a moment. “One guy. Not a client.”

  She went on to explain that, for a time, Tania resisted working long hours, and was content to be a highly paid escort who saw clients only when she desired. Her mood abruptly changed one winter afternoon.

  “She was having trouble with a boyfriend. Very jealous guy.” Moon picked up a towel and began scrubbing the massage table.

  “Remember his name?”

  “Steven.”

  “Last name?”

  “He was Irish,” said Moon, scrunching her brow. “Moore? Moran? I don’t remember.”

  Ray took it in, showing nothing.

  “You said he was jealous. How so?”

  “He did not like her in the life. The strange men, the money. She was mixing with some rich people. I think he thought that she was out of his league. But that stuff never got to her. Deep down, she’s a nerd; she carried around this book of poetry and read it between appointments. She was always reading.”

  “Did he know about you two?”

  “Yes. He didn’t like me,” said Moon. She shifted in the chair. “He resented our friendship.”

  “Did Steven ever get violent with her?”

  “There was some weird stuff one night. I remember that he came over one night after Tania and me got off work and had dinner together.”

  In his mind, Ray pictured the two of them, commuting home and washing the day’s juices and dust off of each other. The world was not always deep, but it was wide.

  After dinner at a Thai restaurant, Moon and Tania had returned home to find Steven waiting by the front door. He was highly flammable, vapors of rock-gut wine wafting from his pores. He shouted angrily at Tania, who drew him into the confines of her bedroom. His loud shouting had continued for several minutes. He emerged fifteen minutes later, his bile neutralized by Tania’s twilight softness. He left wordlessly.

  “Steven faded out of the picture. I never saw him again after that night,” said Moon

  “What else did she say about breaking up with him? Was she involved with anyone else?” asked Ray.

  “No.”

  “What about her interests?” Ray asked. “Dancing, clubs, yoga?”

  “She was into yoga, sure. Everyone in the Bay Area does yoga.” She shrugged.

  “What clubs did she go to?”

  “Nightclubs?
She doesn’t go out much. She is not a drinker.”

  Present tense again. He continued to admire Moon’s cool beauty, so different than the Mediterranean firebrands he usually dated.

  “When did you last speak with her?”

  “Like I said, it’s been over a year.”

  He looked at her face. Her brow angled low and heavy, a squall was building. The eyes just a bit tense. He was pleased—she was sensitive about this topic of her contacts. He’d gouge her a bit more.

  “Moon, I appreciate you talking with me. I hope she is OK. Do you think you might in the fullness of time tell me where she is?”

  “I don’t know where she is.” She fired a sharp smile at him.

  “If you find she’s in trouble, would you call me? Or tell her I can help.”

  Moon shook her head yes, slightly.

  “Well, thanks for talking,” he said. Moon looked unperturbed, yielding in defense; she was not even in the room anymore. She bent over to pick up a towel.

  Looking up, Ray noticed on the mantel a photograph tucked into a frosted glass frame. The photo showed two Asian women, Moon’s raw beauty dominating, Tania’s lush sensuality revealing itself more gradually. Both women huddled together, windblown against a backdrop of lilac-blue sky and a smudge of golden sand. A long stretch of beach curled to the right. Orange yellow light streamed over the water.

  Ray peered at the photo. “Ocean Beach or Baker?”

  Moon glanced at the picture and moved to the door. “Baker,” she said finally.

  “If I need to talk again, how can I reach you?”

  “You can find me here.”

  She jotted down a cell number on the back of a magazine, tore off the scrap and handed it to him. “OK, big handsome man,” she said, “You come back to see me.”

  Ray walked down the hall to a rear exit and left the house. He felt relaxed. He strode through a path lined with reed grass and cone flowers and headed over to his car. He drove back to the hotel. The Victorians of the Haight slid by in hues of mauve, gold, aquamarine, vermilion.