by Nick Spill
“So you were sitting out on Dr. Johnson’s patio by yourself and your girlfriend, whom you are very close to, just disappeared from the front room? She got up, went outside and poof! Was gone? And you didn’t hear?”
“Yes. Exactly. That’s what I’ve told you three times already.” Clovis was trying to control his temper. Crispfeldt made calming gestures behind the inspector’s back.
• • •
One hour before midnight the Flamingo Paradise came alive. Locals thrown out of pubs, country boys visiting the big city and one speculative physicist came to the massage parlor.
A giant in a white ten-gallon hat and red cowboy boots was ahead of Henry.
“Geeve me a gurl with biig tiits! I’m from Tex-ass and I wanna gurlie with biiig tiiits!”
Henry thought this a hard act to follow as he signed in at the front desk under the name Stephen Hawkins. He had met the physicist after a lecture at MIT. What would Hawkins make of all this?
Oiled pine planks had been nailed over the existing walls to give the appearance of a Scandinavian health spa. A red lightbulb hung from the ceiling. Two thin women wearing white towels and too much mascara chewed gum behind the counter. They had looked blankly at Henry when he signed up for a sauna and towel, $10, followed by a back massage for $46 plus tip. The Texan in front of him had opted for the personal bubble bath, $60 plus tip, and a full deep massage for another $60, plus tip. The two girls watched Henry’s tight buns in blue jeans disappear round the corner to the dressing room. They put him down for a quick hand job, $20. What a waste. The unposted rates for extras were: $40 for a blow job, no swallowing, $60 for coming in the mouth and $100 for full insertion. French or Greek was negotiable, depending on the girl. She kept half the money and gave the other half to the manager, the big scary guy.
Henry folded his clothes up and locked them in a rusty locker. He put the key on an elastic band around his wrist. There was a group of three farmers on the other side of the locker room who were having trouble wrapping the towels around their waists. The towels were not big enough. The Texan had his back coyly turned away as he unfolded the rolls of fat from within the confines of his polyester leisure suit. He was singing “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” probably to give himself courage, Henry thought.
Henry wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out into the corridor, turned left then right and pushed a heavy wooden door open. He found himself in the sauna. The pine slatted hot box had an electric sauna unit in one corner with dry stones on top of the red elements. He was relieved the three country boys and the Texan did not join him. He wanted some time to himself to think about the last five days. Why had he joined Wiremu and his back door escape? Even if he had gone back to Clovis’s house without Wiremu, he would still be mixed up in Plum’s disappearance. Nothing made any sense to him.
He did know that Plum used to work here, so he planned to casually ask the masseuse about her. If she did not know, perhaps another masseuse would. He could spend the rest of the night getting his back rubbed and handing out unearned tips. They’ll think me a pervert, he mused, or a cop.
Two men clutching their small towels around their distended bellies burst into the sauna. The air became thick with beer and onion smells. Henry sat on his towel and looked down at his penis. At least he could see it. He had a flat stomach, because he hardly ate. His New York diet had consisted of bagels with cream cheese, coffee and moussaka at the local Greek deli. He tried not to stare at the two men opposite as they eased down onto the hot planks.
“Fuck! It’s hot,” the first one said.
“Asshole. It’s a suana!” the second replied.
The intercom crackled and Stephen Hawkins was summoned to Room 9. The two men nudged each other. One of them winked at Henry as if he was going to a rather uncomfortable medical examination. The other whispered good luck. What was the big deal? Henry thought. Mel could do things that most of these girls had not heard of.
Henry wandered through the narrow labyrinth of pine-slatted corridors until he came to the room marked “9.” He knocked and walked in. A Maori girl stood to one side with her big brown eyes cast down. She had long straight hair past her shoulders and a narrow straight nose. She wore the mandatory towel wrapped tightly around her that pressed down her small adolescent breasts. Oh no, Henry thought. Who is going to initiate whom? She was standing by the massage table, a brown vinyl slab six foot long and at least two feet wide, at waist height. He could hear through the thin walls a muffled voice declaiming: “I wanna guurl with biiig tiiits!” How did the Texan fit on this? Did it break?
Henry unwrapped himself and leapt onto the table. He lay on his stomach and put the towel under his chin. He would, he decided, enjoy this. He introduced himself as Stephen Hawkins. The girl did not reply. She was still recovering from her first client on her first day at the Flamingo; an oaf called Lance who would not take no for an answer. She could still hear his whiny Pakeha voice in her ears. “Come on, girl. Your type loves it. Let Lance give it to you for free. It’s unlike anything else you’ve had. The girls in Hamilton can’t get enough of it.”
She poured some baby oil into the palm of her hand. She carefully began to rub it over his back, leaning into her hands with a smooth slow rhythm. At least this Pakeha had not tried to jump her or wave his penis at her.
The smell of the oil bought back memories to Henry: of Saturday nights parked on top of Mount Eden in his little car, trying to unwrap a condom and struggling to remove the girdle of a drunken sixteen-year-old girl. To think girls wore girdles then. The lubrication of memory!
Henry’s mind was jolted back to the present when the young Maori ran her hands down his thighs. He was ticklish there, and she had bypassed his exposed buttocks. As she pushed her palms down his thigh biceps and over his calves, Henry wanted to reassure her that he had no intention of coming on to her. He had a girlfriend, a steady girlfriend. What was the right term? Lover? Paramour? Housemate? Here he was, naked, facedown on a vinyl massage table under a dim red light in a tiny room in the Flamingo Paradise, deep in thought about Mel as the Maori pushed her thumbs into the back of his calf muscles.
She massaged Henry’s feet. He turned his head slightly and smiled at her. She smiled back, her towel still tightly wrapped around her.
“What’s your name?” he managed, as she pulled at his big toes so that they snapped.
“Moana.”
“Ah. Ouch! The ocean. That’s a nice name. What tribe are you?”
“Ngapuhi.”
“Got some good friends you might know.” Henry felt her hands come up to massage his back again. She ran her fist up his spine, not too hard, but the sensation was thrilling. He thought her hands might communicate more than her eyes.
“Do you know Wiremu Wilson?” he asked as Moana worked his left shoulder. Her hands stopped for a second. Then she switched to his right shoulder. She did not answer. It was the last name she wanted to hear in that place, on her first night.
Henry was now concentrating so hard on how to draw out his reticent masseuse that when he rolled over, he did not display an erection, despite his thoughts about Mel.
“Oh. Excuse me,” he mumbled, embarrassed. He took the towel and draped it over his hips. Looking up, he caught her eyes. She was staring not at his limp penis, but at his greenstone pendant. She caught herself putting her left hand to her mouth.
“Where did you get it?” she uttered.
Henry sat up on the bench. Careful to keep himself covered, he held the pendant in his right hand as she stared at it.
“Wiremu Wilson gave it to me a long time ago. I helped him out. He was in a bit of trouble.”
“It must’ve been some trouble.” She could not keep her eyes off the greenstone.
“But not as bad as what happened last week.”
Moana took a step back. Her facial expression changed to one of hostility.
“Who are you?”
“I told you, Stephen Hawkins.” He realized he could
not tell her his real name now.
“Are you a cop?”
“Don’t be silly. Do I look like a cop?”
Moana examined him up and down, as if this was the first time she had seen him.
“You don’t smell like one.”
“Well. That’s it then. Isn’t it?” Henry was upset that there was even a remote possibility that he would be taken for an undercover cop.
“I’ll tell you why I’m here. Okay?” He watched Moana’s face calm down. “Wiremu is a friend of mine. His brother was murdered and placed in a friend’s house in Ponsonby. That friend is Plum Blossom. She’s now missing. Probably abducted. She used to work here. For Terry the Turk.”
Moana tried to hide her shock. She had vivid memories of Hone when she was younger and he would visit from Wellington, the great Maori scholar who was unaffected by Pakeha ways. There were so many confused thoughts and feelings struggling to come out of her. She did not know if she could afford to cry. All she could do was stand there, speechless, trying to control her cheeks from moving.
“I need your help, Moana. I need to know where Plum is,” Henry whispered. He tied his towel tightly around his waist. “It will help Wiremu. It’s absolutely necessary.”
She lowered her head and whispered, “Okay.”
“I’ll have my phone number on the money I’ll give you. Call me.” He walked to the door. “By the way. You give a fantastic massage.”
• • •
Showered and dressed, Henry walked up to Moana at the front desk with the two other women. He slipped her a $50 tip in tens without the others seeing. On the back of one $10 note was his phone number. Moana tucked this between her breasts. Then he openly gave her another $30. She, in some small way, was about to help Wiremu in seeking utu, revenge, for his brother’s death. And the money helped. She would hide the money in a secret place where she lived. One day she planned to return to Hokianga, rich.
Moana had to declare all her earnings to the older woman who sat behind the counter and watched everything. The woman had only to look at Moana to send a shiver of fear down her spine.
As he walked down the front steps, Henry bumped into a small bald man dressed in a black and white houndstooth jacket, accompanied by a huge man who glared at him. Henry tried not to draw attention to himself as the two men walked into the Flamingo Paradise as if they owned it.
“See, we’re attracting young professionals. It’s all in the marketing,” the short man said.
• • •
Henry found a taxi at a stand two blocks north and headed to the address he had from Crispfeldt’s files. At the top of Bassett Drive he walked down a few houses before he came to the right address. The house was down a right-of-way, overgrown with weeds. There was no car in the driveway, no lights on in the house. He knocked twice. The door cracked open letting out a strong musty smell. Henry walked into the hallway and noticed a faint light coming from the door to the front room. He leaned against the door.
“Wiremu? It’s me, Henry,” he whispered as the door moved. He could see a tall beeswax candle burning on the floor and behind, the face of Wiremu slumped in an armchair, staring into the light.
Henry entered the room and sat opposite Wiremu. Wiremu held a branch of kawakawa leaves in both hands that he would rustle every few seconds to the secret rhythm of his mourning. He did not acknowledge Henry.
Wiremu recited a waiata tangi. His voice was low and soft. The words rose from the back of his throat and were joined by tears as he sang for his lost brother.
“Te Po nui, te Po roa, te Po kerekere, te Po uriuri, te Po tangotango.”
“Te Po nui, te Po roa, te Po kerekere, te Po uriuri, te Po tangotango.”
(The great night, long night, deep night, dense night, dark night.)
Henry fingered his jade pendant. The waiata, repeated no more than three notes in tone, mesmerized him. He was filled with sadness. The kawakawa leaves rustled like dead bones.
“He’s gone.” Wiremu spoke in a low monotone. “We started this together. For a cause. We made the Pakeha high. We got rich so we’d buy back our land.” He drew in a deep breath and sighed. The candle flickered, sending Henry’s shadow across the far wall.
“There was a lot more at stake. Even if we didn’t recognize their laws. They are not our laws. We had no say in drafting them.” He paused but remained motionless. “Money. Greed. The god of Manon. That’s the cause. That’s why Hone was taken.”
Henry watched the candle flicker.
“It had to be Hone.” Wiremu turned his head to stare at Henry who gave a start. “I sent him to his death. I phoned him. Told him where the keys were. Hone went to the car. To his death. They thought he was me. They wanted to kill me.”
Henry would have to recount this to Mel before he understood what Wiremu had confessed.
“He’s on a slab now. Being dissected by the cops. That’s the final insult. No dignity for a dead Maori.”
Wiremu bowed his head and repeated the waiata.
“Te Po nui, te Po roa, te Po kerekere, te Po uriuri, te Po tangotango.”
Henry stayed with him, watching the candle burn down.
“Te Po nui, te Po roa, te Po kerekere, te Po uriuri, te Po tangotango.”
• • •
Mel opened her eyes wide when she heard footsteps in the hall, lighter than Henry’s. She gripped the sides of the bathtub prepared to leap out of the water. What if it was the man with the baseball bat, come back for vengeance? She heard the footsteps continue down the hall to her bedroom. The light was switched on, then the feet came back to her bathroom door.
“Is that you, Mel?” Henry whispered. He opened the door.
“You gave me a fright.” Mel sighed.
He took his clothes off in a hurry and slid into the bath. The water flowed over the sides onto the linoleum floor. She eased down to meet his submerged body and feel him press against her. He kissed her and held her as close as he could. More water slopped onto the floor.
“Henry? What’s got into you?”
“You look so magnificent.”
“Have you something to hide? Or clean?”
“Something to tell you, actually. A lot’s happened tonight.”
“You’re telling me.”
“No. Really. I saw Wiremu.”
“And?”
“You know all that stuff I said on the plane coming over,” he started.
“What stuff?” She did not understand what he was talking about.
“You know. About how we should live like free human beings having an open relationship. And we shouldn’t feel fettered, you know, tied to each other.”
“Oh. That stuff.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking. It came to me in the Flamingo Paradise.”
“I hope it wasn’t organic.”
“No, no. You’re ruining it,” he whispered.
“Ruining what?”
“Er, this.”
“This?”
“My a-approach.” Henry found this more difficult than he imagined.
Mel’s expression kept changing.
“Well, I understand why you came to New York to see me. If you hadn’t’ve flown in, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”
“Postcards from Romania.”
“I’d be in a cell in Albania.”
“They’re all the same. Dingy.”
“Anyway. You’re not making this any easier. Really. I’m serious now. I came to this revelation tonight about myself and you. And I…” He stopped.
“Yes?” Mel dared to smile.
“Could you add some hot water? It’s getting cold.”
Mel twisted around to open up the hot tap and push the water back to Henry. His jeans and shirt were soaked on the floor.
“Is this too uncomfortable for you?” she asked.
“I think I sowed some seeds there.”
“Seeds? You said sowing seeds?”
“I should get a call from a young girl working there.
Although I have no idea why a relative of Wiremu would be working in Terry the Turk’s place.”
“Working girl? You know I see them in my practice. What did you do?”
• • •
Plum ate the hardboiled egg and white toast that Terry had left for her on a tray inside her cell. She ate off a plastic plate with a plastic knife and sipped cold milky tea from a polystyrene cup. She felt sick. She finished her toast and burped. She could not get out of her mind the man she had seen outside her window in Ponsonby.
She knew that Terry the Turk had abducted her from the couch she had slept on in Mel’s living room. Had the others been awakened? What had happened to them? What were they doing to find her? What had Terry planned for her?
Her captor had designed the space carefully when he had his basement excavated three years ago. The real basement was only accessible from a door in the long carpeted hallway upstairs on the ground floor. The doorway led to a concrete stairwell. A concealed door in a small closet on one end wall opened into another part of the basement that had been excavated beyond the house’s original foundations. In the hidden basement was a small cell that contained a cot, a chair and a bucket.
• • •
As soon as John had regained consciousness, he had walked back to his Lincoln and radioed to Terry. Terry ordered him to torch the house and drive back. Then John reached into his pockets and found that his keys had been stolen and money taken out of his wallet. Terry, after being contacted again, improvised his new plan and told John to wait in the back seat of the car with his handheld radio next to him, once he had set the candles.
Back in the house, John had gathered together all the spare paper he could find and neatly stacked it in a small closet near the kitchen. He had taken the wax candle from the front room, not the beeswax, and cut it in half. He lit both of them atop the papers. It would be textbook arson. The light from the two candles could not be seen through the closet door and no draft would blow out their flames. He estimated he had about half an hour before the candles burnt to their base and ignited the papers. The house was so dry it would erupt into an inferno.
