Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [12]
After that first time at the Korean spa, Ann knew that she had to feel the touch and hear the voice of Number 19 again. But it had taken her three months to save up that initial hundred and twenty-five dollars. If she wanted to go again, she would have to be more aggressive in placing money in her personal bank, an old pickle jar where she stuffed extra bills and change from her daily tips. She began collecting her neighbors’ empty soda cans and walking to a recycling shack near the local supermarket and waiting alongside homeless junkies to exchange cans for coins. Three weeks later she rolled the quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies on a TV tray. She came up with fifty dollars in change. With her fiveand one-dollar bills in tips, she had enough to cover the spa.
This time she was more bold in her questions. “You have a car?”
“Bus. Two stops to Hobart.”
Ann knew the bus line that traveled that route.
“What’s your name?”
“No name. Only number.”
Ann asked her questions while lying on the massage table. She noticed that the tear in Number 19’s underpants was getting larger and wondered why she didn’t use some of her tip money to buy a new pair. She ended up not asking her, but the question remained in her mind.
Before she left, the masseuse stared up at Ann’s face.
“Nice,” she said.
Ann furrowed her eyebrows.
Number 19 pointed to Ann’s eyes. “Very pretty.”
* * *
About two weeks later, Marie told her some bad news at work. “The bitch laid me off. Said I talk too much. I think it’s just an excuse because business has been so slow.” Marie ripped the apron from her waist and whirled the combination on her locker in the back room of the restaurant. “It’s just as well. I’m sick of L.A. I’m going back home.”
Ann couldn’t remember where home was, but it was some state shaped like a rectangle in the middle of the U.S.
“You can get another job.”
“Yeah, another one at a dump like this. It’s not worth it anymore.” Marie removed her purse from a hook in the locker and looped it through her arm. “You know, Ann, you might think of moving on too.”
Ann was jumpy all day. She messed up two orders and accidentally broke a juice glass. She was relieved that she worked the day shift and had the evening to herself. When she got home, she noticed that the pickle jar was only halffull of change, not nearly enough for a full salt scrub, but enough for the use of the jacuzzi. At least she could see Number 19. It was early evening on Thursday, past 7:00, so maybe she would be on her last customer. They might even have time to go out, have a cup of coffee, thought Ann.
Number 19 was in the middle of a massage when she arrived. Her customer was a tall, thin woman, about Ann’s size. Ann watched from the jacuzzi, her eyelashes clumping together in the steam. Two other women were in the tub; one had placed a wet towel over her forehead and had closed her eyes.
Number 19 seemed in an unusually good mood. She smiled a couple of times and dipped her head down to her customer’s ear. And then—no, it couldn’t be—it seemed that Number 19 was laughing. Ann wiped the sweat drops from her eyelashes. She stumbled out of the tub, her knees almost sliding on the tile. But Number 19 didn’t bother looking her way.
Ann slipped on her clothes without properly drying her body, so the sleeves of her shirt clung awkwardly to her upper arms. She felt embarrassed about being so upset. This was Number 19’s workplace, after all. She had to be friendly to all the other customers.
Ann left the massage room and crossed over to the driving range to hit a bucket of balls. Since she didn’t have any clubs, she had to rent a nine iron too. She hadn’t hit balls since her mother’s ex-boyfriend had left them. Seven irons were the most versatile clubs, her mother’s ex-boyfriend had said. If you had a decent swing, you could even tee off with a seven iron at a three-par course. You could never go wrong with that club.
She placed a ball on a one-inch plastic