“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.
“Here you go, Andy,” Bobbie said, and smiled. “Scotch and water.”
“Thank you,” Carella said, and carried the drink to one of the wicker chairs.
“You’ve been here before, I take it,” Bobbie said.
“No, I’ve never been here before. Or any massage parlor, for that matter.”
“Then how do you know Steff?”
“A friend recommended the place to me.”
“Oh, and he liked Steff, huh?”
“Yes.”
“She must’ve liked him, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well... she’s Shana, you know.”
“Here, you mean.”
“Yeah. Shana. That’s her name here. That’s a nice name, I think. Shana.”
“Bobbie’s nice too.”
“Well, it’s not bad,” Bobbie said, “but Shana’s better. If I had it to do over again, I think I’d call myself something like Shana. Maybe Sherry. Something like that.”
“Mm.”
“Though there’s a lot of Sherrys around.”
“There’s a lot of Bobbies around, too,” Lauren said.
“But not a lot of Shanas. That’s my point Steff picked a good one. I wonder where she got it from.”
“There was once a Shana, Queen of the Jungle,” Lauren said.
“No, that was Sheena.”
The door to the reception room opened and a short fat man smoking a cigar came into the lounge. He was wearing a heavy brown overcoat that seemed to weigh him down. His shoulders were slumped, his face was windblown, his hair was disarrayed. He came puffing into the room, and the first thing he said was, “I need a drink. Fix me a drink, Blondie.”
“It’s Bobbie,” Bobbie said.
“Great, it’s Bobbie,” the fat man said. “Fix me a bourbon and water.”
“We don’t have any bourbon.”
“Great,” the fat man said.
“We ran out just a little while ago,” Lauren said. “We had a lot of bourbon-drinkers today.”
“Great,” the fat man said again, and puffed violently on his cigar. He looked distraught to the point of tears. It almost seemed he had come in here for the bourbon rather than the pleasure of the company.
“How about some rye?” Bobbie said. “That’s like bourbon.”
“Okay, rye,” he said. “Rye and water.”
“Could I have your pink slip, please?” Bobbie said, and the fat man handed it to her.
Carella hadn’t yet figured out the accounting system. Bobbie had written nothing on either of the pink slips; she had merely placed them on the bar, under an ashtray. Sitting in the wicker chair, sipping at his drink, he studied first the louvered doors on his right and then the bamboo-covered door just beyond the far end of the bar.
Lauren was still watching him. “Drink all right?” she asked.
“Yes, fine.”
“Colder’n a witch’s tit out there,” the fat man said.
“One more guy says that today,” Lauren said, and rolled her eyes. “You sure you want to wait for Shana?” she asked Carella.
“Yes,” Carella said.
“I mean, it’s only your friend’s hearsay, am I right?”
“That's right, but I promised him I’d look her up.”
“Because I’m getting nice vibes from you,” Lauren said. “I think we could get along nicely, you and I.”
“We probably could,” Carella said. “But really, I promised my friend. Maybe some other time.”
“Maybe,” Lauren said, and turned her attention to the fat man, who accepted the drink from Bobbie and swallowed it almost in one gulp.
“What a day I had today,” he said.
“Yeah,” Bobbie said, and nodded. “Saturday’s always a rough day.”
“Let me have another one of these, okay?” the fat man said. “What a day.”
The bamboo-covered door at the far end of the bar opened and a girl walked into the room. Her eyes were a gray the color of smoke, heavily fringed with thick lashes, the lids lightly touched with blue liner. Her blond hair was cut in something resembling a Dutch-boy bob, bangs on the forehead, a shingle effect at the back of her head. High cheekbones, a sweeping profile that curved delicately into her neck and shoulders. She was tall and slender and was wearing the same abbreviated costume the other girls wore. She said “Hi” to everyone and to no one in particular, and then walked through the other door and out into the reception room.
“That was Shana,” Lauren said.
In a moment she came back into the room, looked around, smiled at Carella, smiled at the fat man, and then said, “Everybody happy here?”
“Shana,” Carella said, “a friend of mine suggested that I ask for you when I—”
“I’m taking the big blonde,” the fat man said.
Carella turned to him.
“Yeah, you heard me, pal.”
“There’s plenty of everybody to go around,” Lauren said. “Let’s not argue about it, okay, fellas?”
“There’s no argument,” the fat man said. “I had a hard day. You want the big blonde, you can have her later. Right now I’m ready for my session.”
“Here’s your drink,” Bobbie said.
“Thanks,” the fat man said.
“What’s your name?” Shana asked him.
“Arthur.”
“Let me have Arthur’s slip,” Shana said.
“It’s under the ashtray.”
“How long did you plan on being here?” Carella asked pleasantly.
“What’s it to you?” Arthur said, and puffed on his cigar and then took a swallow of the fresh drink.
“You said I could have Shana later, I just wanted to know how much later.”
“That’s none of your business,” Arthur said, and puffed on the cigar again.
“What does it say on the pink slip, Shana?” Carella said.
“It says two hours on the pink slip,” Arthur said. “That’s what it says on the pink slip.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
“That’s tough noogies.”
“I’d like to talk to you a minute.”
“What about?”
“Something personal and private. Is there someplace we can talk personally and privately?”
“Try the toilet,” Lauren said.