This One Is On The House

it was sweet duty for a young cop: knocking over a hollywood "massage parlor"

The insurance companies gave William Haike, a private detective, all the credit for solving the Creighton jewel robbery. My editor was interested. He said, "This is the third big one Haike has cracked. There ought to be a good feature in him if he'll talk. Find out how he does it."

I said I'd known a Bill Haike, a young cop, in Los Angeles. The name was fairly uncommon. I wondered whether it was the same guy.

His office was in one of those antiseptic new buildings, rising disdainfully on stainless steel stilts as if holding up its pink marble skirts above Madison Avenue's grime, where you expect to find prosperous publicists, attorneys and advertising agencies, but not a private eye. Furthermore, he had a suite. The prim gold sign on the frosted glass announced, Haike Associates, Inc., and under this, in modest italics, Inquiries and Investigations. The reception room decor was subdued and expensive modern, with Hogarth prints and an original Utrillo on the walls. Mr. Haike was in and would see me.

It was the same Bill Haike.

He had come out of the Army, an MP lieutenant, in 1946, and had taken the first job offered, which was with the Los Angeles police. Because he was quick, able and honest, his advancement to plain clothes had been rapid. He was not large, but compactly built. His features were regular, his hair crisp and wavy, and his eyes a startlingly clear and deep blue. His fellow cops called him "Pretty Boy," but he had killed a child-molester with the edge of his hand, which was why I, covering the story, had come to know him in the first place.

If eight years had put pounds on him, they didn't show under the careful tailoring. His face had fined down a bit, and he seemed more mature, and perhaps wiser and harder. He swung a bar out from under his free-form desk and asked whether I still drank. I told him yes, but not until after the sun was over the yardarm, and I told him why I was there. I pointed out that the right kind of publicity could be very helpful to a private detective agency.

"We don't need publicity," he said. "We've got eight insurance accounts and that alone is more than enough. We dropped all domestic cases -- they're always nasty -- three years ago. Once in a while we take on a private case, if it's interesting and big, just for kicks. But if you really want to do the story ---"

I said I wanted it, and that he should start at the beginning and tell me why he decided to quit the L.A. force and go on his own.

Bill smiled. When he smiled he developed a dimple, and it was this dimple, according to the other cops, that made the women cave in, either wanting to sleep with him or mother him, or both. "That's the part that will have to be off the record," he said. "You see, I was fired. On the books it says I resigned without prejudice, but actually they made it impossible for me to stay on the force. They put me back in uniform and gave me a cemetery beat north of Burbank. Since I lived with my folks south of Santa Monica, I faced 60 miles of driving through Los Angeles traffic just to get to the precinct and back. No man can do that sort of thing for very long and survive.

"Why did they bust you?" I asked.

"Incompetence," he said. "I will tell you the tale."

• • •

It was the practice, in Los Angeles, to rotate the brighter young detectives through all the special units, so that by the time they were ready for promotion they would have a well-rounded knowledge of the department. Bill Haike had made a good record in Robbery and in Homicide, and then he was shifted to the Vice Squad.

In any large city the Vice Squad can be a dangerous deadfall for the young detective. Principally, vice means illegal gambling and illicit sex, and these pastimes are by no means a monopoly of criminals. A Vice Squad cop, if a fanatic enforcer of the laws, can make a fool of himself raiding church bingo parties and hauling in intertwined twosomes from parks and beaches. If he is corruptible, he finds unlimited opportunity for pay-offs, in cash or flesh, and if he is really wrong he discovers blackmail. In addition, Los Angeles is a magnet for odd people and odd practices, and its sins are varied and wonderful.

For the first few weeks Bill drew routine duty casing horse rooms and numbers joints. One day the captain called him in and asked him a series of unusual questions. Had he ever used prostitutes or pimps as stoolies? Was he known in the Hollywood whore houses? Had he ever had a prostitute as a girlfriend? If so, did she know he was a cop?

The answer to all these questions was no, and the captain appeared pleased. "OK, Haike," he said, "I've got a special assignment for you. You'll work under Lieutenant Gilley. Take the rest of the day off and report to him here at six this evening."

"Can you tell me what it is, Captain?" Bill asked.

The captain looked at him curiously. Freshmen on his squad weren't supposed to ask questions. Nevertheless he said, "Gilley is going to knock over a massage parlor in Hollywood. You're going to be the inside man. That's sweet duty, boy, but don't forget that you're a cop, because we don't want to miss on this one."

In certain sections "massage parlor" was the euphemism for a fancy bordello. It was said that in some massage parlors the appointments were as luxurious and sanitary and the services as complete, except for string music and the tea ceremony, as you would find in a house in Tokyo. Bill wondered why it was necessary to knock over this particular massage parlor. So he asked.

The captain didn't answer at once, and Bill knew his honesty was being evaluated. Then the captain said, "We can't afford a tip-off on this one, Haike, so keep it within these four walls. Don't even talk to another cop."

The place was known as Mame's, although not so listed in the phone book. Two nights before, an Influential Personage had invited a visiting fireman from the East, equally influential in his own bailiwick, to sample Mame's. They had arrived drunk, so all they had received was a massage, which was the rule of Mame's house. The Personage had protested, and Mame had ordered him out. When he threatened to close her down, she had used judo on him, and he was suffering from a dislocated shoulder as well as extreme humiliation. Now the Personage demanded that the police department make good his promise. "He made a loud, official complaint," the captain said, "and he has a lot of power. Mame should've been more careful. Too bad for Mame."

When Bill returned to the squad room at six, Lieutenant Gilley was skimming through a stack of confiscated comic books, his beer belly ballooned against the edge of his desk. Gilley was a gross, enormous man, face and hands as red and coarse as commercial-grade beef. He was foul-mouthed, cynical, and had been 12 years on the squad. Reputedly, he was rich.

Three other men were seated around the desk. They were all veterans of the squad, and while they were of different heights, they had all eaten too well, and they had all begun to look like Gilley. They waited, glum and uncommunicative, for the lieutenant to finish his reading.

Gilley pushed aside the comic books and wiped his steel-rimmed glasses. He inspected Bill, skeptically, and spoke. "Now this is an important grab and we don't want no muckin' muck-ups. The captain says they don't know you in the cat houses, and you don't look like no cop, and that's why he picked you to play the mark with hot pants. You ever been on a job like this before, Haike?"

"No, sir."

"Ever been in a cat house before?"

"Not in this country." Beggett, the oldest detective sergeant on the squad, snickered. Bill added, casually, "I don't have to pay for mine, like some old geezers do." Beggett's smile came off.

"I hear," Gilley said, "that up in Robbery they call you Pretty Boy. Well, you're going to need all that charm. This Mame is a cagey bitch and she picks smart girls. If they catch wise that you're a cop, all you'll get is a fast rub-down, a slap on the ass, and then out the door with a sweet smile and 'Come again.' "

"Do I go in alone?" Bill asked.

"Yep, boy, you win the cherries. Only there ain't no cherry at Mame's. What you do get is a professional piece on the city's time. We stay out of sight, outside, until you've had time to get in the saddle. We give you, say, an hour. Then me and Quinn hit the front door and Beggett and Jola hit the back."

Bill was to leave his badge, gun, police identification card, and anything else that would show his occupation, in his locker. "Sometimes, while you're on the table, they go through your wallet," Gilley explained. "They don't take nothin'. They just look." Gilley brought three bills out of his desk -- a 100, a 50, and a 20. The bills were microscopically marked, and their serial numbers recorded in the captain's notebook. "It's a real high-class house," Gilley said. "You'll need one of these -- 20 bucks for a quickie, 50 if you stick around for a midnight encore, 100 for all night and breakfast in the morning."

"What happens," Bill asked, "if all I get is a massage?"

"If that happens," Gilley said, "pay for it yourself and stay away from this' squad room."

Mame's place was a three-story stucco building 100 yards off the Sunset Strip, with chartreuse awnings extending across the sidewalk. A Hollywood photographer and a gift shop leased space on the ground floor. Everything above was Mame's. She owned the building.

Bill went up the stairs. In the second-floor hallway a middle-aged woman, dressed in a nurse's uniform, sat at a receptionist's desk, a switchboard at her side. Bill said, "I'd like to get a massage."

"Your name, please?"

"Haike. William Haike."

"Did you have an appointment, Mr. Haike?" She glanced at her pad.

"No, I didn't. You see I was in the drafting room all afternoon, and I didn't get a chance to call. Anyway the fellow who told me to come up here said it would be all right."

A figure stepped out of the office just behind him. Bill turned. He knew it was the madam, and that she had been standing in the doorway, listening. Mame was tall and dark, evenly tanned, and she moved like a cat. She was dressed in a faultless beige linen suit. Her face was so smooth and immobile that it seemed she wore a lacquered mask. It was impossible to guess her age, but her eyes were steady, wise, and old.

"You've never visited us before, have you, Mr. Haike?"

"No. I've only been in town for a couple of weeks. I'm from San Francisco." He had bought the suit he now wore in San Francisco a year before. The labels, if examined, would back up (continued on page 67)On the House(continued from page 38) his story.

She was silent, estimating him. "I work at Douglas," he said, "in drafting." The aircraft plants were always hiring new people. Some of them would be lonely and womanless.

"Do you know Mr. Peacock there?"

It was an old trick. If you weren't sure of somebody, you asked whether he knew a non-existent person. If he said he knew him, he was lying. "I don't know any Peacock," Bill said.

Mame said, "I only have one masseuse who isn't busy this evening. She's new here, but I'm sure you'll find her satisfactory." She called, over her shoulder, "Nancy!"

Nancy came out of the office. She wore a white nylon garment with Grecian lines, one shoulder bare -- more a robe than a dress. Her blonde hair was done up on top of her head and she wore high-heeled pumps, accentuating her slender height. Her skin was flawless and golden, her eyes merry. She was, Bill guessed, in her early twenties. Mame said, "Nancy, you can take Mr. Haike upstairs to number seven."

Bill knew, from the tone, that he was in. He followed Nancy to the third floor. Her legs were gorgeous, and she was supple and beautifully made.

The third-floor hallway reminded him of a hospital corridor, with its soundless, rubberized floor and heavy steel, numbered doors. They entered the anteroom of number seven. She said, "You can undress here and put this towel around you. I'll be in the rubbing room." She spoke with just a trace of a southern accent.

Bill undressed, hanging his clothes carefully on the silent valet, wrapped the towel around him, and padded into the other room. It didn't look like a rubbing room, except for the table. There was a day bed in an alcove, but it didn't look exactly like a bedroom either. It was more like a one-room apartment, intimately furnished and comfortable. He looked at his watch. It seemed a shame that he could enjoy it for only 50 minutes.

He lay face down on the table and she adjusted the towel casually around his buttocks. She spread oil across his shoulders and back, and her fingers went to work on him, alternately strong and gentle, rippling and kneading. Her thumbs pressed into the muscles at the base of his neck. "You're very tense," she said. "Try to relax."

He tried. It was difficult. He kept thinking about Gilley and the three others outside, waiting to bring the doors down. He had a sudden fear that he could not play his part convincingly if he kept thinking about Gilley. He concentrated on the girl, and the warmth of her hands. She worked down to his leg muscles. Then she said, "You can turn over now."

He turned over on his back and she adjusted the towel. He wondered how to get to the subject. Maybe he shouldn't be too fast. Maybe it was the custom for the girl to put the proposition. He said, "How did you get into this place, Nancy?"

Her fingers stopped. "Why are you so interested?"

"I don't know. This doesn't seem like the right place for you."

Her fingers moved again. "It isn't. I ought to be back in Opawicki Springs."

"Where?"

"Opawicki Springs. It's a little town in Florida. I was Miss Opawicki County five years ago, and I had the lead in the Opawicki Players at least twice each season. Last year Wolfe Brothers sent a camera crew down to do some underwater films. I've been swimming under water since I was six, and they gave me a part. The producer told me I had the makings of an actress and signed me for 13 weeks, at 500, with options, and I came to Hollywood. The underwater picture was a flop, the producer was fired, and I never got another chance in front of a camera. My option was dropped. When my money ran out I couldn't go back home. I couldn't face it. You see, everybody in Opawicki Springs thought I was on the way to being a star."

It was a stock story, but Bill sensed she was telling the truth. "So then you came here?"

"Not right away. I tried other things first -- like living with a director. Finally I decided that if I was going to put out I might as well get paid for it."

"You been here long?" Bill asked.

"Only a week." Her hands stopped moving. "I talk too much. You didn't come here just to get a massage, did you?"

"No, I didn't," Bill said. Her face was only inches away from his, her mouth open, expectant. He drew her down to him, and then remembered the money, and his duty. He released her and said, "Do I pay now -- or later?"

She laughed and said, "Don't you know, really?"

"No, I don't."

"This really is amateur night. I'm supposed to get the money first. Rule of the house. But you can give it to me after, if you want. I think I'm going to like you, and you're going to like me."

Bill said, "Oh, no! I don't want you to get in trouble. I'll pay now." He felt like a heel.

She said, "You know the rates?"

"A hundred for all night?"

"That's right. I was hoping you'd stay the night."

He swung his feet to the floor and walked into the dressing room. She was beside him, holding to his arm. He picked up his trousers and felt for his wallet. He noticed that she looked at his pants, and then reached out her hand and touched the cloth. She frowned and said, "That's nice material."

Bill brought out his wallet and opened it and found the hundred-dollar bill. He held it out to her. She looked up into his eyes, and her face seemed serious and a bit wan. She shook her head no. She said, "No thanks, dear. This one is on the house."

He pressed the bill on her. She only shook her head and backed away, back into the other room. She said, quietly, "Put your money back in your wallet and come to bed with me."

It was a wonderful experience. Bill lost all sense of time. He completely forgot his duty until, faintly, he heard a commotion in the hallway. The door burst open and Gilley stood over them. "All right, you," he said to the girl, "get your clothes on. You're under arrest."

Gilley stayed there while they dressed. Then he said, "Sister, where do you keep the money?"

"In this drawer," she said, indicating the bedside table.

"Did she put it in there, Haike?" Gilley asked.

"No. She didn't put it anywhere, because I didn't give her anything. You see, lieutenant, it was for free."

Gilley opened his mouth, but no words came out. His arms dropped, loosely. At length he spoke, "Why you double-crossing son-of-a-bitch!"

As Bill tried to explain to the captain later, he wasn't really conscious of hitting Gilley. It was simply a reflex action.

So Bill Haike was ordered back into uniform, and told that for the rest of his life he could guard the tombstones and mausoleums of one of the most exclusive cemeteries in Burbank. He turned in his badge and gun.

Two days later he found Nancy. He hadn't been able to get her off his mind. He himself was bewildered by this compulsion. At first he told himself he just wanted to complete unfinished business. Then he rationalized that he had guilt feelings. But perhaps it was only curiosity. He wanted to find out why she had given herself to him free.

He found her home address (a studio apartment in Westwood) through Central Casting. When he walked in she was neither frightened nor angry. She was playing records, and whistling, and packing. "Go out in the kitchen," she said, "and make yourself a drink. Then maybe you can help me crate the books. The express people will be here in an hour."

"Where are you going?" he asked from the kitchen. Wherever it was, he felt distressed.

"I'm going home to Opawicki."

"You will be happy to know," he said, "that I am no longer a cop."

"Didn't think you would be," she said, "after you took that lieutenant apart. You will be happy to know that I am no longer a whore."

"What happened?" he asked.

"I got fired. Mame is very strict. I did the wrong thing. I shouldn't have taken you to bed with me. I should have run downstairs and warned her."

Bill didn't understand at once. He said, "You mean, you knew I was a cop?"

"As soon as I saw your pants worn smooth and shiny over the right hip pocket I knew you carried a holster there. That meant you were either a cop or a mobster. Then I saw the inside of your wallet. Two small holes in the leather, where you usually pinned your badge."

He felt deflated and dejected. "So, being a smart girl, you turned down the bill. You let me have it on the house."

She smiled at him. "No. It wasn't that. If I'd wanted to play it smart, I'd still be working for Mame. But I took a chance. I thought maybe you'd come alone. I thought you were a pretty nice guy, although a cop." She took the drink out of his hand and set it on the table. "And I wanted you. I'm not sorry. Are you?"

• • •

Bill chuckled. "You see, she was a shrewder detective than I was."

"So that's why you left Los Angeles," I said. "Too bad it's off the record. I suppose that then you came to New York and started this agency?"

"Not right away," Bill said. "I kicked around L.A. awhile, and then I opened an agency in Miami. Still have a branch there."

The office door opened and a girl came in, not Bill's secretary nor receptionist but another one, poised and carefully groomed. Bill rose and I rose and Bill said, "This is Miss Chesney. She'll tell you about the Creighton case. She broke it."

The girl looked me over. "Newspaperman," she said, and then, suspiciously, "Is he OK?"

"Very trustworthy type," Bill said. "Knew him in L.A."

"Glad to hear it," she said. "I wondered -- 70-dollar suit but 100-dollar tie, hand-painted Italian import." She glanced down at my wrist. "And that lovely gold Swiss watch -- 400, with the duty."

I could understand how she knew I was a newspaperman -- I had, unconsciously, pulled a sheaf of copy paper out of my pocket -- but I didn't like the crack about the tie and watch. "Not gifts from the Mafia," I assured her.

Her sharp little nose wrinkled. She stepped closer to me and sniffed. Her merry eyes rolled around as if expecting to find a label printed in the air, the way women always do when identifying a perfume. "My apologies," she said. "So you've got a rich girl. And she has good taste. Shops at Bendel's."

"If you're so psychic," I challenged, "tell me what she looks like."

She examined my coat lapels, frowned, and then said, "Let me see your watch a minute." I handed it to her, and she found what she was looking for, one fine hair caught in the stem. "People think she is a blonde," Miss Chesney said, "but you and I know better, don't we?"

Bill grinned. "Nancy," he said, "is the associate half of Haike Associates. I always say she's smarter than I am. Now you know why."