I AM LYING FACEDOWN on the leather-padded massage table clad immodestly in my heather-gray briefs while a curvaceous masseuse in a rather abbreviated nurse’s uniform strokes my left hand, one finger at a time. Seductive music—Ravel’s Bolero, I believe—floats on the jasmine-scented air.
Lest you think you walked in on an opiate-induced pipe dream, let me state that I am in the offices of Touch Therapy—A New-Age Approach to Subliminal Relaxation and Human Bonding. This enterprising establishment is located on a pricey stretch of Via Bethesda in pricey Palm Beach, Florida. My auburn-tressed bonding therapist is called Bunny. Probably no relation to Mr. Hefner’s crew, but in her Florence Nightingale attire she looks ready to join the warren.
We are in the converted family room of a former dwelling that has been stripped of all amenities except for a plush rag, the table, a couch that becomes a bed at the flip of a lever, and the type of screen one finds in doctors’ offices. Bunny instructs me to undress behind the screen, stretch out on the table and concentrate on my navel. Well, I think she said navel. With that she leaves the room.
I note the room has another door behind the screen, and it is from this door Bunny emerges, materializing from behind the screen like a benevolent specter. She takes hold of my hand, raises my arm, then releases her grip. My arm remains rigid.
“Tense, tense, tense, Mr. Davis. That will never do. Go limp, go limp,” she implores.
Again she raises my arm and lets go. This time I allow it to sag somewhat.
“Better,” she sighs, “but not much. We have a long way to go, Mr. Davis.”
She fiddles with my fingers then runs a cool hand down my spine, vertebra by vertebra; when she reaches the bottom she giggles. “Oh, Mr. Davis, you naughty man.”
I assume she has just noticed the elastic waistband of my shorts, which are embroidered with the famed biblical scene of Eve being tempted by the serpent. Quite adorable, actually.
I sense the moment has come. If Bunny is a licensed masseuse, I am Linus Pauling. “Your lovely receptionist told me you offered three human bonding techniques to achieve total subliminal relaxation,” I tell her.
“That’s correct, Mr. Davis. Her name, by the way, is Honey. For three hundred dollars we perform the standard hands-on bonding. For double that sum, we offer a more intense approach wherein the therapist interacts with the client in the buff, so to speak.”
“In the buff? You or the client?”
“For a thousand dollars, Mr. Davis, I open the specially designed therapy couch and it’s your call. Honey, by the way, is also a skilled therapist. For two thousand dollars we work as a team. Now if you’ll roll over...”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Bunny.”
“Come, come, Mr. Davis. No need to be shy. I’m here to relieve the tension. We’ll begin with a simple hands-on and work up from there.”
“Well, if you insist, Bunny.” I roll over, she gawks, then screams. “There, there, Bunny, nothing to be afraid of.” I reach into my shorts and pull out the transmitter. “Welcome to Candid Radio. We’re on the air to several witnesses in my office and being recorded as well. Would you like to give us a few choruses of Love For Sale?”
“Why, you...”
“Easy, Bunny. The technicians must bleep all expletives.”
“What the hell do you want from me?”
“Glad you asked,” I say. “For starters, I want the snaps you took of Mr. Randolph Seymour as the two of you bonded on the Castro convertible. You remember, Bunny, the ones you wanted to sell to Mr. Seymour for ten thousand bucks or, should he refuse, give to his wife for free. I would strongly advise you and Honey to fold up your massage table and move on. I intend to give your radio performance, which includes the Touch Therapy menu, to the police in twenty-four hours.”
Looking around, I added, “By the way, where is your photographer? I’m guessing behind the screen. Hi, Honey, come out, come out, wherever you are.”
“Who the hell are you?” Bunny cries, still slightly dazed. A transmitter is the last thing she expects to see popping out of my shorts.
Honey comes flying out from behind the screen waving the business card she had no doubt taken from the wallet I had foolishly left in the inside pocket of my jacket.
“His name isn’t Davis,” Honey bellows, “it’s McNally. Archy McNally, Discreet Inquirer.”