one-twenty in the wet room, one-eighty in the sauna," George said. "Five minutes of that be all you can take."
"Call me in ten."
George watched the glass door, smiling a little to himself. He folded some towels, opened and shelved a carton of soap. Ten minutes, the man say. Like to see the man could take ten on them hot teak boards. First couple minutes go easy; then it start to get hot. Ten minutes. George chuckled. Door be opening any minute now. Big man be out, gasping like a catfish on the bank. He looked at the clock. Five minutes almost up. Through the clear glass he saw the scarred man sitting bolt upright, swinging his arms. Hoo-ee! That white man crazy, have to watch him, get him out when he faint . . .
"That fellow's asking for a heart attack," the old man spoke suddenly beside George. He had come up silently, rubber-sandaled. He ruffled his wispy hair with a towel. "What was that he said about poison?"
"Booze, doctor," George said. "He meant the booze. Smell it on him."
It was eleven minutes before the scarred man strode from the dry-heat room, his body pouring with sweat. A sickly odor of alcohol hung thick about him. George stared.
"Cold water?" the big man said curtly.
"Deluge showers, right to your right." George pointed.
"Good way to get yourself a coronary attack," the old fellow called after him.
The scarred man stood in the stall, dousing himself with icy water. He breathed in great, shuddering gulps. Afterward he spent ten minutes in the steam room, ten more in the sauna, showered again. By then the reek of raw alcohol had dissipated.
"You know massage?" he asked George. George's wide black face crinkled in a smile.
"Some say I do pretty good." He nodded toward the padded table. The scarred man waved aside the proffered towel, stretched out face down. His back was solidly muscled about the shoulders, tapering sharply to a lean, hard waist. A deep scar ran down across the left trapezius to end near the spine. Lesser scars—lines, pocks, zigzags—were scattered over his hide in random distribution. Under
George's hands, the flesh felt hard, ropy.
"You ever in the ring?" the masseur inquired.
"Not much."
"That fight racket no life for a man."
"Harder," the scarred man said. "I want to feel it."
"Got to be careful," George chuckled. "Man come home with bruises, his sweety wonder why."
"Say," the old man said. "Mind if I ask how you got the scars?"
The big man turned his head to look at him.
"I'm a doctor, a medical doctor," the old fellow said. "I've never seen anything quite like the way you're marked up."
"I got them in the wars," the big man said. George shot the oldster a pursed-mouth look.
"Don't shush me, George," the old man said. "My interest's legitimate."
"Got a little rheumatism there?" George asked. His hard, pink-palmed hands explored a lump under the client's skin. The elderly medical man came over, frowned knowingly down at the man stretched on the table.
"Be careful, George," he ordered. "You take it easy with those hands of yours." He leaned for a closer look at the deep fissure, keloid-ridged, that crossed the kidney region.
"Feel like some kind of lump there," George said. "Feel hot, too." He stepped back, looking at the doctor. The old man's thin fingers ran over the visible swelling at the lower edge of the prone man's ribs.
"Why, there's a bullet lodged in there," he said. "You been shot, mister?"
"Not recently."
"Hmmm. Must have entered along here . . ." The thin old finger traced up along the big man's side. "Right here," he said. "Here's your point of entry. Traveled right along the rib cage—"
The medical man broke off, staring at an angry, reddish swelling developing at the spot under which the bullet lay.
"George, what did you do, gouge in with those big thumbs of yours? I told you to take it easy!"
"I never bear down on that place, doctor. I feel it right away and take it real gentle."
"You lie easy, mister,"
"Call me in ten."
George watched the glass door, smiling a little to himself. He folded some towels, opened and shelved a carton of soap. Ten minutes, the man say. Like to see the man could take ten on them hot teak boards. First couple minutes go easy; then it start to get hot. Ten minutes. George chuckled. Door be opening any minute now. Big man be out, gasping like a catfish on the bank. He looked at the clock. Five minutes almost up. Through the clear glass he saw the scarred man sitting bolt upright, swinging his arms. Hoo-ee! That white man crazy, have to watch him, get him out when he faint . . .
"That fellow's asking for a heart attack," the old man spoke suddenly beside George. He had come up silently, rubber-sandaled. He ruffled his wispy hair with a towel. "What was that he said about poison?"
"Booze, doctor," George said. "He meant the booze. Smell it on him."
It was eleven minutes before the scarred man strode from the dry-heat room, his body pouring with sweat. A sickly odor of alcohol hung thick about him. George stared.
"Cold water?" the big man said curtly.
"Deluge showers, right to your right." George pointed.
"Good way to get yourself a coronary attack," the old fellow called after him.
The scarred man stood in the stall, dousing himself with icy water. He breathed in great, shuddering gulps. Afterward he spent ten minutes in the steam room, ten more in the sauna, showered again. By then the reek of raw alcohol had dissipated.
"You know massage?" he asked George. George's wide black face crinkled in a smile.
"Some say I do pretty good." He nodded toward the padded table. The scarred man waved aside the proffered towel, stretched out face down. His back was solidly muscled about the shoulders, tapering sharply to a lean, hard waist. A deep scar ran down across the left trapezius to end near the spine. Lesser scars—lines, pocks, zigzags—were scattered over his hide in random distribution. Under
George's hands, the flesh felt hard, ropy.
"You ever in the ring?" the masseur inquired.
"Not much."
"That fight racket no life for a man."
"Harder," the scarred man said. "I want to feel it."
"Got to be careful," George chuckled. "Man come home with bruises, his sweety wonder why."
"Say," the old man said. "Mind if I ask how you got the scars?"
The big man turned his head to look at him.
"I'm a doctor, a medical doctor," the old fellow said. "I've never seen anything quite like the way you're marked up."
"I got them in the wars," the big man said. George shot the oldster a pursed-mouth look.
"Don't shush me, George," the old man said. "My interest's legitimate."
"Got a little rheumatism there?" George asked. His hard, pink-palmed hands explored a lump under the client's skin. The elderly medical man came over, frowned knowingly down at the man stretched on the table.
"Be careful, George," he ordered. "You take it easy with those hands of yours." He leaned for a closer look at the deep fissure, keloid-ridged, that crossed the kidney region.
"Feel like some kind of lump there," George said. "Feel hot, too." He stepped back, looking at the doctor. The old man's thin fingers ran over the visible swelling at the lower edge of the prone man's ribs.
"Why, there's a bullet lodged in there," he said. "You been shot, mister?"
"Not recently."
"Hmmm. Must have entered along here . . ." The thin old finger traced up along the big man's side. "Right here," he said. "Here's your point of entry. Traveled right along the rib cage—"
The medical man broke off, staring at an angry, reddish swelling developing at the spot under which the bullet lay.
"George, what did you do, gouge in with those big thumbs of yours? I told you to take it easy!"
"I never bear down on that place, doctor. I feel it right away and take it real gentle."
"You lie easy, mister,"
Similar Books
Overtime
David Skuy
To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him
Gwendolyn Zepeda
Sinful Cravings
Samantha Holt
She Loves Me Not
Wendy Corsi Staub
Heartbreak of a Hustler's Wife: A Novel
Nikki Turner
Son of the Dragon (The Netherworld Gate Book 3)
Sam Ferguson
Pearls for Jimmy
Maureen Gill
Roman Summer
Jane Arbor
Christopher Golden - The Veil 01 - The Myth Hunters
The Myth Hunters