Five minutes later, Joan buzzed him. “Two p.m.,” she said. “Her name is Celia.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“You requested availability, not beauty.”
“Is she good?”
“You didn’t request good, either, but seeing that she’s available on such short notice, I wouldn’t be too optimistic about her skills.”
“Joan, just being around you fills me with hope.” He hung up and went to the kitchen to make himself a ham- and-Swiss on whole grain with mayo and honey mustard. Since he planned to spend the early part of the afternoon semiconscious anyway, he treated himself to a cold Heineken, as well.
At two o’clock sharp the phone buzzed in Stone’s bedroom. “She’s here,” Joan said. “Shall I send her up?”
“Please do. Is she beautiful?” But Joan had already hung up. A moment later he heard the elevator door open, and he rose to greet the masseuse. The sight of her caused a sharp intake of breath.
She was more than just beautiful; she was a giant of a woman, at least six-two, his own height. As he shook her hand and introduced himself, he measured: He hoped she was wearing heels, because he came up to about her eyebrows.
“I’m Celia Cox,” she said.
“How do you do, Celia. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I had an appointment with someone else, but she didn’t show up.”
“That’s very unprofessional,” she said. “Is right here good for my table?” She pointed to the foot of the bed.
“Perfect,” he said. “May I ask how tall you are?”
“Six-three,” she said. “The shortest of three sisters.”
The mind boggled. “You carry your height beautifully,” he said.
“Thank you. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me about my size.”
He could not begin to guess her weight, but whatever it was, it was perfect. And all of her went very well with the long chestnut hair that spilled around her shoulders. When she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it, he thought her nose and her jawline were perfect, too. And her eyes were a deep green.
She spread her sheets over the table, affixed the face cradle and patted the leather top. “You hop up here, face down, while I wash my hands. Bathroom in here?” She pointed.
“Yes, help yourself.” Stone tossed his robe onto the bed and crawled under the top sheet, settling his face into the cradle.
She returned after a moment. “Any special problems I should know about?”
“Yes, I suffered a fall onto my back on the sidewalk yesterday, and I’m pretty sore and stiff.”
“Do you suspect any skeletal problems?”
“No, I don’t think so; just muscular.”
He heard her squirt something, then rub her hands briskly together. “I apologize if my hands are cold,” she said, placing them on his back gently.
“They feel very good,” he said.
“I’m going to go over your back and shoulders lightly, and I want you to tell me if what I do makes you hurt in any particular place.” She did so. “How was that?” she asked.
“Wonderful.”
“May I go deeper, do you think?”
“Yes, please.”
She went deeper and covered everything from his neck to his heels. “Okay,” she said, holding up a sheet, “you can turn over on your back now. Do you need any help?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said, turning over.
She began massaging an arm. “Who was the masseuse who stood you up?” she asked.
Stone nodded at the bedside table. “Her card is over there,” he said. “Her phone number didn’t work.”
Celia went and got the card. “I know her,” she said. “Her name is Marilyn Martin; we both used to work at the same day spa.” She began working on his arm again. “Last I heard, she wasn’t working anymore, she’d moved into an apartment that some lawyer is paying for, guy with a funny name.”
“Wouldn’t be Bernard Finger, would it?”
“That’s it! Do you know him?”
“Only slightly. He’s the opposition in a personal-injury suit I’m working on.”
“Flashy kind of guy. I saw them in a restaurant once; she was wearing a lot of jewelry. So was he, come to think of it.” She began working on his other arm. “I think he’s married.”
“That’s kind of sore,” Stone said. “I must have fallen more on that side.”
“I’ll spend a little extra time on it. Are you in a rush?”
“God, no. You can take all afternoon, if you want to.”
She laughed. “I don’t have that much time, I’m afraid; I was able to come to you only because one of my regular clients was ill.”
“Can we set up a regular time?” he asked.
“My schedule is full, but I could call you when I have a cancellation.”
“Yes, please.”
She worked silently on the arm and shoulder, then she moved to the top of the table and began massaging his neck, then his face and scalp. She finished slowly. “There,” she said. “Is that better?”
“Oh, yes,” Stone sighed. “I could go to sleep.”
“That’s a good idea,” she said, “but lie on your back, with a pillow under your knees.”
Stone sat up. “I have an electric bed that can elevate my knees,” he said.
“Good idea.” She took his hand, led him to the bed and tucked him in.
“Celia,” he said, then he hesitated.
“Yes, I would,” she said.
“Would what?”
“Would like to have dinner with you sometime.”
“How did you know I was going to ask you?”
“It was pretty obvious when you turned over onto your back,” she said.
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow night would be better.”
“Great. Shall I pick you up at say, eight?”
“It would be better if we met.”
“Do you know Elaine’s?”
“I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know where it is.”
“On Second Avenue, between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth. At eight-thirty?”
“Perfect,” she said, laying a card on the bedside table. “My cell number is there, should you need to reach me. How should I dress?”
“You can wear anything from jeans to a ball gown at Elaine’s; I’d suggest fairly casual.”
“I can do that,” she said.
“Just one thing: You don’t work for Bernard Finger, do you?”
“No, I certainly don’t.”
“Joan will have a check for you downstairs.”
She put her cool hand on his forehead for a moment. “There,” she said, “sleep.”
He followed her instructions to the letter.
11
As Stone left his house that evening to look for a cab to Elaine’s, a black Lincoln that was double-parked a couple of doors up the street started to move slowly. He looked over his shoulder, as if looking for a cab, which he
