remember, Fletch. My door is always open.”
“That never happened before,” Cindy said. “Marta just opening the door and bursting in that way. I couldn’t imagine what was happening.” They were walking from her car to Manolo’s sidewalk cafe. “Of course, I knew there was something weird about you. Something different. Remember my asking you if you were a cop?”
“You asked me to bust the Friend Service, but not you personally.”
“Just in case you were a cop. You need the sense of privacy that that closed door gives you, you know? Set the right mood, control the client.”
“Satisfy him, too.”
Fletch carried his jeans and his T-shirt rolled up in his hand.
When he was about to get dressed, Cindy had walked into the bathroom and tossed him a T-shirt and a pair of light shorts. “Marta said you were to wear these. She said you understand about public relations.” Across the front of the T-shirt and across the front waist of the shorts was written, in small letters, YOU WANT A FRIEND? and across the back of the T-shirt and the back of the shorts, BEN FRANKLYN.
Cindy had suggested lunching at Manolo’s Cafe. Fletch suggested someplace else, but Cindy said Manolo’s was the in place at the moment.
So they went along the sidewalk, Fletch a walking billboard, hoping no one knew precisely what the commercial message he was flashing meant.
Marta had been pleased to see him wearing the shorts and shirt. His job was secure.
“Of course, Marta can watch us through the mirrors anytime she wants.”
“The mirrors are windows from their reverse side?”
“Not all of them. Just some.”
“What does that do to your sense of privacy?”
“It’s good. Makes you feel safe, you know, in case something goes wrong. In case you get some kook in there, who turns violent or something.”
“You get kooks often?”
“No. But when you sense something might be wrong, there’s a little button you can push in the bar that signals someone to come watch through the mirror.”
“I see.”
“And, of course, Marta sells the seats, and there are the cameras.”
“What?”
“Behind the big wall mirrors, there are seats, in one or two of the gyms, you know, for voyeurs. Old, fat, repulsive, I don’t know what they are. People who would rather watch it than do it.”
“Men and women?”
“Sure. Marta nicks them one hundred bucks a seat.”
“You perform for them?”
“We like to. I mean, supposing we get a reasonably young, healthy guy in there. Like yourself. Marta would have invited you back for a freebie, say, Friday night. You would have come back, and I would have put you through the routine, the only difference being that people would have been watching.”
“And I wouldn’t have known it.”
“All you would have known was that you were getting the routine free.”
“And what would it have meant to you?”
“More money. Also, having people watching somehow enhances the experience, you know? Especially when you’re doing it all the time.”
“Beats the sense of privacy?”
“Sure it does. Haven’t you ever done it in public?”
“Not intentionally.”
“Sometimes Marta rents us out for parties. We do it on the floor, after dinner. A guy and a gal, two gals, two guys. Really turns the old dears on. It’s fun. You’ll see. And the tips are marvelous.”
“You said something about cameras.”
“Yeah, that’s necessary. To avoid difficulties. They’re behind one of the smaller mirrors, in every gym. A videotape camera and a still camera. We get shots of every client.”
“Why?”
“Well, sometimes they’re drunk, or angry, or get frustrated. You know, clients are the same in any business, I suppose. They complain, threaten. If they seem truly dangerous to us, Marta shows them the pictures. That quiets them, you bet. It’s not just that they’re doing this, you know, it’s that the pictures make them look so ugly and clumsy, big, gray guts hanging out, hairy asses sticking up, being beaten by the exercise machines.”
“And the pictures are used for blackmail sometimes, right?”
“Sure. Especially if the client stops being a client, and we know who he really is. Once you walk in the door of the Ben Franklyn Friend Service, a piece of you stays there forever.”
“You’ve made a friend for life.”
“It’s a good business.”
“Yeah,” said Fletch. “It’s up there with a solid law practice.”
“Oh, look. There’s a free table.”
“So,” said Fletch, stretching his legs under the shade of the cafe table. “Are you the prostitute with the heart of gold?”
With his arms folded across his chest, all his commercial messages were out of view.
“I don’t think a heart of gold would pump very well,” Cindy answered. “I have a better place to put my gold.”
“Have you made much gold at Ben Franklyn?”
“Enough to leave the stupid place. Marta doesn’t know yet. Please don’t tell her. We want it to be a surprise, end of the week. Friday’s my last workday. Got something else to do Saturday. Sunday, we’re off to Colorado. For good.”
“You’re escaping.”
“You bet.”
“But, if you’re making so much gold…”
“It’s not very nice of me to say this. I mean, you’re just joining the service, and I’m leaving. I should say only good things, I guess. You may not believe this, but, frankly, Fletch, the Ben Franklyn Friend Service is sort of a sleazy place.”
Fletch tried to look surprised.
“I’m just fed up with it,” Cindy said. “You remember when you were in the reception area that frowsy blond who came in and started kicking up a fuss?”
“Yeah.”
“That was Carla. She was jealous because I got you as a client. She wasn’t even expected in this morning, for cryin’ out loud.”
“She gets first pick of the clients?”
“She gets the first pick of everything. Hours, clients, gyms.”
“Seniority has its benefits, in any business.”
“Seniority! She’s been there three months. I’ve been there two and a half years, since it opened, for cryin’ out loud!”
“There’s jealousy in every business, I guess. What’s she got you haven’t got?”
“Didn’t you hear Marta say something about her wanting Carla to sleep late this morning? Guess who crept out of a double bed, and tiptoed out of a bedroom this morning, so Carla could sleep late?”
“I see.”
“Marta.”
The waiter Fletch had had the day before recognized Fletch. He looked around hopelessly, probably for
