NoHo Noir Short Fiction: 'Happy Endings'

Amanda Gold had a standing appointment for a 90-minute, deep-tissue, aromatherapy massage every Wednesday at Magic Fingers in Toluca Lake. She usually went right after her mani/pedi at Oasis Nail Spa on Alameda, and then if she had time, she’d head over to Altieri Brothers Salon to have Ali trim her hair and Jenny do her brows.

Some of Amanda’s friends teased her about choosing mall salons and off-brand places to get pampered, making snarky little comments offering to treat her if she didn’t have the money to splurge somewhere more upscale. She just smiled and whipped out her black Amex to pay for their lunches or their drinks and snacks.

At Magic Fingers she was a valued customer; at the places where they frequented, she’d be just another trophy wife filling in the gaps between celebrity club rubs. She saw no reason to pay an extra hundred dollars for a cup of iced cucumber water and the chance to wear rubber sandals in one-size-fits-all.

She’d been upset when Nice to Be Kneaded closed in 2009, a victim of the economic downturn. She’d been going there since moving to L.A., back when she could only afford a massage every few months or so. She’d always asked for Martin, the owner, and she’d never been disappointed.

It had taken her weeks to find Magic Fingers—reading up on Yelp, asking around—but the Russian woman who called herself “Marcia” was almost as good as Martin.

***

In fact, Amanda’s favorite masseuse was Bosnian and her name was “Mersiha.” She’d given up correcting her clients when they called her “Marcia” and since most of them paid Magic Fingers directly, tipping her in cash, there weren’t any banking problems.

Magic Fingers

Toluca Lake

2:00 p.m.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Gold,” Mersiha murmured as she walked into the massage room and pushed “play” on the docked iPod. Lush violin strains poured from the speaker. Amanda’s favorite massage music was a 90-minute compilation of many different versions of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. When Amanda told people she liked classical music, this was what she was talking about.

Mersiha sighed. It was a pretty song but a little Pachelbel went a long way with her.

She dipped her fingers into a little cup of oil warming over a candle and spread it across Amanda’s naked back.

Amanda sighed and melted into the table, already so relaxed the massage seemed superfluous.

“I am so tense, Marcia,” Amanda said.

Are you serious? Mersiha thought. What have you possibly got to be tense about?

“My life is so complicated,” Amanda added. “You’re so lucky.”

“Mmm,” Mersiha responded thinking, Yeah, I’m lucky.

“James is having me followed,” Amanda confided, without explaining who “James” was. She always talked about her life when she came in for a massage and knew that Marcia enjoyed hearing about her life because it was so much more glamorous than her own. Amanda’s mother had been addicted to shows like Dallas and Dynasty and Falcon Crest. She’d loved the clothes and the luxe lifestyle portrayed, a life so very different from her own circumstances as the ex-wife of an accountant with sticky fingers and a drinking problem who’d done five years for embezzlement at Chino.

Her mom had had kind of a crush on the actor who played Bobby Ewing too. The one thing Amanda had ever done that pleased her mother was appearing in a TV movie with him. Her role had been “Woman,” but at least her name was on the credits.

“You’re tensing up,” Mersiha said. “Take a deep breath.”

“It’s just James has got me so tense,” Amanda said. “He’s hired a private detective, and now every time I go out, there’s someone trailing me.”

With absolutely no interest in the answer, Mersiha asked, “Why would your husband do such a thing?”

Because he’s an evil bastard, Amanda thought.

“He’s been cheating on me and because we have a pre-nup, he thinks he’s going to get out of this marriage without paying me a dime.”

“That’s awful,” Mersiha said.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Amanda said. “And he thinks I don’t know about the hidden bank accounts and the ski place in Aspen. He’d be surprised at what I know.”

Amanda was quiet for a minute as Mersiha used her fingers to “comb” the muscles on her shapely shoulders.

“That feels good,” she said.

I know, Mersiha thought. It was one of her signature moves, one of the reasons she had so many loyal clients.

“Turn over please,” Mersiha said, holding up a corner of the sheet for privacy. Amanda rolled gracefully to her side and then settled on her back. Mersiha scooted a pillow beneath her knees and another under her neck.

“Comfortable?” she asked.

“Mmmm,” Amanda replied.

A guitar version of Pachelbel’s Canon cued up and the Baroque music filled the massage room like perfume from a scented candle.

Mersiha took hold of one of Amanda’s hands and began stroking and twisting the fingers as if milking a cow. She was starting to get a headache and looked over at the discreet digital clock on the shelf next to the iPod. Twenty more minutes to go.

Amanda said something unintelligible and then repeated it louder when Mersiha didn’t respond.

“Are you married?” she asked.

Mersiha sighed. Amanda asked her that every time she came and it was always a prelude to a litany of complaints about “James.”

“No,” she said, and didn’t elaborate.

“Well, don’t ever get married,” Amanda said. “At least not to an American man.”

Mersiha dug her thumb into the skein of nerves in Amanda’s armpit.

“Ow,” Amanda said.

“Sorry,” Mersiha apologized, annoyed with herself.

“Find someone from your own country,” Amanda advised. “Someone who knows how to treat a woman. And then you hang on to him tight.”

You stupid American c***, Mersiha thought. I had a husband back in Bosnia. A good man who died badly. I don’t need love advice from a whore like you.

“You will find a good man,” Mersiha assured Amanda.

“Oh, I already have,” Amanda replied.

Of course you have, Mersiha thought.

“He’s not in the business at all,” Amanda added.

The business. It always annoyed Mersiha when people referred to “the business” as if it were the only possible career path in Los Angeles.

Mersiha made a noncommittal “hmmm” noise and began the massage’s finale, cupping Amanda’s neck and scooping her strong fingers into the column of muscle and tendon.

She thought, as she often did, how easy it would be to snap Amanda’s neck.

The last melancholy chord of the music died away as Mersiha gripped Amanda’s hair and lightly pulled it away from her scalp, her finishing move.

“God,” Amanda said. “I feel great.”

Mersiha left her alone to get dressed and then brought her a cup of water to sip while she paid the cashier and folded her tip into the little red envelopes provided for that purpose.

Mersiha didn’t have to look to know Amanda had left her a $10 bill, ten percent of the $100 fee for the 90 minutes.

Still, as she tidied up the room and prepped it for her next client, Mersiha was smiling.

James Gold’s private investigator had paid her a thousand dollars to record her session with Amanda. The expense was worth it to the movie mogul because it would cost him millions if his pre-nuptial agreement were invalidated. He knew his soon-to-be ex-wife well, knew she wouldn’t be able to resist talking about the guy she’d hooked up with before Gold had even moved out of the house.

Mersiha retrieved the little digital recorder that had been on the shelf right by the clock.

She didn’t realize she was humming Pachelbel’s Canon in D.