A Body to die for

some long-dead desert animal. A cactus reached out in a few directions from one corner. In the center of the room loomed the massage table. Freddie patted it in the middle and said, “Lie down on your stomach. Put your face in the head cradle.” I took the head cradle to be the bagel shaped padded growth at the top end of the table. I did as he asked, fitting my face in the cushioned bagel. I wondered who’d cradled their faces before me, and if they had any contagious skin diseases.
    “Mallory,” he said, clearing his throat. “You’re supposed to take the robe off before you get on the table.”
    I sat up, and shrugged the robe off my shoulders. Freddie watched as I did so. He didn’t stare at my nekkidness. Ergo, he was gay or in need of glasses. I said, “This must be the best part of your job, Freddie.”
    “Some days,” he said. I suddenly hated him.
    I lay back down. Freddie put a towel over my butt. I felt less exposed, but I’ll be damned if he was going to make me feel embarrassed or self-conscious. Piped-in music played softly—some moony new-age atmospheric ditty that was supposed to sound like rain and wind. I closed my eyes. Freddie’s footsteps creaked on the wood-planked floor. “I’ll be putting hot oil on your skin,” he said. “You don’t have any allergies, do you?”
    “Only rude men,” I said.
    “Then we should be fine.” He slicked some hot oil on my shoulder blades with meaty hands. His hand spread out over my back like a velvet iron. With each push and stroke, I relaxed more. His fingers dug into my shoulder like tiny shovels. He scooped and rubbed. The oil burned deliciously, but it smelled powerfully of Ben-Gay. So much for the sage incense.
    “Your shoulder muscles are pretty tight,” Freddie observed.
    “From carrying the chip,” I said. I waited for him to laugh. He didn’t. Maybe he didn’t hear me. I was talking to the floor after all. I loudly repeated, “From the chip.”
    “I hear you fine, Mallory,” he said.
    Humorless fellow, I decided. So light banter and meaningless small talk were out. I said, “When I mentioned Barney before, I meant the guy who was killed here last night. It was in all the papers.” Freddie stopped massaging for long enough to turn up the music. Too loud, I thought. Must be my cue to shut up.
    “It wasn’t in the paper I read.” His fingers came back at the base of my neck. The oil reminded me of junior varsity field hockey.
    “I bet you read the Times.” If any paper didn’t cover the murder, it’d be the New York Times.
    “I read the Mirror, the News, Newsday, the Times and the Post every morning. And there wasn’t anything in any newspaper about Barney’s murder.” Freddie’s grip tightened around my neck.
    “Easy, pal—I don’t have any health insurance,” I said, and tugged on one of his fingers. “Okay, I heard about the murder somewhere else—a friend of someone who works here’s cousin.” I let go of his finger. “Freddie, do that thing that feels like a soft-shelled crab walking up my back. Ooh. That’s good.”
    He was churning me like butter. At the legs now. More junior varsity smell. “Barney was a great man,” Freddie announced. “He taught me everything I know, about massage, and other things.”
    “What other things?” I asked.
    “Janey said you were some kind of undercover cop.”
    “I’m a private investigator.”
    “I’m not interested in talking to any cops.” I made a mental note to check Freddie Smith’s police record.
    “I just said I’m not a cop.” That Janey was due a talking-to, I decided. I could take the inaccuracy. It was the disrespect I couldn’t stand.
    Freddie pressed his thumbs into my heel. It wasn’t exactly pleasurable. He said, “I don’t care what you are. I’m not going to talk about Barney. You can roll over now,” he said, handing me another towel for my breasts.
    I turned over. “How long did you know him?”
    “Long enough.” He started with my arms, stroking and kneading. Then he turned his attention to each individual finger. He yanked on one, forcing the blood to the top, and then released his grip, letting the blood seep back down into my palm. It was divine.
    Freddie cracked each of my toes. Each pop sent a shiver up my leg. Massages were good, I decided. I added them to my list of things I can no longer do without, like Greek food.
    “So,” I said, “what’s a nervous guy like you doing in a place like this?”
    “I’m