Читать книгу Bath House Murders - Logan Masters - Страница 3

It was roughly 10:30 PM on Friday night…

A young man dressed in jeans and T-shirt, and wearing an Arizona Diamondback’s baseball cap, drove his late model Ford Mustang off a freeway access road and onto a parking lot encircled by a tall fence crowned with spirals of barbed wire. Before exiting his car, he removed the slightly-worn cap and tossed it into the back seat where it came to rest atop a well-worn baseball glove and several aluminum bats.

From this same practically deserted feeder road, one vehicle, then eventually another entered onto the secured lot. Most of the painted lines marking off the more than 50 parking slots were hardly visible due to years of bleaching by the intense desert sun. The lot was practically full. Opposite was an entrance from another road. Occasionally, a vehicle would enter there slowly creeping along in search of some space to park.

Interstate 17 ran north and south, paralleling the access road. A major thoroughfare, it sliced through the heart of this sprawling desert metropolis of Phoenix, Arizona. The roadway’s bright freeway-lighting contrasted the dimly lit, clearly dilapidated, commercial district encompassing the weathered parking area. Spanning from I-17, eastward, lay old-town Phoenix, demarcated by the sparsely traveled access road.

Time worn mammoth-sized construction equipment lay discarded in an open field north of the parking lot, immobilized by thick-coatings of rust, a reminder of compounded seasons of neglect. Against the poorly lit desert-nights sky, these huge metal pieces staged an eerie haunting appearance. To the south was an unsightly barren lot of sand and desert shrubs, another blatant sample of the neighborhood’s fallen-down condition. From this lot’s surface, continuous nightly winds swept sheets of sand, un-slowed by the tall metal fence, sprinkling all the vehicles parked on the other side.

Strategically placed, at several points on the parking lot were undisguised surveillance cameras with glowing red eyes. These captured all movement on the premises.

At the lot’s center rested a flat-roofed, lackluster block-brick building, painted light brown with some portions faded to cream from the years of exposure to bleaching desert rays. The structure reflected an architectural design some thirty years prior. Even when first built, the structure’s purpose obviously had been more functional than fashionable.

Entry into this building exhibited no visible exterior door…

A line of men, seven to nine in number, stood trailing out the entry way, clearly awaiting a turn to be permitted inside. Above them, atop the flat roof, a well-lighted sign shown, approximately five feet by ten feet in size. Painted in dark chocolate letters against a beige background, it read “THE BULGE.”

Just beyond the door way, on the left was a transparent upper-wall of bullet proof glass, placed between those waiting to enter and an attendant doing the checking in. On the opposite side was a mirror that covered the wall from floor to ceiling. The attendant was a large man, in his late thirties, with reddish curly hair that looked cheaply dyed. He had a high-pitched voice and stood positioned behind a chest-high metallic counter.

“You a member?” he asked while looking down to the counter top, appearing preoccupied.

The fellow checking in was the same young man who had tossed his baseball cap to his vehicle’s backseat! He was in his early twenties. Posting a cute boyish grin, he immediately slid a membership card into a dip in the counter just below the glass partition. The attendant eyed it, but not carefully.

The name on the card read “Brice Williams.”

“Okay! What will it be Brice honey?” Then a brief pause and he continued, “Or maybe I should say horny.” The latter remark, made under his breath, was intended for a fellow worker coming from a small room behind him.

Brice, while slender in build, had the muscled frame of an athlete. He was six foot tall, with dark brown hair, and green eyes. He was good-looking enough to turn heads.

“I’ll take a locker, unless you’re running a Friday night special.” The remark clearly was made in jest.

“Listen, sweetie, the only thing special in here tonight’s, me! And I don’t roll out of this joint ‘til 2 AM.”

“It’ll be a locker then, babe,” said Brice.

“That will be twenty dollars!” Uttered in haste, the attendant batted his eyes in a flirtatious manner. Brice winked back.

The others in line busied themselves pulling out membership cards, counting cash, or by daring to exchange a desirous’ glance with another standing nearby. On the glass wall fees were posted: LOCKERS - $20, SMALL ROOM - $24, LARGE TV ROOMS - $29. Smaller print communicated that the fees covered an eight hour stay. Also advertised were an assortment of lubes, lotions, and sex toys, with the prices posted.

In addition, one could not miss the information taped to the wall in big bright red letters:

THIS IS A PRIVATE MEN’S CLUB. IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY HOMOSEXUAL ACTS, YOU SHOULD LEAVE NOW!

As a twenty dollar bill was slipped to the attendant, the latter speedily wrote out a receipt and then motioned with his head for Brice to enter. A buzzer sounded freeing the door and permitting entrance.

On the other side of the door, Brice was greeted by another attendant standing at a waist-high counter who looked to be in his early fifties. He had a receding hair line, was of medium build, and posted a welcoming smile. On that counter was a long narrow metal box, emptied and readied for deposit.

“Please put your valuables in the box,” he told Brice. Simultaneously he nodded toward another sign on the wall.

WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR VALUABLES. PLEASE LOCK THEM UP WHEN YOU ENTER!

Brice instantly complied, dropping his wallet, high school graduation ring, and car keys into the metal box.

“That everything?”

“Yep, Bob.”The familiar remark denoted Brice was no stranger to the man or the place.

With that comment, the lid was shut tight. The attendant speedily shelved it amidst a collection of similar box-slots built into the wall behind him, all with locked covers. He shut the numbered door, sealing in the box with a turn of a key, and then he turned to hand Brice that key attached to a large safety pin. Next, he passed him a medium-sized white towel and a single packaged condom.

“You’re locker #103. Checkout time is 7:00 AM. If you go over that time by ten minutes, you’ll be charged a late fee.”

“I know Bob, I know. I’ll be long gone before then.”

Brice turned to walk into a barely lighted hallway about six feet away. A hackneyed sign, on the wall before him, pointed left indicating the way to the lockers.

Within seconds he was at the lockers.

He took the key and opened the one with his number on it. He took off his shirt. His smooth cut chest showed developed pecks. It was obvious he was no stranger to a gym.

As he stripped away the rest of his clothes, his naked, attractive physique turned the heads of several men walking by. Their midsections enwrapped in towels, Brice proceeded to wrap the towel around his own waste, shut the door to his locker, and then he pinned the numbered key to his towel.

On yet another sign, posted above lockers, read the words: THERE IS A FIFTY DOLLAR FEE FOR A LOST KEY.

The lay-out of this aged facility was divided into three primary areas.

The lockers were centrally located. Just a-bit-to-the-left, one entered a short narrow hallway running perpendicular from the main entrance; this led to the building’s western section. Here began another, broader hallway, where both sides of the walls had doorways opening to small cubicles built into the walls. Each of these was furnished with a narrow bed. Stacked at each end of this long hall were television monitors, streaming gay-porn-videos exhibiting a variety of sexual’ tastes.

Midpoint down this hallway was an entrance to a sinuous maze which consisted of pieces of plywood painted black. Practically without lighting, the design was intended to provide various niches, hiding places, for anonymous sex acts. This maze led to another short hallway moving into an elevated, medium sized carpeted area furnished with a couple of over-sized bean-bag chairs. A carpeted bench, raised some three feet from the floor, ran fifteen feet along the back wall. Anchored from the ceiling above were several monitors showing the libidinous gay-porn.

Leaving that section one returned to the lockers. Immediately past them stood the most central section of the building, a sizeable room housing a nominal gym. All the walls in this central area were covered with mirrors reaching from floor to ceiling. The equipment, worn and clearly older, gave the appearance that what was there was more for show than serious use.

From the gym area, one short hallway led south, to communal showers and a larger than normal steam room.

The showers and steam room gave off the strong odor of cleaning agents. In fact, in just about every part of the building one would get a whiff of some cleaner. Added to this, signage was plentiful about the need for all visitors to practice safe sex.

Beyond the gym was the third and eastern section. It began with a narrow room designated as a snack bar, filled with vending machines and video-games. This provided a place to loiter, or for the loquacious, it offered a place to sit and chat. From there, through a wall of tinted glass panels, which also ran from floor to ceiling, one could look out onto, first, a medium-sized Jacuzzi and, next, a large heated swimming pool, both situated in an inviting courtyard lined with flowerbeds and complete with outdoor furniture.

Located at both ends of the snack bar were entryways into halls. These actually led to an extended, looping circular hallway that primarily was walled, but had four glass doors which exited onto the lovely, inviting pool area with the patio furniture and the impressive, well-kept garden.

Opposite the poolside wall with its four exits, on the hallway’s innermost wall, were doors leading to larger rooms. Inside these rooms, medium size beds covered with clean sheets and pillow cases awaited paying customers who would come in and watch the porn being displayed on television monitors suspended from the ceiling.

Therefore, amidst surroundings capable of facilitating a hormone-driven erotic mission, since it was a Friday night “The Bulge” would be a busy place! In constant, practically pulsating motion men would mix, mingle, and eventually achieve an orgasmic goal!

With the approach of midnight, and after that over the span of the hours when the gay bars shut their doors, as the attendant who had checked in Brice quipped, the facility literally would be teaming with “horny” patrons. Some intoxicated, others drugged! Each with lustful eyes set, probing face after face, looking, hoping to find a Mr. Right—or maybe two or three of them. On the verge of attaining vampire lore, this would happen during the darkest time of night, well before the damning light of day.

Meanwhile, as the line to get into The Bulge grew longer and longer, Brice embarked upon his typical nocturnal stroll through the building’s shadowy premises. First, he slowly walked down the lengthy hallway where the large rooms were located.

An opened door indicated the person inside might be looking for company. The one passing by the door would need to ascertain if he was the right match for the person in that room. This would be accomplished by lingering across from that doorway, to await some hint or gesture to enter from the person inside.

In this context, eyes were powerful agents!

Occasionally, a walker-by would duck his head into the crack of an almost closed door. He might even ask the person inside if he wanted to “hook-up.” It was within this sort of nexus that a sexual contact would occur!

Brice, as he strolled, glanced into several open doors. None of the guys, however, were his type. Most of them were older men, overweight, and out-of-shape. Some lay on their beds naked. A couple along the route were pleasing themselves, their eyes fixated on the porn streaming into the room.

As he walked back through the gym area, he did see several physically-defined men who were his type. Their muscled frames were what he typically looked for in a sex partner. He nodded a greeting to one exerciser, suggesting potential interest, and rotated toward the hallway in the direction of the showers and the steam room.

However, he was stopped short as someone called, “Brice!”

He turned his head right to look into the face of a friend standing a few feet away. As the man drew closer, Brice spoke, “I figured I might see you here tonight counselor.”

“Of course, it’s Friday, and no court’s in session,” came the reply. “How’s baseball?”

Brice shook his head back and forth as he looked to the floor. “I’m still in a hitting slump. I figured by swinging in here tonight I might be able to get some help getting over it.” He broke out with a laugh, as did the friend.

Just then an individual passed the two of them. As he did, he slightly brushed against Brice’s friend. The latter knew what that meant and looked the stranger up and down as he stepped away.

He then looked at Brice, winked at him, and said, “This is worth looking into.”

Brice nodded his agreement. The man started toward the strange, and as he did, said, “I’ll talk with you a little later about that hitting slump.”

Brice resumed his motion toward the steam room. When he reached the showers, only one other person was there. He was another younger man. He had short blond hair and a slender body. When Brice walked up and began to shower, it was obvious that the fellow was aware of his erotic-presence.

Brice immediately got the notion he was being cruised. Although the fellow did fit within the grouping of the men he was used to hooking up with, Brice nevertheless did a quick wash over, retrieved his towel, did a fast wipe-off, wrapped it around him and promptly entered the steam room.

As he entered, billows of warm mist rolled over his firm body.

Inside the steam room, everything was tiled. Along two walls, forming an “L,” was a tiled bench. The level of steam was normally heavy; one could, but just barely, make out the details of a person nearby. It was sizeable area, capable of accommodating at least twenty persons.

As Brice walked in, he saw that the place was packed. It was literally standing room only. Still, he searched for a place to sit. Simultaneously, a couple of men bolted from the bench to exit the room. Heat from the steam would drive men from the room after a period. Brice instantly took one of the vacated spots.

He loosened his towel for comfort. He bowed his head to attempt to adjust to his surroundings. Beads of sweat quickly pearled on his forehead.

“You from here?” Someone seated very close, right next to him was speaking.

He looked up, about to respond, and, despite the foggy steam, could make out the face of a very handsome man with thick dark hair, whose physic was in superb shape and covered with a rich deep tan.

“Yep, I’m from here. Born and raised. How about you?”

“Nope, I’m not from here.”

Brice sensed some sort of accent. But he could not tell from where at first, but he guessed from back east. He was about to ask where the man was from, but the latter spoke first.

“You come here much?”

“I’m a regular,” Brice responded. “Usually I’ll pop in once a week. On a Friday!”

“How about you, you here on business?”

The man nodded that he was.

“And some pleasure,” the stranger commented and grinned showing beautiful white teeth.

Brice smiled back, knowing exactly what he meant by the comment. Accordingly, a sexual pantomime began to unfold.

Taking Brice’s friendly smile as a signal, the man reached his hand forward to begin rubbing along his exposed leg. As Brice watched, he noticed a tattoo on the fellow’s buff shoulder. He squinted to see what it was. Shortly, he made it out. It was a dagger, blood dripping from the point.

Brice moved his hand toward the man’s chest to rub the dark short hairs growing there. His fingers soon touched the nipples. As he rubbed them, he felt a moan of pleasure emanate from the man’s chest cavity.

The man’s hand traveled up Brice’s leg to the erogenous zone underneath the towel reaching his aroused manhood. As contact was made, Brice too let go with a gentle moan.

With this the man spoke, “I have a room.”

Brice nodded consent to go to the room.

The two stood and exited to the showers. They washed thoroughly then toweled dry. The man stepped to lead, but stopped short to look back and see if Brice was following. He was. The latter followed to where the large rooms were.

As they arrived at a door, Brice asked, “Man, what’s your name?”

“You can call me Jimmy,” was the reply.

“I’m Brice.”

With that, Jimmy opened the door. Looking into Brice’s eyes, he gestured with hand for him to enter the room. Brice entered in front of him, as with his other hand the latter squeezed his guest’s toweled-obtruding-buttock. Within seconds they were in the room.

Several strolling by heard the door shut tight, then the click of the lock. The number on the room was #21.