The third time I got shot I was also on the job, but I wasn’t shot by a suspect. I was shot by a fellow cop who suspected me of having an affair with his wife. I got shot twice in the gut and twice in the chest right in the squad room at the 12th precinct with one of those slugs in my stomach, another between two sections of my small intestine (lucky, that one) and two more that went through my right lung and passed out my back. I collapsed on my desk at the 12th precinct I woke up two weeks later having cheated death not just once this time but twice. It turned out that I’m allergic to one of the medications they gave me while en route to the hospital, and then the hospital tried to give it to me a second time.

When I was well enough I sued the city and county of San Francisco, the police force, the hospital, and everyone else my lawyer could think of. The settlement was mid-7 figures. I retired and bought my condo and have been living off of that and a laughable pension ever since. I got to keep my health benefits – and that’s the only good thing I still have from my days as a cop.

It had just been my bad luck to visit a massage parlor that was upstairs from the jewelry shop where the wife of the guy who shot me worked. As for the cop who shot me (who wasn’t working Homicide or even in that precinct) he got 25 years in prison, a divorce, and a cell-mate named Rocko with ugly tattoos on his face and an even uglier libido.

After snoozing a bit and listening to Mr. Getz blow his horn I got changed into slightly more respectable clothes and went downstairs to get a cab to Union Square. If you want a simple dinner and decent drinks it’s hard to beat Lefty O’Doul’s. Sure, they charge too much for some things to soak the tourists but it’s a decent place for locals too. They make their gin and tonics double strong and that’s where my mood was taking me at that moment. So I had that plus a good pasta and chicken dinner and a couple of glasses of wine. I got out of there at about 8 PM and then walked through the plaza to shake my tail.

Understand that at that time of night Union Square is hopping mad. Traffic is piled up and most people are on foot. The only way that the rookie who was following me was going to stay with me was by getting out of his car and because he didn’t do that I knew he was inexperienced at all of this. By staying in his car he had to fight traffic and then head the wrong way up a one-way street – or go around an extra block. By the time he did that I was in an office building on Sutter heading for the massage parlor on the 7th floor.

I hadn’t ditched my escort to be mean or anything; I did it to keep them from bothering the girls where I was going. My rookies were about to witness me doing something potentially illegal, and even though it doesn’t get dealt with much sometimes the parlors still do get raided. If they didn’t know which one I was at (and there were 6 I knew of within two blocks) they wouldn’t risk the all-out assault by the vice squad. If they were still outside 90 minutes from now when I got out I’d let them pick me up again.

If you help get a place raided they all will shun you.

Should I describe to you what happens in a place like this? One where you pay the house fee at the front and then they let you pick out your girl? One where you are led back to a room with its own shower and massage table by a girl who puts your hand on her ass while you walk back? One where the girl dries you off carefully when you step out of the shower and whose wardrobe can be counted on 2 fingers?

Do I really need to spell it out for you?

I emerged from the building 75 minutes later relaxed, refreshed and libido liberated, then walked two doors east before trying to spot the detectives who had been tailing me. I knew they had to be around somewhere, trying to reacquire me. It took me a moment but I found them down the street and across the way with a third person; Detective Alex Martin, Homicide. Not a friend, but someone I had worked with. I walked over to them.

“Alex,” I said. “They have you on babysitting duty tonight?”

Alex held out his hand and we shook. “A little teaching is all,” he replied. He turned to the two uniforms. “You see, he wasn’t trying to run anywhere. He just ditched you to pursue his hobby.”

“I did at that,” I interjected. “Sorry about that boys, but I couldn’t have you bothering my custom.”

Both young uniforms frowned at me. “So you admit that you were off committing a crime,” the taller of the two said.

“I never said that,” I replied.

Alex stepped in between before anything could escalate. “Drop it, everyone.” He looked at the other policemen. “You just alibied him.” He turned to me. “I don’t know if I should be disgusted or relieved. Your hobby just kept you from being arrested for murder.”

Now I was lost. “Come again?” I asked.

Alex sighed. “You don’t even know. It’s happened again. 6 dead – all adults this time.”

“Another massage parlor got hit?” I asked, incredulous. If this were true then every parlor in the city would be closed tomorrow and probably for a long time to come.

“No, a house in Pacific Heights. Same M.O., right down to the surprise and the policed brass. Captain asked me to come find you and bring you over and you were busy losing your escort.”

“Well shit,” I said. This was truly bad. 19 murders in less than 24 hours. There were war zones with less killing in them. I took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”