Naked Addiction

by Caitlin Rother

  It seemed like an apt theme song for the night.

  Apparently, Sunday nights were slow enough that the bartender could choose his own music, a marked contrast to the monotone bass-thumping noise emanating from bars along Garnet, where the Navy guys and the hip twenty-something crowd hung out. The bartender was polishing glasses with a towel, sliding them into an overhead rack and singing along with Patsy. There were only a few patrons, including a middle-aged man with a three-day beard, hunkered over the bar. He tossed back a shot of whiskey and a beer chaser, pounding the glasses on the bar so hard that Goode was surprised they didn’t shatter. Goode couldn’t picture Tania Marcus there. But then again, maybe he could.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked, without making eye contact. He was a large man with a big beer belly, his T-shirt not quite long enough to cover the hairy roll. His sun-streaked brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail.

  “Some information,” Goode said, pulling his badge from the inside pocket of his windbreaker. “Detective Ken Goode, Homicide. And you are?”

  “Jack O’Mallory.” The bartender hung another glass in the rack and this time he looked at Goode for a moment. “What kind of information?”

  The bartender had a lazy eye, so it was difficult to know where to focus when talking to him. Goode settled on his nose. “There’s been a murder,” he said.

  One-Eyed Jack shrugged. “Yeah?”

  The guy probably played a good game of poker. Goode pulled the photos of Tania and Alison out of his wallet and laid them side by side on the bar as if he were doubling down in a game of twenty-one. One-Eyed Black Jack. He generally found humor in irony, but he didn’t have time for that now.

  “Remember these two women from Friday night?”

  The bartender leaned over to examine them more closely, the towel still in his hand. “I remember that one, that’s for sure,” he said, pointing to Tania. He grinned, exposing a row of crooked teeth. His smile dissipated when he saw Goode’s grim expression. “It’s not her, is it?”

  Goode nodded, monitoring Jack’s face for signs of credibility.

  “Oh,” Jack said, grimacing. “That’s too bad.”

  “Recognize the other one?”

  “No. Well, I don’t know. This place was jammed Friday night.”

  “So why do you remember the dark-haired one?”

  The bartender cocked his head toward the dance floor. “She was dancing over there with one of the regulars. Pretty wild.”

  “Yeah? Who was that?”

  “A young guy, Seth. He was here with another guy he usually comes with, Keith. She came over here and called for a taxi around midnight. I don’t usually allow customers to use the phone, but she was hot, if you know what I mean….It’s a shame that she’s dead. A real shame.”

  One-Eye seemed to be overdoing the mourning act a bit. “How well do you know these guys?” he asked.

  “Not that good. Seth’s got dark brown hair, and—”

  Goode cut in. He needed more information than hair color and he didn’t like this guy’s evasive behavior. “What’s his last name?” he said tersely.

  “You got me.”

  Goode felt his blood pressure rising. “Thought you said he and his friend were regulars here.”

  The bartender pulled a pack of Camels from under the bar and shook one out. “They are, but so are a lot of guys.”

  “Anyone who goes by the initial J?”

  One-Eye gave Goode a “you’ve-got-to-be-kidding” look. “I’m sure there are at least three Jays, ten Mikes and a few Daves. But like I said, I don’t know them or any of the other guys you mentioned that good. Mind if I smoke?”

  “As a matter of fact I do, considering it’s against the law,” Goode said. He was losing patience. “So what do you know about Keith?”

  One-Eye put his cigarette on the counter, probably waiting to smoke it after the law left. “Not much. The two of them have been coming here for about a year. This isn’t really a support group where we bare our souls every night.”

  Goode felt a caffeine-tension headache coming on. He took a deep breath, which sometimes helped, and only half-pretended he was sighing with exasperation. “They work around here?”

  “Yeah, over at the real estate office down the street. Something and Something. It’s right on the corner.” The bartender paused and gave Goode a funny look, bordering on concern. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Goode snapped and turned for the door.

  Outside, he leaned against the wall in the green neon glow and tried to will his temples to stop throbbing. He concentrated on listening to his breath going in and out. He was probably just dehydrated. He knew he shouldn’t drink so much coffee, but he really wanted to stay on top of his game during this investigation. The drug dealers he usually dealt with never noticed if he got anxious like this, because they were always experiencing something similar, only their source was illegal.

  Goode scanned the tacky business signs as he made his way down the block he called Neon Row: KATIE’S POODLE PUFF. WILLIAMS’ OFFICE SUPPLIES. PACIFIC BEACH HARDWARE. LAZOWSKY & PUCCHI REAL ESTATE.

  He stopped, cupped his hand around his eyes to block the glare and peered through the window of the dark real estate office. All he could make out were a few desks, but they seemed pretty cush. The sign on the door said they’d be open for business at 8 A.M.

  Goode walked back along the strip, stopping in front of Pumphouse again for a minute. The bartender was probably lying when he said he didn’t know Seth and Keith that well, probably to protect them, and himself as well. The question was why. He decided to go back in and see if he caught old One-Eye smoking, or doing something else he shouldn’t, like calling one of Goode’s potential suspects on the house phone. He also wanted to ask where he could find Clover. One of his team needed to track her down to see if she knew anything.

  This time the jukebox was playing some hip-hop song he didn’t recognize. The customers had either gone to the head or walked out the back door because the place was empty. Goode didn’t see the bartender until he sat down on a stool in front of the swinging shutter-style doors leading to the kitchen. Just like the ones in the old Western saloons, where you could see people’s legs underneath, and if they were tall enough, their heads, too.

  From that vantage point Goode could see a very animated One-Eye arguing with someone who was out of eyeshot, his good eye bulging with anger. Goode couldn’t hear what they were saying over the music, but when the doors pushed open, he saw a guy backing out, wearing a backward baseball cap. When the guy turned around, Goode was surprised to see it was Jake, especially since he’d never mentioned working there. Jake’s face froze when he saw the detective.

  “Mr. Lancaster,” Goode said calmly, with a little “gotcha” in his voice.

  “Uhhh,” Jake said. “Yeah. . . I just came in to pick up my paycheck. I work here part-time.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me that before?” Goode asked.

  “I didn’t think it was relevant,” he said. “It’s not what I do, if you know what I mean.”

  Jake gave Goode a look like he was supposed to understand, smart guy to smart guy, that this job was beneath the would-be med student, Dr. Jake.

  “Why don’t you let me decide what’s relevant and what’s not,” Goode said. “So were you here working Friday night?”

  “Yeah,” Jake said, “but I was in the kitchen a lot of the time, helping the cook, because he wasn’t feeling too well.”

  “That’s always a good thing—cooking for people when you’re sick,” Goode said. “Did you see Tania and Alison in here?”

  “Who?”

  Goode slapped the photos on the bar. One, two.

  “That’s the girl from the alley,” Jake said.

  “Yeah, smart guy. So, you had seen her before this afternoon, hadn’t you?”

  “I said I didn’t really know her, I didn’t say I’d never seen her before.”

  “You d
o go by the initial J, right?” Goode asked.

  Jake looked puzzled, as if he didn’t know how to answer, then gave him a strange smile. “Well, my mother calls me that sometimes, but I’m not sure that’s what you’re asking.”

  Goode raised his eyebrows as if to say, One false move and I’ll have your ass. “Okay. I’ll see you guys. Later.”

  Goode casually sauntered out the front door, then turned and ran to his van. He figured Jake was sure to be hightailing it to his car, which was probably parked in the back. Goode wanted to follow him and his Saab wherever he might be going now that he’d been rattled. Two encounters with police in one day. That had to suck.

  As he’d suspected, Goode saw an old red Saab driving down the alley at a good clip. Goode kept his headlights off so Jake wouldn’t know he was following, although that would be tough given he was driving the old VW. Not many of them around these days. He was worried about hanging back far enough so Jake didn’t see him, but close enough not to get trapped by a stop sign or red light. Jake drove down the alley for several blocks until he had to turn onto a main street. Goode followed until the Saab pulled into the driveway of a small house a few blocks from where his sister, Maureen, lived.

  Jake stood outside on the porch and took a few puffs of a cigarette before he stubbed it out in a planter, then went inside and turned on the porch light. Goode could see the address matched the one Jake had given him that afternoon. So, he was telling the truth about that at least.

  Goode put on some latex gloves and quietly approached the house by crossing the lawn to collect the cigarette butt. He put it in an evidence bag and skulked back to his van. Back inside, he turned on the light and saw that it was a Camel. A popular brand, he had to admit, but he planned to have it tested just in case.

  From there, he drove downtown to the station so he could drop off the butt for transport to the crime lab and also make some copies of the diary to preserve the evidence, just in case. He wanted to study the diary at home for some uninterrupted reading in the privacy of his living room, this time with a beer in hand, and come up with a plan for the next day. Not to mention catch a few hours of sleep.

  Once he got home, he tossed his keys on the kitchen counter. There were no messages on his answering machine. Grabbing a Heineken, he carried the diary to his black leather lounge chair. He eased into it, put his feet on the coffee table and popped open a beer, taking a long swig before resting it between his legs.

  Goode still didn’t know Seth’s last name so he couldn’t run him through the database, but he assumed the guy would show up for work in the morning, that is, unless One-Eyed Jack advised him to take a quick trip south of the border. In that case, Goode could have himself a little Baja vacation.

  Hell, I could use one.

  He pulled Tania’s photo out of his wallet so he could really picture her while he was reading the diary, and soon became engrossed in the details of her love life. She was never very graphic, so he had to fill in a lot of the gaps himself. Given her appetite for sexual adventure and exploration, chances were that she could have easily died at the hands of a “Mr. Goodbar.” Jake or Seth looked like good candidates, but then so did other men in her life. As he skimmed through the entries, he could see those with oddities, perversions or wives were attracted to her, and vice versa. He turned to a page toward the end to an email message she’d sent to a guy named Zlaviserciez.

  “After disappearing the last time, you looked in my eyes, kissed me tenderly, touched my most private areas and told me you wouldn’t disappear again. I said, ‘I really do like you, you know,’ and you said, ‘I really like you, too.’ I’d ask you to think about how I feel now that you refuse to return my calls. It makes me think of a story a wise old woman once told me about a man who chased the ghost of love: He meets a beautiful girl in a cafe. She’s articulate and intriguing. She says she wonders if she will ever fall in love again. He has wondered that too, and for the first time in years, he thinks maybe, just maybe, she will be the one. He only hopes she doesn’t turn out to be another disappointment. For the next two days, he leaves messages at the number she gave him but he gets no response. So, he asks the café owner if he’s seen the beautiful woman. ‘What woman?’ the owner replies. ‘I saw you talking to yourself. Maybe you should go to a doctor.’ The man is confused, so he makes an appointment for the next day. He spends that afternoon and night feeling nauseated and listless. He lays awake, worrying. Could it be a brain tumor, or cancer? The next day, the doctor can find nothing physically wrong. Asked how he’s been sleeping, the man tells the doctor of a dream about a woman he had broken up with. In the dream, she claims to have rejected him, and this angers him. The doctor suggests that the man see a psychiatrist and try to determine why he can neither sleep nor maintain relationships. ‘Perhaps what you need is a paradigm shift in your thinking and the way you interact with women,’ he says. The man thanks the doctor and takes his receptionist out for a drink. She wants to take him home, but he says no. He feels nothing for her. That night, he dreams about the beautiful woman. The two of them have a sensuous session of lovemaking that surpasses any he has ever experienced. He wakes up and calls her number again. This time, a recording says the call cannot be completed as dialed. He walks into the bathroom, feeling numb, the phone still in his hand. He tries to repress his disappointment, as he usually does, only it’s not working. He stands naked in front of the bathroom mirror, looks into his own eyes and asks, ‘Where have you gone this time?’”

  Goode shook his head with disbelief at how sophisticated she was for such a young woman. What had happened to her as a child that would make her so, well, cynical? He transferred Zlaviserciez’s name and email address into his notebook two or three letters at a time to make sure he spelled it correctly. It looked Polish, or maybe Russian. Based on where it was in the journal, he figured she must have known him from LA, and made a note to look in her phone for his contact info. He skipped ahead a bit.

  I had another weird dream last night. I was locked inside a walk-in closet. I tried to get out, but the door wouldn’t budge, so I started banging my head against it. I became one with the sound and the rhythm of my own sobbing. I realized that I was going to have to take care of myself because no one else was going to. It was a lonely realization, even in a dream, and it stuck with me all day. Why wasn’t anyone coming to rescue me from the closet? Even in my dream, I kept telling myself that everything was going to be okay, but I was so scared and cold that my body wouldn’t stop shaking. Then Christopher, the ad copywriter with the office next door, opened the door with an angelic expression. He was holding hands with a faceless woman. I knew who it was, though—his wife. He’d been so nice when we first met. Took me to nice restaurants, helped me put on my coat, held my hand and kissed my neck until I was a puddle on the sidewalk. I let him in and where did it get me? Feeling used, humiliated. Why did he still love her? She left him, treated him like dirt. Then he dropped me as soon as she came back. Of course, now that I’m awake, I can see what a jerk he’s been to me. Why do I still care about him? Probably because the sex was so good. It’s been six months now and I can’t seem to stop rehashing our time together. Maybe it’s because I’ve just moved to San Diego, and left all that’s familiar behind me. I want to meet someone new to get Christopher out of my head for good.

  Goode added Christopher to his growing list of men’s names. Inserting a pink message slip in the journal to mark where he’d left off, he set the journal aside. A pattern was beginning to emerge. One man after another piqued her interest, but eventually failed to make her happy. They either got the boot or left her, and were never mentioned again. Because he felt himself drawn to her, too, Goode wondered what that said about him. As much as he didn’t like to admit it, he’d had plenty of time to think about this tragic flaw of his. He’d always been drawn to the energy of slightly crazed, addictive, or needy women. He felt some fulfillment out of feeling needed or helpful to them, but apparently what he had to give
couldn’t satiate this type of girl. Yet, just like his ex-wife, they always got his juices flowing. Too bad he hadn’t figured that out until it was too late. The only bright spot was that Miranda had finally stopped showing up in his dreams. He made a mental note to celebrate the small victories.

  Feeling a stiffness developing in his lower back, Goode got up and walked around a bit to get the circulation going before settling down with the journal again. He couldn’t help wishing he’d met Tania. Maybe he could’ve helped heal her, or better yet, vice versa.

  Last night. What a nightmare. It was 4 A.M. and we’d just finished having sex. I guess I should call it fucking because Gregg didn’t seem to care whether it was me or someone else. It was almost as if I were just a prop, a receptacle, to help him get off. He didn’t kiss me the entire time. I faked an orgasm because I just wanted that very small piece of meat out of me. After it was over, I lay facing away from him, my head hanging over the side of the pillow, and felt very sad. Below the waist, my body felt loose and relaxed, but my eyes and my fists were clenched with frustration. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. So I locked myself in the bathroom, lay down on the floor, and silently brought myself to orgasm. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep otherwise. I felt as if he’d stolen a part of me, just like the other times. I feel like I lose something every time I have sex with someone who doesn’t care about me, but I do it anyway. I hate myself for needing it so much. I wonder if I would qualify as a sex addict. I probably shouldn’t beat myself up about it so much, but I do want to stop giving in to short-term gratification. The ironic part is that, with guys like Gregg, there is very little gratification. I keep telling myself I should be more selective, but it’s always, “Next time I’ll say no”. When I move to San Diego, this is all going to stop. No one is ever going to tell me again that I exude sex or that I flirt with every guy I meet. I need to rediscover my self-discipline. Still, how much of this esoteric stuff can be kept in a glass jar if the lid isn’t screwed on tightly?