“I’m watching that,” the woman said, sitting next to him.
“You really a nympho or is that just an act?”
“We all got our demons.”
“This and the heroin you was shootin’ up before I got here? Did the guy you were with jump off the balcony?”
“Don’t look at me like that, Stephen. I hate when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some whore that you can just come over and fuck whenever you want.”
He grabbed her by the back of the head and pulled her close. He put his lips over hers and ran his tongue inside her mouth and then said, “You are.” He pinned her arms down on the couch and spread apart her nightgown as he unzipped his pants and entered her. The sex was rough and she slapped him hard several times. By the end they were both drenched in sweat.
Gunn rolled off her and they lay on the couch as the porno kept playing. He reached over to the remote and changed it to a baseball game.
“You got anythin’ for me?” Gunn said.
“No. Everything’s really quiet. No one’s making any moves.”
“What about our friend Ricardo?”
“No, he’s laying low.” She sat up, pulling her nightgown over herself. “If I didn’t let you fuck me, what would you do?”
“I’d arrest you for the dope you got in here and then call your parole officer and have you sent back to prison.”
“Would you really do that? I know you threaten it ‘cause you think you need to to get what you want, but would you really do that to me?”
He pushed her out of the way to watch the screen. “Yes.”
She stood up quietly and went to the bathroom. There was the sound of the shower and she came out some time later in jeans and a sweatshirt. She collapsed onto the La-Z-Boy next to the television and began to nod off. Gunn watched her a while and shook his head.
“That shit’s gonna kill you.”
“I know.”
“Do you wanna die?”
“Yes.”
“Jaime, drop the shit. Let’s get you cleaned up. Aren’t you sick of livin’ like this?”
“You’re one to judge me,” she said, her eyes closing for a moment and then darting wide again.
He sat up and guzzled the rest of his beer. Gunn went back to the fridge and took out another before going back to the couch. He saw her head leaned back on the chair and her eyes closed. He’d dealt with her enough to know she wouldn’t actually be asleep for the next six or seven hours.
“If I asked you to marry me,” he said, “would ya?”
“Yes.”
“Would you get clean for me?”
“I don’t wanna get clean.”
There was a moment of quiet and then he said, “Do you have other guys like me?”
“What’d ya mean?”
“Do you have guys that come over and fuck you and sleep in your bed? Do you cook them breakfast?”
“Yes, I cook them breakfast.”
“How many other guys?”
“I don’t know.”
“Five?”
“Maybe.”
“Ten?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
He took a swig of beer. “You are a whore. And you’re dreamin’ if you think I’d marry a whore.”
“Why not?” she said, a slight smile on her lips. “Your mother was a whore.”
He jumped from the couch and walked over to her, grabbing her by the hair. “Don’t you ever talk about my mother.” She laughed. He kissed her and she wrapped her arms around him as he lifted her, and carried her into the bedroom.
CHAPTER 9
Jon Stanton sat in the waiting room of Dr. Jennifer Palmer and stared at the imitation classical Greek statue that was up near the receptionist’s desk. It was carved out of marble and looked fairly new. A nude male was shown standing on a ball and ants were carrying him somewhere. He was stuck in a pose of anguish with his arm above his head, flexing his perfectly carved abdominal muscles.
“Mr. Stanton?”
“Yes,” he said, his gaze still on the statue.
“Dr. Palmer is ready to see you now.”
“Thank you.”
He rose and walked to the brushed wood double doors and opened them. Sitting at a large glass desk was a woman in her mid-thirties. Her hair was pulled back and she wore a skirt and a suit top with heels. She glanced up and then smiled.
“Jennifer Palmer, Detective. Nice to meet you.” She rose and shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Please, have a seat over here if you don’t mind.”
She led him to two brown leather chairs and he sat down across from her. A coffee table was between them and she moved it out of the way. One wall of her office was made entirely of glass and looked down over the city. Stanton glanced out to the clouds that were overhead and then back to Dr. Palmer, who was quietly waiting for him to turn to her.
“I understand from your family physician that you’ve had an episode.”
“I suppose so. I don’t know if I would call it that. All the neurological tests came back negative so he thinks it might be psychological.”
“Do you think that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see why they would hit me now.”
“What would hit you now?”
“Panic attacks.”
She nodded. “Dr. Patel told me you had a doctorate in psychology and that your father was a psychiatrist. But that you chose to abandon the field for police work.”
“Yeah.”
“What does your father think about that?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since my mother’s death almost…almost twenty years ago.”
“Why haven’t you spoken to him?”
“We were never that close. He approached everything from an intellectual perspective and I didn’t.”
“How did you approach it?”
“I always thought feeling and imagination were more important than knowledge. Or at least as important. He didn’t see it that way.”
“Did he treat you differently because of that?”
“I think so. I was an only child and it was painful for him to cut me out, but in the end we both realized we disliked the kind of people we were.”
“How was your relationship with your mother, Jon? You don’t mind if I call you Jon, do you?”
“Not at all. It was good. Once the relationship with my father became strained I started spending less time with her too. I always regretted that. By the time I realized it, it was too late. She was already diagnosed with stage-four breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. No matter how old you are the death of a parent is always traumatic.”
“Yeah, it was. She was really the only family I had. I don’t know any of my cousins or aunts and uncles; I didn’t know my grandparents…when she was gone, that was it.”
“Have you tried contacting your father?”
“Once, on the phone. He was really stand-offish and then said he had to go and hung up. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for converting to Mormonism.”
“Really? What faith is he?”
“He’s as hardened an atheist as you could be. He finds the entire idea of religion, not just the practical application, but the idea itself, ludicrous. To him, anyone that’s gullible enough to get suckered into religion doesn’t deserve any sympathy. He told me once religious people shouldn’t be allowed to vote.”
“Are you a devout Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“So I can see why there’s tension between you and your father. Have you talked to him about your conversion?”
“Just when I invited him to my baptism when I was eighteen. He refused to come. The only person there for me was my mother. She was really sick by then but she still came.”
She was silent a moment and just nodding. “I’d like to talk about this episode that occurred. Were you thinking about your father at the time?”
“No.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, I think. We had raided a house and an innocent girl had gotten shot. The perp was in the bed. He was sitting up with a gunshot wound to the head and all his blood was emptying onto the bed.”
“That’s pretty graphic. Were you disturbed by that?”