The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd

by Chris D. Dodson

  “I’ve had him. He’s rock hard and fierce, but not the lover you are. You offer more neurotic yet provocative pillow talk. It’s hard to find that in any man or in any patient.” She swiped a creamy sheen of grease from her lips with her tongue. “I’ve missed you, Jack.”

  “Don’t go there, Brenda.”

  “I’ll pay you more if that would help.”

  “You don’t pay me anything.”

  She chuckled. “Sure I do. We swap labor all the time, dance steps and head shrinking for the ol’ clap-your-hands.” She went after her breakfast again. “Remember all those hard romps we had and how I got it out of you, those girls from Ipanema? A high-rise hotel wasn’t it with a bed full of nymphs and one asphyxiated Michelle Brigham, or am I mixing things up?”

  They lured me! God, stop talking with your mouth full!

  “And also this macabre fetish of yours of having a private investigator spy on all those Janes, as you call them.”

  I looked away from her run-on prattling and consumption of runny eggs and pork links. My eyes fixed on the hot frying pan on the stove, its handle just the right size for my hand; a sudden swing—

  “Pay attention, Jack.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Those broken families are you, Jack, a projection of your hurt, scarred self that languishes inside your past.”

  I looked away from the frying pan and Brenda. I deserved this. That's what I get for dancing into bed with my shrink.

  She continued, “You’re an easy read, lover boy, so let me explain that your voyeuristic behaviors are a byproduct of your neurotic pursuit of women, born from an unresolved oedipal desire you had for a mother for whom you lost tragically.”

  I clamped my eyes shut, then peaked again toward the frying pan.

  “You’re too hurt to love the heart of a woman, so what you’re really after is nothing more than a soft, moist burn of penetration, the murmuring whimpers, all stroking that turbulent ego of yours. And all it means, Jack, is that you’re still suffering inside that fifteenth year of your life, worshiping Maria’s vagina, and now you’re either trying to kill that vagina or tempt it to kill you.”

  I pushed the coffee away, spilling most of it on the counter. I stood and said, “I adore the vagina, and I’ve induced glorious high notes and pinnacle climaxes, faked or otherwise, from each one I’ve ever bagged—including yours, Dr. Murphy. Furthermore, you can go to hell.” I began to leave.

  “We both will, Jack—sit down so we can continue stoking Hades’ fire.”

  I suspended my exit, but remained standing. I needed to leave, but I also knew I needed to endure Brenda’s mind-altering sweat lodge at least for a few more minutes.

  Brenda carried her plate to the sink. She returned with coffee in hand. “Shall I talk about your Lady Catherine?”

  “Do tell about Lady Catherine.”

  “Tell what, that she’s a serial killer just like you’re a serial fucker?” She pulled a long drink of coffee.

  I wheezed out a laugh, shaking my head. “Why is it so damn hard to carry on a sane conversation with a psychiatrist?”

  Brenda lit a cigarette. “Sit down, Jack. You’re making me nervous.”

  “I’ll stand. Catherine doesn’t fit the serial-killer type.”

  “Why? Because she’s beautifully aloof, brilliant in the art of dance? She kills within a certain caste without regard, and she’s killed more than once, so yes, your muse is definitely a serial killer. But unlike male serial killers, it’s not unusual for the female variety to have accomplices. It’s that lack of maverick impulse inherent the female psyche.”

  Brenda picked up the long knife she was tapping earlier. She pressed the tip of her index finger onto the point, seemingly testing its killing potential. She went on, “Classic covert aggression manifesting itself inside interpersonal manipulation. Typical for sociopaths, yet I’ve never seen the conduct handled so cunningly.” Brenda raised the knife, drawing abstract shapes in the air. “Catherine grew up in a Catholic orphanage in Ireland, Rock Glen, to be exact, so most likely a priest crawled into her bed at night when she was young or perhaps it was the abuse of a nun, who knows, but it must have been severe and prolonged for her to lash out as she does. And while lashing out, she most likely uses an impersonal extension of herself, blades or knives of some sort, and also a guise...a mask on her face to hide her pathos. Perhaps she perceives these young men she butchers as sacrificial lambs for the slaughter, or these men themselves are guilty of rape and murder, and so she’s committing vigilante justice.”

  I laser pointing my sights on my knife-wielding shrink. “Would you care to extrapolate on that?”

  “Being a clinical psychiatrist I’m privy to certain criminal data bases, and I’ve found some interesting facts about these dead victims. All were investigated for rape, but never convicted.”

  “Vengeance est mei,” I muttered.

  “Vengeance is mine. And why are you quoting Latin?”

  “Something I heard in a dream the other night.” I glanced away from the knife and the good doctor’s glaring, watery-green eyes that never cease to undress me and probe me all at once. I asked, “How did you know Catherine grew up in a Catholic orphanage?”

  “The silver crucifix around her neck, her subtle manners, the way she carries herself during and between duties at the studio as if a watchful eye of discipline had once oppressed her and still does to some extent. In fact, Lena carries the same crucifix and manner of oppression, just more defiantly. So my guess is that they grew up together.”

  “You mentioned Rock Glen earlier; how would you know that?”

  “Lena’s Irish lilt, for one; their age would also place them in Ireland around the same time just prior to allegations made against Rock Glen Orphanage and its abuse of orphans. The place has quite the tainted history.”

  “What about Angela?”

  “Angela was raised in a wealthy, detached environment. A rich brat with dual ethnicities, who’s now trying to play the role of a pauper and somehow quell her guilty privilege by saving the world.”

  Sonofabitch, this woman is sharp.

  Brenda went on, “Everyone’s creed has a scent about it if you know how to smell it. Yours has the stench of a dead WASP.” Brenda dragged gleefully on her Virginia Slim, watching me squirm.

  “It’s not Catherine’s fault,” I said. My voice descended into a meekly pitch.

  “Which isn’t Catherine’s fault, when she was abused or when she kills?”

  I didn’t respond. Through Brenda’s eyes was a vault that stored the secrets of human misery—and it had to be a hell of a cross to bear. She then threw me a low-and-away curve ball. “Speaking of fault, what sort of punishment do you think you deserve, Jack?”

  I shrugged. “What any home-wrecking gigolo deserves.”

  “How about a lovely wife, two children, a family to adore—to believe in?”

  “There’d always be that ovulating female strutting by with smutty fur; I’d get sucked into her vulva, then hotel-room quickies and pillow talk bullshit. I told you I was a sick fuck. How about you, Brenda, a potent, loving husband, two children, a family to adore, or is it just stumbling gigolos and well-hung Jamaicans you’re in to?”

  Brenda began plunging the knife into a nearby cutting board with slow, repetitive stabs; her eyes were steadfastly professional, undeterred, it seemed, by her screwy specimen. I kept my eyes on the knife.

  “You’ve never been in love, have you, Jack?”

  “Not a soul on earth has ever truly been in love.”

  Her stabs plunged deeper into the board. I noticed a twitch beginning in her right eye; her jaw tightened. “Passionate love is what I mean, able to share your most intimate self—a soul mate.”

  “No woman could ever be in love with me.”

  “Is that why you hurt women?” She kept her eyes on the cutting board; her twitch intensified, her stabs became more brutal.

  I chuckled. “My motto: I hurt them b
efore they hurt me.”

  “You just want to fuck them, right?” The board began to splinter, tiny chips of butcher block scattered onto the kitchen counter.

  “We all get fucked. Tits for tat, doggie style for dance lessons; helps with the hot flashes, right, Doc?”

  She finished her mosaic of stab wounds with one final thrust of the knife.

  I’ve always found it interesting at how trauma to the body can cause a cosmic reality to life. There are car wrecks, slips and falls, and so forth. And then there’s the far-and-away, ultimate time stopper of getting cold-cocked by a woman. Not only does a man never see it coming, but he’s instantly transcended into a whimpering state of delirium.

  In short, Brenda had had enough of my gutless vacillation and delivered a stiff right cross to my face that literally rung my bell. She then shouted, “You’re nothing but a pathetic whore, Jack! When are you going to believe in yourself, you stupid bastard? When are you going to forgive yourself, your mother—your father—when, Jack? When the fuck are you going to grow up?”

  And that, quite poignantly, summed up my diagnosis. I began to leave before the sting of shame on the left side of my face prompted me to take a corrective strike against a woman whom I liked and respected. But before I could make headway, she reached across the counter and clutched my arm and calmly said, “Sit down, Jack.”

  Ouch! Damn it, more fingernails. I should just advertise my face and arm to all loony felines: the best punching bag and scratching post in town. I touched my jaw and grimaced. Brenda turned and opened the freezer and pulled out an icepack and handed it to me. She said, “You came to me for help, now sit down.”

  “And you came to me to get laid, Brenda; I’ll stand.” I pressed the icepack against my cheek.

  “Goddamn you...” Her eyes welled up in tears; her right eye began twitching again. After a tense moment of anticipating her clearing the counter and taking another swing at me, she instead dabbed her eyes with a handful of tissue and carried on her diagnosis. “Your remark about you hurting them before they hurt you was the first honest thing you’ve ever told me.” She sniffled, then blew her nose.

  “Then why the hell did you hit me?”

  “Striking you was a warranted response.”

  “Would you care to show me that warranted response on your medical license?”

  Brenda pulled another Virginia Slim and lit it. “When your hands were wrapped around Michelle’s throat, did you the feel the release?”

  “Release?”

  “Most killers sense a release during and right after they kill their victims. Some have even described it as being orgasmic. Sometimes the death and the subsequent release free them. It’s the end result they’re subconsciously after…the release of something pent up, haunting their souls.” Brenda studied my silence. “Did you feel that release?”

  I nodded subtly.

  “So it wasn’t entirely an accident, was it?”

  “I wanted to kill her...” Damn Freudian slip.

  “Why? Was it Maria lying on that bed, the one who tempted you and your father, causing your mother to kill your father, herself, your spirit?”

  I looked down, feeling as though I couldn’t breathe, then said, “Look, Brenda, it was one of my bad-boy outings, things got out of hand, the hashish, booze, five incredibly beautiful women and me twisted together like a pretzel.”

  “Were you hunting for the right victim during these outings, weren’t you? The right target to make it right?” Brenda crimped hard on the cigarette, drawing in a punishing draft. After waiting several beats for me to respond, her eyes morphed into a searing stare, forcing me inside that closet where I stood naked among my skeletons. She then shouted, “Goddamn it, Jack! Answer the fucking question!”

  I said, “When I saw her there...Maria—I mean Michelle—lying on that bed, I wanted to kill her, kill the sex, the temptation, the pain...that fucking emptiness.”

  A lull of silence hung in the air. A smile pursed the victorious doctor’s lips. “I’m proud of you, Jack.”

  “Keep it.” I began walking toward the door.

  “Catherine Fleming is a sociopath, Jack,” Brenda said.

  No shit. I hit the brakes and turned. “Gee, and all this time I thought I was the nut job.”

  “You killing Michelle was rage induced, what we clinically call running amok and what the law calls second degree murder. And so your intention was not entirely devious. But Catherine Fleming has psychotic tendencies with premeditated intentions and that makes her dangerous.” Brenda pulled another drag on her cigarette. “But that’s why you want her, isn’t it? She’s your final judgment.”

  I plodded back to the counter and laid the icepack down. “Thanks for the sex, the welt on my face, and my soulful cleanse. Enjoy your yokes and sausage.” I began to turn and leave but she took my arm, this time without the claws.

  “One more question, Jack, then you can go.” She turned toward a cupboard and snatched her favorite poison, a bottle of Grey Goose Vodka.

  “I really need to go, Brenda. I have this running date with the psychopathic vigilante.”

  “How are your dreams?”

  “Dreams?” I needed to hear it.

  “Yes, dreams that were premonitions. You know, that Brazilian Beauty walking along a foreign beach…the one that turns into a crazed cat.” Brenda’s hand trembled as she poured a tall drink of the vodka.

  I began trying to recall if I’d ever seen Brenda really drunk and hence which category of problem drinker she fell into: mean drunk, happy drunk... In any case, I stayed out of her swinging radius. I said, “I think my nightmares were induced.”

  “Oh?”

  “I took cocktail glasses from my home containing residual liquor and had a lab run tests. They found Valium and a drug called Ketamine.”

  “Valium is a tranquilizer, and Ketamine is a recreational drug normally used at sub-anesthetic doses.” Brenda pulled a long drink of vodka. Her eyes had a momentary daze, seemingly dancing with the vodka’s spirit. She said, “Ketamine produces a hallucinatory effect, causing a dissociative state of mind. It can also cause a sense of detachment from one's physical body. This would explain your lucid dreams.”

  “The valium I understand. A client of mine has been after my land for years. I figured she’d spiked my drink to knock me out and get at my files, but this Ketamine.”

  “Your greedy lover had nothing to do with your spiked drink, dear fellow. An intruder, and I think we both know who that is, has been invading your house and planting white powdery substances into things you eat and drink.” Brenda drained half her glass. Her face grimaced has the 80 proof piped down her throat.

  “Then how did I dream about real events, the details of the murders?”

  “Catherine is somehow paralleling your dreams with reality.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “My guess, it’s all a combination of chemistry and good timing.” Brenda’s eyes had a sudden, waxy translucence, the kind lushes have when stumbling off the wagon. “The reason for these repressed dreams, Jack, is that you’re finally, finally tackling the demon inside your unconscious mind, and Catherine is nothing more than a mechanism inside this destiny.” The good doctor’s eyelids drooped; her head tilted forward; her words began to slur, “But whether your muse is beyond clever and has some sort of drug inducing ability is irrelevant. One thing is damn sure; she’s playing inside this timeline of yours and has you on a short-ass leash.” The good doctor giggled, then downed another drink. “Speaking of short-ass leashes, when’s your buddy Roger-dodger coming home, Jacky whacky?”

  “I have no idea.” I clenched my jaw, trying not to laugh at the now inebriated PHD with the greasy-cream lips.

  “Aren’t you worried about your best buddy, ol’ pal since you decided to make him your fall guy?”

  “I’ve been calling—”

  “Where’s Roger, Jack?” she shouted. Her eyes were now bloodshot and lost; the vodka had hit its mark.
I started for the door.

  As I passed through the front door, I heard her sing out, “Thanks for the afternoon delight, tomcat!”

  I glanced back, noticing her shit-faced grin, to which I concluded, Okay, happy drunk.

  36

  After my weird afternoon session and round-in-the-ring with Dr. Murphy, I decided to travel south along PCH to Roger-Dodger’s house. I hit high speeds at times, running stale yellow lights that turned far too soon into red. My rear view mirror proved clear of any black and whites.

  I was damn tired of not knowing of Roger’s whereabouts and him not answering my phone calls. I began wondering why a guy like Roger, someone who kicks with both feet, would be so intoxicated by the taste of cheesecake laced with arsenic. I then realized that it wasn’t so much the cheesecake that most men, including myself, were after, but more the eradicating effect of the arsenic.

  I drove down Roger’s driveway and stopped. His house looked empty. I rang the doorbell and knocked. I waited a moment, then knocked again more forcibly. The door opened and Lena stood in the doorway.

  “Hello, Jack,” she said, offering a put-on smile. A bath towel wrapped around her naked body.

  “Where’s Roger?” I asked, nudging my way through the door.

  “In his bedroom. How pleasant of you to stop by.”

  “I need to see him.”

  “Of course.” She turned and slinked her attractive, ghostly pale carriage down the hallway. The kitchen had remnants of meals scattered about. The house was dark and smelled stuffy; the ugly-ass mini blinds on all the windows were closed.

  Roger came from the hallway wearing only a pair of Chinos.

  “Jack, what a surprise. What brings you here today?” His face looked blissfully preoccupied.

  “Rog,” I said with a tense nod. I kept my eye on Lena who stood in the kitchen. “I need to go over some business with you. Can we talk?”

  “Of course.”

  “In private.”

  “Sure.”

  We walked to a large sitting area on the other side of the house. He opened the blinds to a window, revealing the view of the sea. He sunk into a chair. I sat on the edge of a couch.