Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

“Hold just a moment, Mr. Colgate. I’ll pull it up on the computer. Do you happen to know the policy number?”

Conner did happen to know, and he read it to her from the file. He waited amid the cluppety-clup of her keyboard action on the other end of the phone.

She said, “The policy is still up-to-date, although he is overdue for this month’s payment.”

Damn.

“Oh, wait. Here we go.”

Conner held his breath for the payoff.

“His most recent payment arrived in the mail this morning. It just hasn’t been logged yet.”

“Everything seems to be in order then,” Conner said. “I just need to know the postmark on the envelope.”

“The postmark?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Routine.”

“I’ve thrown it away,” Maureen said.

“Uh-huh. What I’m going to need you to do, Maureen, is poke around in the garbage until you find that envelope. Hopefully it’s not out back in the Dumpster yet.”

Her end of the phone got real quiet.

“Maureen?”

“Did you say you wanted me to look in the garbage?”

Conner exhaled roughly, an attempt to communicate the appropriate amount of bureaucratic despair. “We need to determine that Mr. Folger’s boat remains in American waters. We can’t assume the mortgage if he’s taken the boat to Mexico or… uh… Borneo.”

“Oh, hold on then. I’ll check the trash basket.”

He heard her rummage the trash, and when she came back on the line she said, “Got it. Pensacola, Florida. That okay?”

Okay? It was beautiful. Folger was dumb as dirt. You don’t insure something you’re stealing, Mr. Folger, you stupid stupid son of a bitch. Conner pictured Folger at his desk, stuffing bills into envelopes, not really paying attention. A matter of routine.

“Thanks, Maureen. I owe you a big kiss.”

“What?”

Conner hung up, feeling like a genius. Like Philip fucking Marlowe.

“ Nymphomaniaisn’t a word we use, Tyranny,” Dr. Goldblatt said. “Sexual addiction. A compulsion. Not a choice. Dealing with your condition is a daily struggle. You mustn’t beat yourself up for the occasional lapse.”

“Uh-huh.” Tyranny Jones wasn’t listening. She was imagining Dr. Goldblatt naked, her legs thrown over his shoulders, his bony ass thrusting. These fantasies simultaneously thrilled and repulsed her. She did not find Dr. Goldblatt attractive. In fact, she’d interviewed seven psychiatrists and had intentionally chosen the ugliest one. Goldblatt had a nose like a Vienna sausage, thick glasses, and a comb-over that looked like it was trying to eat his head.

Whether or not she found her therapist attractive wasn’t the issue. Fifty minutes a week for eight months had at least taught her that much. Control issues. The warped way she related to men. It had nothing to do with being horny all the time.

Almost nothing.

It had only occurred to Tyranny after five months of therapy that she could have seen a female therapist. She’d often contemplated coming on to Goldblatt, pushing him down, riding him there in the office among the leather-bound books and earth tones, rattling the nonoffensive abstract art off the wall, but he seemed completely professional, detached almost, and probably would have turned her down with a mild rebuke. She couldn’t stand the thought of being rejected by somebody so utterly revolting.

“Tyranny, were you listening?” Goldblatt tapped his pencil.

“Sure. What?”

“I asked if you’d been masturbating.”

“You’re obsessed with my orgasms, aren’t you, Dr. G?”

Goldblatt said, “Do you enjoy thinking I’m obsessed with them?”

“What you mean is do I enjoy your obsession more than I enjoy the actual orgasms,” Tyranny said. “Yes, Dr. G. That’s it exactly. I masturbate just because I know you’ll ask about it. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Is it what you think I want to hear?”

“Did you masturbate today, Dr. G?”

“Now, Tyranny. We’re here to discuss you,” Goldblatt said. “Let’s pursue another matter.”

“Yes. Let’s,” Tyranny said.

“Something you mentioned in your last session.”

“That was so long ago I hardly remember.” She wondered if Goldblatt was circumcised. All Jews were, weren’t they?

“You said you’d had sex with three different men in one day. None your husband.”

“Oh, that’s right. I’m a nymphomaniac. I almost forgot.”

“There was another man.” Goldblatt flipped through his notebook, found the name. “Conner Samson. You didn’t have sexual relations with him.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Tyranny rolled her eyes. “I’d think you’d be happy. A little restraint.”

“This is not about my happiness, Tyranny. We’re trying to delve into the root cause of your behavior. You said you were attracted to Conner. Why not him?”

She crossed her arms, sank back into the chair.

Goldblatt waited her out, tapped the pencil.

He’s always tapping that pencil. He knows it drives me batshit. Dr. clever-smug-son-of-a- “Look, I am married, after all.”

“That didn’t stop you from engaging in intercourse with the others,” Goldblatt said.

“The others weren’t-” She waved her hands, groped for words.

“That’s my point. He’s different. It might be significant.”

“Maybe I was just tired. My vagina was sore. I’m a slut, remember?”

“Nobody’s called you that, Tyranny.”

“Did you pick out the paintings in this office, Dr. Goldblatt? About as bland as fucking dishwater. You should let me paint you something.”

“You’re changing the subject, Tyranny.”

“That’s right.”

Goldblatt sighed, squinted at his watch. “We only have a minute left.”

“Oh, darn. I was having such a good time.”

Goldblatt said, “The next time you masturbate, I want you to use a cucumber. Then chop the cucumber into a salad and eat it. It’s important.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid our time is up.”

Freak.

Tyranny drove home fast. She liked to drive her Beemer fast, weave through the leaden traffic. She liked to punch the accelerator, feel it kick in, the high-pitched hum of the German motor, the feel of it pushing her back in her seat. She drove fast when she was excited or angry or anything.

Dr. Goldblatt had dug into her brain about Conner. Of course Conner was different. She didn’t need a shrink to tell her that. But what exactly did Tyranny see in Conner anyway, what was so special about him? She wasn’t immediately able to put it into words, had never before had to dissect her feelings for him. Goldblatt obviously wanted her to give it careful thought.

Conner was handsome, but that wasn’t it-although it didn’t hurt. Conner was different, unpretentious, simple, straightforward. In a time when she’d been surrounded by an overly complex, pseudointellectual, angst-ridden art-school crowd, she’d often taken refuge in Conner Samson’s company. To Tyranny, Conner was an open book, and come rain or shine, hell or high water, Conner would always be Conner. His concrete simplicity balanced the beehive of complicated thoughts and feelings that was Tyranny Jones.

She screeched into her driveway, went in the house, threw her purse and car keys on the table. Then to the breakfast nook, hot summer light pouring through the bay windows. She didn’t even bother to change clothes, just picked up the palette and began slinging paint on the canvas. Her project: less a painting, more a frustrated bright smear.

It wasn’t working.

She was pent up.

She wanted to masturbate. Had Goldblatt predicted this? She was supposed to use a cucumber, then eat it. She didn’t know if she was intrigued by the thought or horrified. Goldblatt had always been fond of unorthodox methods, but this was a new extreme. Stupid fucking psychiatrist weirdo.