Skin Dance, a mystery

By Arthur Smukler MD

Arthur Smukler MD, award winning novelist and author of Chasing Backwards, The Man With A Microphone In His Ear, and the popular blog, Inside the Mind of a Psychiatrist, has written a gripping mystery that will keep you obsessively turning the pages.

He takes you inside the mind of Jake Robb, a forty-one year old Los Angeles psychiatrist, whose personal life is disintegrating as he struggles to accept the fact that his marriage is over. After he spends an evening at Skin Dance, a strip bar, his empty life is transformed into one of fear and desperation. An unknown stalker, who vows to destroy him, is following Jake’s every move.
From the posh Palos Verdes peninsula, to the downtown strip bars, to the central California coast, Jake must use all the psychiatric skills he can muster to understand and thwart the unknown assailant.

The suspense mounts as a deranged killer determined to destroy his prey battles a man with inordinate psychological skills who will do whatever it takes to protect himself and his family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arthur Smukler MD
• Release date: Nov 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301843862

Arthur Smukler MD

Is it possible to make the unconscious, conscious? To take a trip into the human mind? Of course! The trip begins with Chasing Backwards, a psychological murder mystery, and continues with The Man With A Microphone In His Ear, Skin Dance, a mystery, and my blog, Inside the Mind of a Psychiatrist. All books are available as ebooks and paperbacks. You can find them at amazon.com/author/arthursmukler or http://artsmuklermd.com So who is Art Smukler and why should you care? Enter Inside the Mind of a Psychiatrist and find out... http://artsmuklermd.com Dr. Smukler has won the prestigious Golden Ear Award for excellence in teaching at Harbor-UCLA Medical center and excellence in writing fiction at The Santa Barbara Writers Conference.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Oblivious to the cold mist drifting in from the Pacific Ocean, Jake Robb stood on his office balcony watching the sun sink beneath the Los Angeles horizon. He was a good-looking man, six feet, two inches tall, rugged and athletic in spite of the excess forty pounds he had packed on in the last year.

If one had to guess what Jake did for a living one might guess poet or a professor of English, or maybe an artist. Jake would have agreed with all those things, because as a psychiatrist his job included it all. Most days Jake loved what he did, loved helping a patient decipher the intricacy of what lay beneath the surface of his conscious mind, teasing away the tenuous defenses, making the unconscious conscious. Today just wasn’t one of those days.

Jake stared hard at the darkening ocean, and his face took on a determined expression, much younger than his forty-one years. It was the same expression he’d have on the football field as an all-state wide receiver in high school. With a sigh, he turned and walked back into the office. The small orange light located next to the door was on. It was Loretta Constantino, his last patient of the day. Jake straightened his worn, woolen sports jacket and opened the waiting room door.

Loretta was a thirty-five-year-old court reporter suffering from depression and panic attacks. After three months of weekly psychotherapy focusing on her anger towards her estranged husband and daily doses of the antidepressant, Lexapro, she was doing better. The scent of her perfume, some combination of vanilla and maybe rose, filled the room.

Loretta smiled and stood. It looked like she had her dark hair done up differently, a stylish cut with little spikes. Her short T-shirt exposed her midriff and in spite of his lethargy Jake couldn’t help focusing for an extra few seconds on her navel. Round hoop-earrings dangled as she ass-swished her way into the consulting room. Jesus, Jake thought. There was no underwear under the silk pants. She was a marathon runner and took pride in how firm her muscles were, all her muscles.

Loretta sat down on the sofa, brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead, and focused her blue eyes on Jake’s face. Touching her upper lip with the tip of her tongue she smiled.

How are things going? Jake asked.

Very well. I’m sleeping through the night and there’s no sign of depression or anxiety. It’s wonderful.

Jake smiled. Having a patient do well always brought him joy. To what do you attribute this good feeling, Mrs. Constantino?

Call me Lori. Loretta’s voice was throaty, very intense. My friend Julie’s psychiatrist always calls her by her first name.

What are you feeling right now? Jake asked.

She rolled her eyes. Doctor Robb...Jake, think about it. Isn’t it obvious?

What’s obvious?

This therapy charade. I admit it’s been my responsibility as well as yours, but it really is time we brought it to a close.

What the hell is she talking about? Jake thought, sitting forward in his chair.

You need an office manager. Being a court reporter makes me eminently qualified, actually over-qualified. The young woman you have working for you isn’t doing the job. Loretta pointed to the stacks of patient folders piled on the edge of his desk and on the file cabinets in the corner of the room. Then, of course after an appropriate interval of time, we'll move in together. I know that you and your wife are separated and have been for quite a while. I also know that she took your daughter with her back to Philadelphia and this all happened before you ever met me. I’m not the kind of person who would prey on a happily married man and break up a family.

What? Jake managed to croak out. How did she know about Jennifer? About Tricia? Jesus!

She smiled. Naturally you can't be involved with a patient, but you can with your office manager.

Mrs. Constantino--

Lori, my name is Lori--

Your name’s Lori, but I’m your doctor. You’re my patient. How did you find--

I'm not your patient. I haven't been for at least two months.

What?

A long sigh. I went along with this silliness because I realized what a stickler for protocol you are. Now it's time to be authentic. She accented the word authentic, mimicking Jake’s intonation.

With a smile she stood up and walked towards Jake.

Mrs. Constantino, please sit down. Jake’s voice was firm, his eyes narrowing.

She continued, stopping only when her bare stomach was just inches from his face. Let's go to the beach, she said with fervor. We can spend the evening together. Walk on the strand, listen to the waves, make love…

She’s out of her damn mind, Jake thought. In over ten years of private practice no one had ever crossed the doctor-patient boundary this blatantly. He stood up, towering a foot above her, pointing to the sofa. Sit down, Mrs. Constantino.

She stood firmly, her eyes focused on his.

Either sit down; or the session’s over!

You don’t have to raise your voice, Jake, she said, not moving an inch.

Sit down! I mean it!

Nonchalantly Loretta walked back across the room, and with a sigh settled into the sofa.

Where did you get this information about me? Jake asked, his anger barely under control.

That’s not important.

It’s very important. Jake took a deep breath and sat down. Carefully choosing his words he said, Can’t you see you're acting out feelings of hurt and abandonment here in therapy? After your husband left, you distorted--

Jake, we both know Sam was impotent. She crossed her legs, slowly moving her hand down her thigh. We'll be good together, more than good. I've thought a lot about you. I think you’ve been thinking a lot about me.

I’m your doctor. Try and understand--

You're not my doctor. I've already fired you. Actually not fired, but accepted the new rules. The way things really are. Didn’t someone write a song about the new order of the universe?

There’s another kind of medication--

Please, I don't need medication. Besides, the truth is that I never took the Lexa-whatever you prescribed. Well, I did take one pill and that was enough. More than enough. It took days for me to stop feeling jittery. Pills aren’t the answer; they never were. I need you, and I know you need me.

Why didn’t you discuss the medication with me?

Loretta just rolled her eyes and sighed.

Mrs. Constantino, the tender, loving feelings you’ve experienced coming from me are really coming from the past, the need you have for your father to love you. This is the time when self-understanding is essential and--

Jake, I'm not interested in therapy or medication. That's over. You did a brilliant job and cured me. You’re a wonderful psychiatrist, a very caring doctor. That’s so unusual in this medical climate. Now, the next part--

There is no next part. You need treatment. Jake sat forward in his chair, his eyes locked on Loretta’s casual expression, trying to fathom what had gone wrong, and what he had to do to fix it.

Jake, stop being such a fool. Loretta pulled her T-shirt over her head, her breasts exposed.

Jake’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.

Gently, her eyes never leaving Jake’s she caressed each breast.

Jake stood up. Stop it!

Loretta pulled her pants down, exposing her clean-shaven vagina.

Jake bellowed, Get dressed, now!

Loretta sighed, then slowly pulled up her pants, and even slower put her T-shirt back on. Then she smoothed her hands over her hips. Why are you being so difficult?

This is the first time you’ve behaved this way, been so out of control. Something must have happened, Jake said, struggling to keep the shock he was feeling under control. He lowered himself back in his chair. Last week you were talking about how hurt you were when your father left. You were just six. Are you afraid that therapy will end and you’ll lose me like you lost your father?

Stop the psycho-babble, Loretta interrupted, her voice harsh.

There's a reason for your behavior, Jake said quietly.

Loretta took a deep breath, calmness coming back to her features. Honey, this game is no longer necessary. Didn't you understand? You're not my doctor, you’re my friend and…will be my lover.

I am your doctor. Jake’s words were clipped, his frustration beginning to show.

Loretta smiled and sighed.

Jake leaned forward in his chair. You need treatment. If not me, then I’ll refer you to another psychiatrist.

Loretta stood, walked towards the door and opened it. Jake, soon you'll stop playing this childish game. You cured me. Enjoy your success. A confident smile formed on her lips. See you tomorrow.

We have no appointment tomor-- Abruptly Loretta turned and left the office. Moments later the door to the suite clicked shut.

Chapter 2

Exhausted, Jake sat back in his chair and stared out the window at the darkening sky. The phone rang. Out of habit he picked up the receiver, immediately wishing he had just let the answering service do its job. Hello, Doctor Robb, he said after a moment’s hesitation.

Jake, how ya doin? We still on for tonight?

Jake pictured his brother Ken, three years his junior, sitting behind the ten foot, mahogany desk at his Century City law firm -- pinstripe blue Armani suit, loosely tied blue and silver Ferragamo tie, shirt-collar open after a long day of producing billable hours. Ken was now in the $ 400 per hour range. Jake said, You know, Ken. Sometimes I think I should just get a job at Starbucks. Pour a little coffee, serve some philosophy, what could be so bad? Carrying the portable phone, he walked across the room and punched in The Best of Mose Allison on his iPod. The sound of Mose’s jazz piano gently ruffled the air. A patient of mine just went nuts. She decided that we were madly in love and actually undressed right here in the office. I had a screaming fit. That’s never happened before. Ever! In over ten years.

A screaming fit?

For Christ’s sake, Ken.

Nice tits?

Very funny, counselor. The last thing I need now is my oversized ass sued. Although, let’s face it, one man’s tragedy is another man’s good fortune.

Let’s not get personal, Doc. It’s a living. Plus, look who’s talking. You make pretty good bread dealing with the tragedies of life.

True enough.

Is your patient talking about suing you?

No. A lawsuit was not part of the agenda. She just wants to run my office and become the next Mrs. Robb.

Here comes the bride, Ken hummed.

Jake walked into the business office and opened the small refrigerator under the microwave oven. A half-eaten pizza with double-cheese and pepperoni was sitting congealed in the carton.

Sorry Jake, bad joke. Plus, maybe my humming needs a little work.

Jake took a piece of pizza and tossed it in the microwave. He poured himself a glass of cola.

Listen, Jake. I’ll pick you up at the office in forty-five minutes. Have you had dinner yet?

Jake watched the pizza through the glass window. I’m sorry, Ken. I'll take a rain check. I’m just not in the mood to have drinks and schmooze. Not tonight.

Jake, I know you’re the shrink and I’m the attorney, but you have to admit that what’s really bothering you isn’t that crazy patient, but Jennifer. Hiding out isn’t going to bring her back. If you were treating yourself, you’d never advocate a treatment of withdrawal and overdosing on carbs.

Sighing, Jake felt himself sinking lower and lower into a puddle of depression. Mose Allison’s melancholy voice wasn’t helping the situation.

Listen, Bro. We're going out tonight. I'm not taking no for an answer. Ken’s tone was insistent, undercurrents of worry lacing his words like scotch through soda.

They had been through this scenario a dozen times -- a loud, upscale bar, a philosophical discussion about the meaning of life, how one must push forward, meet new women -- the criminal attorney dispensing psychotherapy to the psychiatrist. This would make the fifth time in three weeks Jake had turned him down. Ken, I need to dictate some patient notes and Trish is calling at seven.

Say hi to my adorable niece. Besides, later works out even better. I'll pick you up in the parking lot at eight. I have a special place for us. You’ll love it.

Jake sighed and clicked off.

***

It was 7:00 p.m., 10:00 p.m. Philadelphia time, when the phone rang. Jake was stretched out on the sofa, shoes off, a copy of Time magazine lying on the coffee table next to him.

Freud’s place, specializing in resolution of hostile interactions, sedative yoga, and psychological rap, Jake said with a smile, stretching out on the sofa. It was his first smile of the day. Maybe this was the beginning of a new era, an era of gratuitous smiles that would transform his burdened expression into the face of a happy clown -- maybe a job with Cirque du Soleil? He adjusted the pillow behind his neck.

Dad, what if it wasn’t me?

It’s the luck of the Jewish. One chance in a thousand, but I guessed right. Maybe I should get in the car and go immediately to Vegas?

It’s the Irish. Trish sighed. The luck of the Irish. You’re weird. Do you think it’s catchy?

You already caught it. By the age of thirteen the process is irreversible. That’s what being a Bat Mitzvah is all about. It consolidates the male-dominant gene that’s passed on to the first female offspring. Trish was the exact image of her mother, my dear wife, Jake thought. But the difference was that the mother-witch never smiled anymore, at least not in his presence. Jake pictured his daughter -- her full pink lips in a major grin, big, brown eyes filled with amusement, auburn ponytail bobbing from side-to-side as she shook her head wondering how she got such a clever father.

What if I had a brother? Trish asked.

A brother?

Would he also get the weird gene?

Only if he were real lucky, Sweetie. Jake rubbed the side of his neck with his free hand trying to squelch the flood of painful memories that assailed him. Three years after he and Jennifer were married, Jennifer got pregnant. Five months into the pregnancy she awoke at two in the morning drenched in sweat and having agonizing uterine contractions. By the time they got to the hospital the baby was lying on the floor of the car. It was a nightmare, a fucking nightmare that ripped their hearts out. The baby was a little boy. They were going to name him Luke.

Dad, are you there?

…Sure. What? What did I miss?

Dad, are you a Freudian? I have to give a five-minute talk in health tomorrow on the father of psychoanalysis. I told Mrs. Morton you were a shrink.

Out here in LA?

I didn’t say where you were… The jocular tone collapsed, both of them staring into the blinding light of the miserable truth, the fiction of their lives.

Jake took a deep breath and again rubbed the back of his neck. He had a massage a year before and the masseuse, an elderly woman wearing a black leotard, gave him a lecture on how all his tension formed in his shoulders. How he needed weekly treatments and to think about what was causing all the stress. She was probably right, but at a hundred bucks a shot it was cheaper to rub his own neck. Okay, Sweetie, take notes, Jake said, trying to regain an upbeat tone in his voice. Freud was the first person to figure out that we humans have an unconscious and often do things for reasons that are hidden from us. Examples of unconscious behavior or ideas often come out in our dreams--

Dad, slow down.

Okay... Say when.

When.

Our dreams are often in the form of vivid pictures or stories. The characters in a dream can act out the things that we really want to do but might be afraid of doing. Let’s say in your dream, a dog bites a man who has blond hair like your math teacher, the one who gave you a D. That little dog probably represents your angry feelings towards the teacher. After all, it’s safer for the little dog to attack the teacher than for you to attack him. Jake went on for another five minutes giving examples.

Dad, you’re the greatest. Thanks a million, Tricia said when he finished. She hesitated for a moment. Dad, Mom just came home. You want to talk to her?

…Not tonight, Honey. You take care. He cleared his throat. Are you and mom okay?

We’re okay. There was silence.

Jake sighed. I’ll call you this weekend, Trish. I love you.

I love you too, Daddy.

Oh, I almost forgot, Uncle Ken says hi.

***

Where we going? Jake asked, sinking deeper into the rich, leather upholstery. Ken's last personal injury case netted him a cool hundred-thousand-plus-dollars, just enough to pay cash for an S-series Mercedes.

It's a surprise. Ken glanced at Jake and smiled.

They were driving north on Hawthorne Boulevard, away from the Peninsula. To the right was the shopping center where two months before they decided to separate, Jennifer had bought Jake three new shirts. The packages were still unopened; the shirts were for a man who hadn’t yet ballooned into a human sausage.

Fifteen maybe twenty more minutes and we’ll be there, Ken said, making a right onto the 405-freeway north.

The sound of Miles Davis’, Freddie Freeloader, flowed out of twelve Bose speakers. There is a reason we are both attracted to melancholy jazz, Jake thought, as Ken barreled across the quadruple yellow line into the carpool lane, accelerating to seventy-five. It’s a reason we both choose to ignore, to only discuss after a half-dozen beers or preceding planned visits back east to visit dear old dad. Jake closed his eyes and let the music fill his mind. Thinking about his father was something he just didn’t want to do.

At the airport, Ken took the Century Boulevard exit. Up ahead was a gold flashing sign, Skin Dance. A self-satisfied smile played on Ken’s lips. Good idea, huh?

It was a horrible idea, Jake thought, as Ken chuckled and slapped him on the knee.

Ken pulled all the way to the end of the gravel parking lot. Two guys in a battered pick-up, radio blaring rap music about some guy who went downtown to find a ho but got busted by his big-hipped, hairy woman, parked next to them.

Tits and ass Mutha Fucka. Tits and fuckinaa ass, one of the guys yelled, slamming his door, taking a moment to straighten his cowboy hat. We goin' to take a swim in all that sweet pussy.

You sure you want to do this? Jake asked, his limbs heavy and disconnected. Even in college, girly joints didn’t do much for him. He saw the dancers as manipulative, eager to trade flesh for money. He wondered what kind of horrific relationship they must have had with their parents that led them to this kind of lifestyle. A shudder rolled from Jake’s neck down to the small of his back. Look who’s talking, he thought. His relationship with his own parents was a dysfunctional goldmine. The last time he spoke to his father, and that was for all of two minutes, was many months ago. His mother was a subject that he tried very hard to never think about.

Remember the girl you took to your prom? Sally something or other, Ken asked, a smile covering his face like greasepaint.

Sally Jacobs. Jake hadn’t thought about her in decades. Jacobs, he said, picturing her big breasts, hot grenades primed to explode. Jake remembered crawling over the back seat of his old Ford, her fingers caressing his thighs, gentle butterflies that made his hands tremble so hard it was impossible to unhook her bra. He could hardly talk, made a joke about Fort Knox. She was laughing, a deep throaty laugh, like a wild, farm-raised cowgirl. Finally she freed the treasures herself -- soft, warm, edible. Was it yesterday or twenty-three years ago?

Ken had a lewd glint in his eye. I had wet dreams about her for years. How did you finagle yourself into that hot little number?

Jake sighed. Sally’s father had abandoned the family when Sally and her sister were still in grade school. Sally was smart, pretty and captain of the cheerleaders, but underneath it all she was insecure and desperate for love. Plus, she thought it was very cool that the starting end on the football team liked her. Even though at seventeen, Jake was producing enough testosterone to fuel an Abrams tank, he was sensitive and kind, and understood what it was like to hurt inside. A shrink often starts his training at a very young age.

The brothers got out of the car and crunched across the gravel to the entrance. What if a patient saw him walking across the parking lot of a titty bar? Jake thought, glancing quickly over his shoulder. Dozens of unlit headlights stared back at him.

Ken playfully hit Jake on the arm. There are twenty Sally Jacobs inside this place. Three months ago, a client and his brother-in-law dragged me here. They had to drag me out. You may never want to leave. Right?

Jake sighed.

They opened the stainless steel door and entered a dark hallway with a booth at the end. A middle-aged man with a long, greasy ponytail sat behind a Plexiglas partition. His dull eyes and the bored expression on his long, narrow face were in contrast to the loud music and raucous yelling coming from the other side of the curtain. Twenty bucks, the man said. Jake reached for his wallet. Ken waved his hand for Jake to put his wallet away and slid forty dollars through the slot at the bottom of the partition.

Bro, your money's no good here. All this sleaze is on me. I enjoy corrupting someone from the world of over-forty. Ken laughed, trying to pull Jake out of his obvious lethargy. Jake nodded and squeezed Ken’s shoulder. The fact that his brother was trying so hard touched him.

They pushed through the heavy black curtain into a huge room. At one end of the room was a shiny teak bar that seated a dozen men. In front of the bar were at least thirty tables, arranged concentrically around the elevated S-shaped stage.

Up on stage, a tall blond, with her hair down to her waist, wore only