The Mysterious World of Men and Women Looking

By Al Sundel

A cinematic tale set in a top-5 beach-house singles’ colony in the U S, 28+, where everybody is on the make in a shopping mall for new partners. Many are divorced with children. The swimsuit designers have made the women look like Michelangelo sculptures in their bikinis while the men are more into psychosexual ambivalences, uncertainties and anxieties. Much fun with wit in their rapid dialogues and thinking. Past relationships remain a bit of a mystery up most sleeves, yet remain in play emotionally. This may be the most realistic psychological singles’ novel yet written.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jul 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483402390

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1 Questioned by a Badass Cop

The Rottweiler of a detective tried to crack a flicker-smile at Sharon, while his ice-cold eyes held her fast. She found reason to sit in an Elmer’s-glue stiffness. The man seemed married to danger and bored with his wife. Sharon wouldn’t dare put on an act of toughness before him, as she did with prison moms and dads at Rikers Island. Because with his thick neck that seemed to grow far into his brain, he had his own authentic aura of a human tank about him. Bone Man.

She might have edged away from him on the subway, even as she heard the tone coming at her gruff, his hair grizzled in a short crew cut. Sharon tried to wear street toughness as a veneer. Used as a Humphrey Bogart survival skill in the menagerie of the New York singles’ scene. But this guy was the real McCoy. He didn’t have to tell you who he was. You felt it. He seemed to be built of I beams. He cracked a knuckle as if it were a criminal neck; she heard the snap rebound off the wall. Yet he treated her with ladyfinger respect.

Full name.

Sharon. I-I mean … Sharon Kaminsky.

Sharon didn’t know why, but she felt the need to add, in the confusion of an obscenely choked underbed acquaintance, this Sunday morning, I-I’m a good deeds person. A social worker. At the Foundling. I-I work with nuns, children, broken families.

Good deeds person?

Helpful. Law abiding. I don’t even get parking tickets.

In my line of work, he said, with a rich coating of Brooklynese, like mustard on a deli sandwich, I’m up to my eyeballs in da other kind.

Sharon sat jeepers jittery in the mainland police station. Only now was she getting a good fix on his I-beamness. She had been bowled over by the discovery of the Body’s body. The dark delta below still emanated its own shock image in her head. Until Sharon had pulled the top sheet from her own cot and tried to decently cover the nudity, the least a budding bivouac buddy could do. But Mullens had stopped her. Not yet, he said. Then the coroner came.

Detective Mullens had the face of a boxer who’d been punched too much. Like cauliflower ears, a mashed-potato nose and slow-moving peas for eyes. A man of poorly restrained violence you might find in the food line at a homeless shelter, after his doing time for a slit throat. He held the stub of a yellow pencil in the thick of his hand, as if trying to master it since first grade. He spoke poorly. Work did not come out as work, but neither was it woik. He sometimes pronounced th but more often it came out as d. Facing him on his desk angled an upright photo frame. No shot of wife or loved ones. Merely the printed words: WE ARE THE BLUE WALL BETWEEN SOCIETY AND ITS SCUM.

Mullens had ferried over to Kismet with a uniformed cop, before the coroner and a crime crew. After the coroner examined the corpse, Bone Man conferred in whispers with him. Then he held more respectful confab later with a new arrival, big Luis Maguey, a Nassau County captain. Downstairs Mullens answered groupie questions sparsely. We’ll see, Mullens said three or four times. Doctor Hal suggested the windpipe had been completely severed. Mullens neither confirmed nor denied this.

Dis room is off limits. You, da redhead lady. Can you come down to the station now?

On the ferry ride back, he hung out with the crime crew. Sharon sat off from them idly combing her hair and picking out strays, like she’d gone flippety doo. She could not put that final cemetery stare behind her. Those big bugged eyes!… Until Hal closed them.

It was past 1 now, and Sharon sat with tremor in the police station. She squirmed in a wooden chair beside Mullens’s desk, locked out of her Love Lotto room at Kismet. She was the only witness who could be questioned at length. She answered like a mental retard. Queries of address, phone number, place of business. Then Mullens asked and Sharon repeated how she’d first met Judy at Dan Greeley’s pad on 16th Street, followed by their chat on the drive out to the Bay Shore ferry.

What about da rube, Mr Skinny?

He was on the sand with the crowd when I got there.

How long ya know da deceased?

Uh … fifteen minutes at the interview. Maybe three hours all told … on the drive and in the house together.

Judith Janet Furmin, Mullens read from Judy’s wallet, writing the name on his report pad in crooked printed letters.

Age?

Twenty-nine.

Sharon gave Mullens Judy’s phone number from her own address book.

Greenwich Village, she said. Living with a roommate.

She spoke of a mother, da nurse said. Dat Annie Something dame.

Yes. But I don’t know where Judy’s mother lives.

I’ll pick dat up from da roommate. Ya say she had a noontime date?

Yes. At 1.

Did she mention a name?

No.

Anything descriptive?

She said … tall. And … I think … on the fast track.

Dem words?

I think so. Casual. She didn’t want to marry the guy, she told me.

What’d she want?

She had her own reasons. Rebel reasons.

What’s dat mean?

She was a rock-concert kid … who wanted to … to work out her problems first with men before … looking for … for husband material. Like … I guess … target practice. Guys do the same.

Mullens gave a twist to his upper lip, seemed to say without speaking, Target practice? to the glaze of the window.

Anything else?

He called her.

When?

During the week.

I’ll check on it.

He set up the bed date. Saturday at 1. Our beach house.

And no one saw da guy?

Apparently nobody in our house.

So how do we know he showed?

"Oh!… I think he did. Judy arranged for me to be out. I can only imagine he ended up killing her after."

After what? Mullens asked. She didn’t do nobody.

Huh? Sharon said, stunned.

No evidence, Mullens added. Da first look.

But she was undressed?

No entry, Mullens said. Dat’s what we got.

Sharon stared at him bewildered, noticing a glint at his open shirtfront.

He killed her right away? she asked.

Beats me. —You were on the beach at 1? he asked.

At least fifteen minutes earlier.

What time d’ja find da body?

Around 9. This morning.

How?

Something smelled a little … pungent. Even after I opened the window. I looked under Judy’s bed.

Why?

I … I really don’t know. I screamed. Everybody came running.

Sharon’s voice gave out. She wiped an incipient tear away, found it held a loose eyelash. Stared at Detective Mullens. The mash of his nose. The cauliflower of his ears. He could have been one of the men at the house. On the long tooth of the age range. Except he came from another world. Of kicks and blows and deadly weapons. Bethlehem Steel had cast him. He was a killer investigating a killing.

What’s a nice lady like you doing single?

Ummm…. Divorced.

Recent?

Yes. Papers haven’t come through yet.

Kids?

One…. A son.

Where?

With my husband. I mean, my ex.

Meet any men at Kismet?

Not yet…. Like I said before, this was my first time out. I only had from noon to evening yesterday. Besides, I am … essentially … a … a shy person.

2 Why Do Men Kill Women?

"Know any dangerous men?"

Sharon looked around the room, then back at Mullens across the scatter on his desk. The iron hardness of him and his eyes. She noticed an offical-looking memo addressed to Detective Sergeant Woodrow X Mullens. What did the X stand for? It should have been a Y for maleness. In fact, he seemed a double-Y chromosome. Looked more like an escaped lifer than a cop. On the memo was scratched a doodle. She made it out now. MEN KILL. In crooked letters. Why would he write that?

Yes, she answered. One. But he didn’t have anything to do with it.

How d’ja know?

He wouldn’t have harmed Judy.

Who’d he harm?

Er…. Me.

What’s his name?

Dan Gower.

You mean, da Dan guy back at da house?

No. That’s Dan Greeley. This is another Dan. Dan Gower. In the city. Not at Kismet. Nothing to do with Kismet. I … I knew him.

Where’s he live?

Tribeca. By Soho.

Tell me about him.

"He’s … well, he’s … tall," Sharon stumbled into that. And now she saw the glint again. It was a tinny-looking cross hanging from a chain around his neck.

Nice guy?

Sharon shook her head no.

He’s … er … not the killer, I can assure you.

Mullens simply stared, waiting for a clearer answer.

He’s … not doing well…. He’s … not too bright….

What’s dat mean?

A dirty-jeans type. Kind of … a bit lost.

What’s he to you?

I … er … became … ugh … I … er … involve….

While married?

Um … er … ugh … yes.

How long?

Five months.

How?

"Er … I-I met him at an art show. He crashed it. An old girlfriend of mine in the city invited me. We went to the High School of Music and Art together. For art. A Soho gallery opening. Hers. My husband didn’t want to go. I went alone. I … I believe in the good deeds bit. I thought I was being kind to Dan at the party. That he needed it. I listened to his problems. He found reason to come after me."

How?

"He called me at the office. He asked to have lunch at McDonald’s. He pursued me in little ways. For social work counseling. The fact is, he romanced me. When I was highly vulnerable. My marriage was … my husband and I were … I guess divorced before … separation. I found Dan Gower’s attentions … er … ugh … umm … spirit lifting. A blessing from heaven."

Did he know dat?

"Not at first. He picked it up. That I was receptive because … I was … needy … and confused. By … my deteriorating situation at home."

When did you start sleeping with dis guy?

Months later. After a bad fight with my husband. Verbal. My home life was impossible. Seventh year. Too many scratchy quarrels. Too many bleedings. By then, I clung to Dan Gower more than he did to me. You see, he needed me.

Why?

Because … he’s a loser. Because … I was above him … in class. In brains. In work. In … in … stability.

Stability?

He flipped once.

Hospitalized?

Briefly.

Where?

Bellevue.

Tell me about it.

Two days at Bellevue. Before I knew him. He told me.

What’d dey say? Da docs?

"I wasn’t there. That was in the past. I tried to convince myself he needed me. That I couldn’t let him down. But after he blew up, I imagined … a doctor at Bellevue saying to me, ‘What’s a nice married woman like you doing with a bum like this?’ It hit me. I didn’t belong with Dan Gower. I took that home with me and brooded about it. I have a streak of Puritan in me. That’s when I decided to break it off. I waited until he was released. When we met again, I told him."

How’d he take it?

He blackened my eyes.

Where?

In the street.

When?

A month ago.

You saw him for how long?

Er … five months.

Did this cause your spouz-zal rub-ture?

"No. I … I was headed for divorce when I met Dan Gower. Because of my son, his young age, I tried to hang on to a crumbling marriage. My husband found out. About Dan, I mean. It went from ugly to unbearable. I ended up breaking off with two men instead of one. Just … devastating. You see, I’m really not the type…."

No. You ain’t, lady. You got class.

Sharon verged on tears. She reached into her purse for a Kleenex, clutched it. She wanted to cry, not over what she had said but to whom she said it. Yet she was too big-boned to cry. If she had to confess, let it be to a shrink or a close friend. Not to a hard-boiled detective with a mashed-in nose!

That cross you wear, she suddenly said. Are you religious?

I quit dat a long time ago. But da one fadder I didn’t want to kill give me dis. So I sometimes wear it. For da little boy in me.

How’d your husband find out? he asked.

I came home badly bruised. After Dan beat me up one night, about four months ago.

"Two beatings?"

Yes.

You told your husband?

Now a tear rolled loose. A tear of shame. Sharon raised a hand to catch it. Her full cover was blown. How could she be a lady and a social worker most of her days and get into the teacupful of sleaze with Dan Gower? How humiliating! Her little side trip into the bargain basement of love had blown up in her face.

I couldn’t explain it any other way. We had it out. Vicious.

Why did dis Dan guy beat you up?

Because … I told him I thought it would be best if we broke up.

"Is dat why you say he’s dangerous? Because he bashed you? Twice. Which was da worst beating?"

A month ago. The final break. If you look closely at my left eye, you can still see the last faint shadow. The blue spot.

I’m familiar with dem. Were you living with your husband then?

Marvin was in the last stage of moving out. I came home battered. Physically. My husband then battered me … psychologically. Then left. He’s played hard ball with me ever since over the divorce.

That’s why you’re at Fire Island?

Yes. To start over. To find a new life. I also need to just lie on the beach. To soak up the sun. To relax.

Mullens took down Gower’s address and phone number. He now began to write his report in a scribble. Then he turned it to Sharon and asked her to read the jumble and sign at the bottom. She gave a mindless glance and then she too scribbled her name. Mullens thanked Sharon and said she could go.

Don’t be surprised, he said, if you meet me on da beach.

Oh, God, Sharon said. I hope you catch the killer fast.

This kind a case takes time. Not much to go on.

What type of man would do this? Sharon wondered aloud, as she shook hands with Mullens. Her soft white fingers lay enfolded in his huge rough mitt that looked to have cracked many a criminal jawbone.

Lady, you’d be amazed. From da dean of Harfard to da lowest of da low. We won’t know until we find da turkey and he tells us. It’s in da papers all da time. Ain’t news any more. Guys especially like to ice dames.

Sharon reached the street when Mullens came short-striding after her, a canister in hand.

Here, he said.

What’s this? she asked.

Pepper mace. I took it off a kid squirting it on littler fry. You might need it, with your pal out dere.

Why are you giving me this?

Call it grat-toot-ous.

Thanks.

If your playmate gets rough, give him a shot. Go for da eyes.

I won’t see him again. Ever, Sharon said. But she took the gift gratefully.

Holding the Mace like a diamond ring from Tiffany’s, Sharon found her way to her stepfather’s tan ‘96 Chevy Malibu. She wedged the canister under the driver’s seat. The whole ride home, she kept whipping herself.

In trouble again. With men. Shit!

Since the double bust up, she didn’t feel that good about herself — to start all over for a new partner. The hunt, the date, the bed, the politics. Sharon knew she could attract guys, but then it slid downhill. She needed that rare commodity, a Nice Guy. You could buy pregnancy tests. But where did they sell Mr Nice Guy tests? She needed to talk about the singles’ nightmare of not connecting. But now the murder of Judy Furmin took precedence. If she told her folks, they would want her never to return to Kismet. If she told her MSW colleagues, it would make the rounds down to her nun friends. Either way, it would lower her in their eyes — as a loser. Especially after two drubbings. And if she admitted it to herself 100 per cent, she would have to see a shrink, which cost too much to find out what she didn’t want to hear…. She had colluded in her own social downgrade.

She exited the LIE. Okay. She would tell her folks. But nobody at work.

Sharon arrived at her parents’ earlier than expected, spent time unfolding the tale. With lace embroidery. They argued for her not to go back to Kismet. Sharon argued that she had to, she needed more in her life than the routine of her dreary job and being alone with a 4-year-old boy. She raised her voice as the buzzer rang downstairs. The dropoff. Soon the elevator door whirred, and she opened the apartment door fully to see the fruit of her bad marriage run down the hall toward her, freed from a glimpsed adult hand. She hugged him.

Mommy. How come you’re home so early? Bobby asked. I thought I was eating with Grandma and Grandpa.

Because I love you. We’ll both eat here.

I need dates! she wanted to scream at her mother before she