Shrink in the Shadows

By George Bixley

Don't mess with the hothead-or he might just mess with you. Slater Ibáñez is only interested in two kinds of guys: the ones he wants to punch, and the ones he sleeps with. Things get interesting when they start to overlap. A freelance investigator, Slater trolls the dark side of Los Angeles, rooting out insurance fraud, not afraid to use whateve

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dagmar Miura
• Release date: Mar 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781951130626

George Bixley

George Bixley held a string of jobs, from parking attendant to night desk clerk, before finding his groove in Los Angeles, settling into the seedy underbelly of the metropolis and trying to keep ahead of the wave of gentrification. Bixley sells his soul by day and dredges the bottom by night.

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Shrink in the Shadows book cover image

Shrink in the Shadows

George Bixley

publisher: Dagmar Miura

One

chapter

Basically fuckable, Slater decided , opening his office door and giving the guy the once-over. He’d been sent here as a referral by someone he’d met on a case and barely remembered. But he wasn’t going to say no to a potential client.

The guy was Latin, lean with some muscle tone, in his thirties, maybe, and wearing a dress shirt without a necktie. He looked like he’d come from an office job, as he was carrying a black briefcase.

Ibáñez?

That’s me. Slater waved him in, and closed the door behind him, then led him through the front office into his own small space. Slater stepped around behind his desk, and dropped into his chair.

Thanks for meeting me so late, the guy said, as he sat across from him.

Slater waved dismissively. What’s your name?

It’s Thaddeus. You can call me Thad, or Tad, or Day-Day.

Does anyone actually call you Day-Day? Slater said, raising his eyebrows.

Sometimes. Tad is probably easiest.

He didn’t seem nervous or stressed out, Slater decided, looking him over. Not like some of the clients who showed up here in search of a bodyguard or a heavy. Instead he wore that pleasant smile people used before you got to know who they really were.

I didn’t know you were Latino, Tad said.

Slater stifled a sharp retort. He had his father’s dark coloring, and people made assumptions about him because of it.

That’s part of my background. I can’t claim the culture.

I get it. My family is totally assimilated.

Do you speak the language?

"Mostly because of my abuela, Tad said, and partly from living in this big Latin metropolis. There are lots of opportunities to practice."

The LA osmosis thing didn’t really work for me. Slater shifted closer to his desk. So what can I help you with?

My psychologist asked me to hold this briefcase. He lifted it from the floor and set it flat on Slater’s desk. Her name is Bianca. She said she’d be back for it in a few days, but I haven’t seen her in almost a month. I want you to help me find her.

Where was she going?

I have no idea. She just left this at my apartment. She said she’d pick it up next time.

You do sessions at your place? Slater said. Bianca doesn’t have a practice?

I used to go to her storefront in NoHo. She closed it down last year, but she kept seeing clients.

Where’s your apartment?

In Loz Feliz.

And where’s your office?

Downtown, in one of those towers on Fifth Street. He waved a hand. I work for a bank, but I’m not customer-facing.

How close are you to Bianca?

Tad frowned. It’s pretty much just patient-client. We don’t hang out or anything.

So you want me to find her, and give her back the briefcase.

Or just find her so that I can talk to her. To make sure she’s OK.

Slater eyed him for a moment. Why are you worried about the briefcase? Why not just throw it in a closet and forget about it until she turns up?

His face reddened, and he looked away. When she didn’t call me back for so long, I jimmied it open.

What’s in the briefcase? Slater demanded.

Tad rose from his chair and reached for the hasps on either side of the handle, clicking them open and lifting the top.

It was full of cash—neatly stacked bricks of twenties bundled with blue elastic bands.

Fuck me, Slater said. That’s a lot of scratch. Did you count it?

Not carefully, but I think it’s about forty thousand. It’s all twenties. The bills aren’t new or in sequence. Each bundle seems to be two grand. Tad met his gaze. You can understand why it makes me nervous.

I wouldn’t want that lying around either. Slater folded the case closed. I can probably track her down for you. It’ll cost you five hundred a day.

Tad nodded. I can do that.

I’m not going to make you sign a contract, because you were referred by Walter.

Thanks—that will simplify things.

In truth Slater never made contracts—he didn’t have the paperwork or the inclination. But mentioning it might keep Tad on his toes.

You know Walter from work? Slater said. I thought that guy was in insurance.

Banking, insurance, mortgages—it all kind of meshes together.

Do you have a photo of Bianca?

I think there’s one here. Tad pulled out his phone and tapped at it, then handed it across to Slater.

It was a portrait taken against a studio backdrop. Bianca was smiling, and wearing dark lipstick, and had lots of curly black hair. About forty, maybe, she was dark-skinned, with an African and Latin vibe, although not LA Latin. Barcelona, maybe, or Buenos Aires. Scrolling down, he found a brief biography.

This page says she’s a professor at Live Oak College.

She teaches psychology, Tad said, but she’s also in private practice.

Text me a link to that, Slater said, as he handed the phone back.

I’ll send you her cell number too. It’s the only contact info I have for her, besides her email at the college.

What else do you know about Bianca? he said, watching him tap at the device.

Have you ever met a shrink?

Slater leaned back in his chair. Way too many. A whole long parade of them through my youth.

So you know they can be a little weird, and intense.

What’s an example?

Tad looked up at him. Well, we went to a bar one time. I saw her do this cultural-shift thing.

OK, Slater said evenly. The guy had just told him they didn’t hang out—his story line was already drifting.

With me her persona is like a white girl, but we met these black guys, and when she’s flirting with them, she kind of became black, in her dialect and her body language.

"It makes sense that she could function in both environments, don’t you think? Like you’re a different person with your Spanish-speaking abuela than you are with your Anglo peers at the bank."

True, Tad said. But it seemed like more than that. Like there was a different personality emerging. It made me think she was like a spy or something.

Or just a shrink.

Tad shifted in his chair. I’m not sure what to do with the cash. Do you have any advice? I don’t want it in my apartment anymore.

Does your bank have safe-deposit boxes?

I can’t get my employer involved. Too many people there would ask questions.

Slater gestured to the corner of his office, where a squat black safe was bolted to the floor. It had an old-school dial and a brass handle. Faint traces remained of the gold lettering that had flaked off long ago, and if you squinted at it, you could make out the words montclair security.

The briefcase won’t fit, he said, but I can put the cash in my safe until we find Bianca, or until you decide what to do with it.

Tad nodded. That would be a relief.

Slater got up and knelt in front of the safe, blocking Tad’s view of the dial with his body as he deftly twisted in the combination.

Would it be rude to ask for a receipt? Tad said.

Cash is fungible, so I would, if I were you. He cranked the handle open but left the door closed, then got up. But you’ll have to show me some ID.

Sitting at his desk again, Slater latched the briefcase and set it on the floor. He rolled open his desk drawer to find a sheet of the letterhead Max had had printed up. It didn’t have a logo or any decoration, just their address and Max’s email below their names:

slater ibáñez

maximillian conroy

investigations

Tad dug his wallet out and slid his driver’s license across to him. Slater eyed it as he wrote: Received from Thaddeus J. Rojas, $40,000 cash, to be returned on demand. He added the guy’s driver’s license number, then signed it at the bottom, and added the date, then took a photo of it with his phone and passed it to Tad.

As Tad scanned the sheet, Slater knelt at the safe again, heaving open the door and then grabbing the bundles of cash from the briefcase, shoveling them onto the lower shelf on top of the cash that was already piled in there. He flipped through a few of the bundles to make sure they really were all banknotes. They looked legit, he decided. Counting the bundles as he transferred them, there were twenty in all. That lined up with Tad’s total.

Who’s Maximillian? Tad said.

My business partner. We share resources, like this office space, and we help each other out on cases sometimes. It was a beneficial arrangement for both of them, even though he regularly wanted to punch Max in the face.

Slater rose and clicked the latches of the briefcase closed, and set it on the desk. Empty, it was heavier than it looked. Maybe it was bulletproof or otherwise reinforced.

Can I leave the case here? We’ll need it to transport the money again once we find Bianca.

No problem, Slater said, and picked it up again, and set it upright in the well of his desk.

Tad rose. So how do you plan to find her?

Leave that to me. We’ll talk tomorrow.

As he followed him into the front office, Slater checked out his butt, admiring the fit of his pants.

That’s Maximillian’s office? Tad said, gesturing to the other small room on the opposite side.

You could be a detective.

Tad chuckled and pointed to the only thing that sat on the unused front desk, a plaster statue of a skeleton. It was holding a scythe and wearing a crown.

I’ve seen him before. He’s the king of the graveyard.

"In this version his name is Rey Pascual. He was a gift from the woman I buy pupusas from."

I know he’s supposed to bring good luck.

"It definitely has for her. I’ve spent way more on pupusas since she gave it to me than I would have otherwise."

Tad pulled open the door, then turned and met his gaze. Thanks for doing this.

I haven’t done anything yet. Let’s see what happens.

Once he bolted the door, and went back into his office, Slater opened the briefcase to look it over more closely. The top and bottom were thickly padded, and it had a faint odd smell—acetone, maybe, or old glue.

When he looked in the top pocket, he found a sheet of paper, just a few inches across, creamy yellow and ruled in light green. It had two neatly rounded corners and one torn edge. A page ripped out of a small notebook. One side bore a list of numbers, written by hand in blue ink. There were a lot of them. Pulling out his phone, he snapped a photo of the list, then tucked the page back into the pocket, and set the briefcase under his desk.

He studied the image on his phone. Two columns of numbers in a dozen or so rows. All the numbers on the left started with 34, with a decimal and a string of other digits. In the second column they all started with 118, similarly followed by several decimals.

They could be map coordinates—he knew Los Angeles was on the 34th parallel. But it seemed odd to keep location data on paper, considering they were only really useful in a computer or a GPS unit.

This could wait for tomorrow, he decided. He texted Andy:

Can I see you?

Normally Slater didn’t like to sleep with anybody more than once, but Andy was an exception. The guy was easy to be around—he didn’t make demands or tell Slater what to do. It probably came from his twelve-stepping, but whatever the reason, there was a lot of value in the overall absence of bullshit. Andy’s reply buzzed on his desktop:

I’m around.

He tucked his phone into the pocket of his jeans and went out to the front office, eyeing the little statue as he flicked the lights off.

Night, Rey.

This building had originally been white-collar offices, but the neighborhood around it had become the Fashion District, so except for him and Max, these days the tenants were mostly small clothing factories. The old elevator took him down to the deserted lobby, and he strode across the street to where his classic black Thunderbird was waiting, one of the only cars in the lot.

Andy’s building was a few blocks away, on Broadway, and Slater pulled into the surface lot behind it. The attendant was still on duty, so he paid the guy the flat evening rate, then walked around to the building’s entrance.

Upstairs, he knocked on Andy’s door, and waited for him to answer. It usually took him a minute to get there. When he pulled it open, he was wearing his usual boxers and a sleeveless T-shirt, revealing his wiry musculature, his brown hair a perfect tousled mess.

Stepping inside, Slater embraced him, grasping his waist and kissing his neck, leaning into Andy’s rhythmic random muscle movements.

Are you working? Slater said, pulling back.

Not anymore.

You smell good.

It’s called sweat, son. Are you here for … recreation?

If you’re up for it.

He followed Andy inside. The building was an old textile warehouse, and his loft was mostly one big room, with his bed and a desk and a kitchen sink. Big tattersall windows overlooked Pershing Square.

Let’s get you out … of those jeans, Andy said.

Slater had to grin. Is that all I am to you? A sex object?

We know Slater doesn’t do … boyfriends. I’ll take what … I can get.

As he stepped toward his bed, Andy pulled his shirt off. In his shorts he was already hard. Slater grasped his biceps and pulled him closer, relishing his warm skin. Andy reached for Slater’s belt, and spent a minute working to get it unbuckled as he mouthed his neck.

Slater sat on the side of the bed to untie his boots, then slid off his jeans, and his shirt. Andy stretched out and lay there watching him, leaning back on his elbows.

Want to ride my dick?

Slater chuckled. We can do that.

Slater stroked Andy’s rock-hard cock, then grabbed a condom and lube from the bedside table and rolled it on him. Straddling him, he eased himself down onto Andy, and winced at the intensity.

Andy was vibrating, his body building up tension in his muscle spasms. Slater massaged his lean chest, careful not to put all his weight on him, rocking back and forth. Andy came with a yelp, his body flailing. As his spasms started to subside, Slater climbed off, pressing his wood into Andy’s thigh and kissing his neck.

Can I fuck you between your legs? he said.

If you promise to … clean up after.

Slater lubed up and lowered himself onto him, feeling the warmth of his body—Andy’s metabolism ran hot because of his CP. Grasping him under his shoulders, he thrust into him, and with his nose in Andy’s hair, inhaling the clean scent of his sweat, he came, straining deeper.

Afterward, he went to the bathroom to grab a towel, and helped Andy clean up, then stretched out beside him. As he drifted off, he suddenly started awake. He’d almost forgotten.

Climbing out of bed, he found the handle of bourbon Andy kept in the pantry cupboard for him, and poured half an inch into a glass. He hated rationing it like this, but it’s how his booze rules worked now. As he slammed it, he closed his eyes for a moment, and relished the burn, the heady fumes in his nose.

Once he’d set the glass in the sink, and put the bottle away, he climbed into bed. Andy shifted closer, and Slater wrapped an arm around his chest, and notched his knees behind his.

You smell like a liquor store, Andy said.

Oh, yeah? he mumbled, already descending into drowsiness, the warm glow radiating from his belly. You smell like a candy store.

Two

chapter

Bright daylight was streaming in the windows when he woke. Andy was up, sitting at his desk, absorbed in his computer screens. He did contract work that he called deep research, but to Slater it was indistinguishable from hacking. Lying there, he watched Andy work for a while as he woke up.

I didn’t plan to sleep over, he said finally, and stretched.

You’re always welcome to.

Except when trash-bag Kyle is here.

Andy shot him a look. You don’t get to diss my friends.

Isn’t he more like your boyfriend?

"You’re not my boyfriend, right, so you … don’t get