The Jake Bennett Adventures Vol. Three, Flying Too High

By Bayla Dornon

Welcome to the thundering climax of the Jake Bennett Adventures! First, let's begin with what this book is NOT:
•It is not one of those wretched romance novels where two "gay" men whine and cry and mope and obsess about their feelings and never have sex.
•It is not a Delayed F--k.
•It is not a Coming Out story about two teens who've never been touched.
•It is not about homophobia.
•It is not about gay bashing.
•It is not about religion vs. reality.
•It is not about the torture of living in the closet.
Instead, this novel is the story of two men who have already come out, and who have already had sex, and no one in their world has a problem with that.
Unfortunately, one of them, our hero Jake Bennett, has a big problem with alcohol. He's been using it more and more to cope with the unfair treatment he received from powerful people, back when he was a cop in LA. He's been using it to cope with his feelings of terror and despair, brought on by the mysterious disappearance of his girlfriend, Debbie Cantrell. And he's been using alcohol to help him forget some of the shady things he and his former associate, Rachel, have been doing since he became a private eye in San Francisco.
This ocean of scotch, predictably, lands Jake in big trouble— court ordered rehab, to be exact. One step away from six months in jail, Jake finally wakes up to the fact that he's got a big problem.
It is the unexpected reappearance of Debbie that enables Jake to come to grips with this problem, and finally participate in the treatment the judge has ordered for him. As he opens up to his counselor, Dr. Wagner, Jake begins to understand that his repressed childhood memories have driven his actions in ways he doesn't understand.
Meanwhile, Henry English, a young man Jake had sex with a few times earlier in the year, has moved to San Francisco. Henry is determined to help Jake overcome his problems, and as they work together, it becomes plain that Henry has another agenda.
With Henry's help, Jake sets out to find and talk to his long-lost father. The stories that the private eye uncovers are not at all what he expected: and, upon closer inspection, they don't add up, either.
Now Jake has the information he needs to understand his past traumas. As his new family gathers to take a trip together to Mexico, it seems that everything is falling in place for Jake...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bayla Dornon
• Release date: Jun 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005060800

Bayla Dornon

Bayla Dornon’s first book is “Gay Testaments, Old & New” an edited compilation of texts from both famous and obscure literature that paint a vivid and exciting portrait of men loving men.In 2020 and 2021, Dornon published the four-book RESTORATION series, the story of twenty-year old Chris Brenner, a gay man fleeing from his ultra-religious parents and their efforts to 'torture him straight' through religious conversion therapy. Escaping to the Center in San Francisco, Chris meets and befriends fellow initiates George and Mary — and falls head over heels in love with Tom Griffin, a charismatic Priest at the San Francisco Center for Restoration. The four novels follow these young adults as they struggle for independence and restoration from indoctrination and abuses of religious and patriarchal families and society.In 2022, Dornon has released the new series of “Jake Bennett Adventures”, the stories of sexy bisexual rookie LA cop Jake Bennett, trying desperately to make his way in the asphalt jungle of Los Angeles.Married to one man since late 1988, Bayla Dornon is an author, critic, playwright, former teacher, silly pagan, photographer, cat-lover and videographer. A third generation Californian, Dornon and his husband recently escaped the absurd desert of San Diego and now live happily ever after in Seattle.

Book preview

Labor Day, 7 September 2015

DRESS FOR SUCCESS

Finally: her hair was sleek, smooth and shiny again, after over eight months spent growing it out. Her latest haircut had removed the very last traces of damaged hair. That awful straightening disaster in December 2014 had all but destroyed years of careful work training her unruly hair.

Tara Barnett inspected the results of her tedious effort and nodded once in satisfaction. She pulled the thick black cotton polo shirt over her head, careful not to disrupt the perfect glossy smoothness of the healthy hair that capped her scalp.

Makeup today was slightly more than the usual: a sheer amber rose lip luster, instead of her habitual Chapstick. Tara settled the shirt more perfectly on her shoulders, smoothed the collar with her fingertips, and picked up the flak vest with her nameplate still attached. The cheaply embroidered word POLICE in its faux stencil font always bothered her. Underneath was her proper title, U.S. Marshal. This was her least favorite part of the uniform, and she hurried to buckle, snap, and strap it, as needed. Top completed, Tara clipped the round shining black and silver badge with its glistening five-pointed star to her black gun belt, already threaded through tan belt loops. She pulled the khaki trousers on, followed by socks.

The black running shoes required no attention at all; she laced them automatically, her mind busy, clicking through the day’s chores, enumerating each one, automatically figuring any possible delays, snags, or overlaps.

Tara Barnett almost always volunteered for holiday duty. The triple-time pay was great, the tasks seemed always to be less strenuous, and many times she had enjoyed unexpected and warm connections to the people she came across on these special days. Today’s Labor Day job, escorting a prisoner, would be especially easy: mostly just riding in the car and standing guard. The only potential trouble would be at the pickup. Once she and Murdock were done, she’d get the paperwork completed before the early holiday dismissal— then drinks with Carol, Wayne and Hardy at the Breakers.

Tara’s son, Micah, spent all three-day weekends with his father, per their custody agreement. The divorce worked far more smoothly than the marriage ever had. Tara walked to the parking garage and climbed into her Rover, connected her phone through the CarPlay system, and enjoyed her regular morning chat with her son over the speaker system as she drove to the Civic Center.

Micah told her all about the Monterey Aquarium he had visited with his father Sunday. Tara smiled happily as she drove, asking leading questions. Like most boys of eleven, Micah loved to repeat all the new data he himself found fascinating. Soon Tara had heard all about how a sea otter’s pelt has one million hairs per square inch, how they don’t have blubber, how they eat a quarter of their body weight every day, how they hold hands as they sleep, and many other delightful bits of useless information.

As she approached the courthouse, she reminded Micah she loved him and missed him, and wished him a great day with his dad. Micah made a kissing noise at her and said goodbye.

Marshal Barnett parked and effortlessly jogged up three flights of stairs to the office. After signing in, she chatted briefly with her junior partner, Murdock. Brawny and handsome, with an overly-cleft chin and thick black hair, Murdock was the ultimate alpha male stereotype. The fact that he accepted Tara’s dominance in all ways spoke more to her confidence and refusal to accept the back seat than to any particular hierarchical military virtue on Murdock’s part.

Today, as usual, there were small but annoying flaws in the man’s uniform and appearance, which Tara very quietly and gently brought to his attention. Murdock looked and acted like a stud, but he hadn’t yet managed to get a woman interested in taking care of him— and he obviously wasn’t up to the job himself. There was a mustard stain on his pants, his nameplate was on upside down, one shoelace was visibly frayed to the breaking point, and his shirt smelled of cigarette smoke. While the big man went to his locker to correct these minor defects, Tara completed her computer chores for the morning, and signed out their vehicle. Murdock returned, passed inspection, and stood at attention.

The senior marshal handed the warrant to Murdock. Let’s go get him, she said as they headed down to the garage.

IN CUSTODY

Their vehicle for the day was the black four-door sedan, Tara’s personal favorite. The van and the bus were too large and ponderous for her tastes; driving the sedan, she felt like she was on the fast horse. Murdock regaled her with an account of his latest bar crawling over the weekend as Tara Barnett drove silently through the holiday-light traffic to Sutter, less than a mile away. JP, as he liked to be called, though his name was really John Philip, wound up his tale of the latest blonde that got away. Tara had heard this same story, with minor variations, at least a dozen times in the two years they’d been partnered together. She neither criticized nor consoled the luckless loser in love.

At Sutter, Murdock called the number listed for the front desk while Barnett idled the sedan by the gated entrance. When the gate swung in, they drove in and parked in the reserved space at the front. Before they went in, Tara personally inspected the back seat for any stray detritus from the previous trip, such as paper clips, pens, or any similar items that might cause trouble. Satisfied the vehicle was secure, the marshals walked to the front door.

Terry McFeely, the man on the front desk, buzzed the federal cops in, then stood up, nodding at them. Greetings were murmured. Murdock handed the gatekeeper the appropriate paperwork. McFeely read silently.

Please wait here, Terry said as he disappeared through a door behind the desk. It clicked shut behind him, followed by the sound of a heavy bolt sliding home. Marshals Murdock and Barnett stood at ease, effortlessly taking up the entire area inside the front door.

McFeely trotted down the linoleum hall to the day room, a pleasant space with a softly playing television at one end, a kitchenette and counter at the other, and sofas and easy chairs scattered across the floor between. Bookshelves occupied a space between two windows, and more books sat on little tables with magazines and jigsaw puzzles.

McFeely approached a handsome, thin white male of about twenty-five, whose thick brown hair hung long and slightly wavy almost to his collar. There was an attractive haze of stubble across his jaws and around his generous mouth and full lips, which were drawn down in a concentration frown. A book of sudoku puzzles accounted for the glower, as did the multiple erased and crossed out numerals.

Hey, Moon Man, called Terry gently. You got company.

The man tilted his head, his eyes narrowed quizzically. Who is it?

McFeely shrugged. A couple of blacktops– you know, federal marshals. They want you. He pointed his index finger at the young man, then jerked his thumb backwards toward the door.

The young man stood up, hitched his scrubs up a little higher, and absently pushed his hair behind his ears. It immediately began to stray again. Nervous and trying hard not to show it, he followed the gatekeeper back down the long hall. On either side were the treatment rooms, exam rooms, and offices where the staff and inmates conducted their scheduled interactions. Open doors revealed empty rooms; closed doors had people in them. There were no locks on any of the doors along the hall.

McFeely opened the door at the front with his lanyard, the bolt shot back, and he held it open. The young man following him took a deep breath, wishing he had shaved today, and put on deodorant. Already the sweat of fear and apprehension was starting to gather, and that meant it was just a matter of time before he started to stink.

Murdock and Barnett stared impassively, standing side by side as McFeely waved the young man into the little reception area. This little game was something the two marshals loved to play during their first encounter with a subject. In addition to determining who had to drive, the results filled many boring empty moments as the partners worked their jobs.

Jake Bennett, intoned Murdock, reading the name from the papers. We’re federal marshals executing a duly ordered warrant. Please come with us.

The private eye studied the pair, struck by the odd symmetry of their body language. Their identical stances were a presentation, he realized. They were deliberately forcing him to choose one or the other to speak to. Jake was being asked to pick which one he thought was in charge.

The obvious alpha was the towering, white, beefy male with MURDOCK on his tag.

Too obvious.

The PI’s trained glance flicked to Barnett, evaluating the Black woman from her perfectly smoothed hair to her steel-hard eyes to her flak vest with many more toys and implements on it than Murdock’s sported. The tilt of her chin alone screamed command. Plus, her badge was fancier. A million details added up in a split second. Jake Bennett smirked.

Where we going, boss? the young man asked Tara Barnett.

THE ROOM WITHOUT WINDOWS

Tara carefully ushered Jake into the back seat of the sedan and followed him. Murdock slid into the front and raised the privacy screen. Seatbelts clattered in the car. Jake remained perfectly silent until they were a block from their destination, the Phillip Burton Federal Building. Throughout the ride, he had been stealing little glances at Marshal Barnett, searching for clues as to where they were going. From bitter personal experience, Jake knew that most cops seldom answered questions that began with, ‘Why’.

Will you be taking me back, later? he asked softly.

Tara looked across at the man’s haunted face, and clearly saw the fear etched in the lines between his eyes and around his mouth.

Yes. We will take you back, afterwards.

Jake relaxed back in the seat as the sedan slid down the long tunnel under the federal building, stopping twice at security gates before coming to rest next to the elevators.

Murdock, who had lost the guess-the-alpha game as well as incorrectly guessing whether the infamous Moon Man would give them trouble, got stuck with both grunt jobs: driving, and waiting with the car while Barnett escorted Bennett.

She led Jake to the elevators and called them with a card. They rode in silence to the sixth floor. As the door opened, Tara silently took Jake’s elbow, as if she were hanging on his arm at the prom rather than escorting him in custody, and steered him gently through the building. At the third door from the elevator, she knocked, and the door opened.

I’m right outside, she said, and though her face remained hard and remote, her voice had a warmth that reassured Jake.

Another ‘blacktop’, as McFeely had called them, opened the door. Jake counted his blessings: this one was not armed, and seemed friendly. Barnett nodded at him and took up a guard position. The new guy ushered Jake in, gesturing at a chair.

Please have a seat, Mr. Bennett, he said. I’ll be right back.

Jake slowly sank into a leather chair, devoid of shape and designed to blend in. The marshal walked to another door in the featureless, windowless room, and opened a door, closing it behind him. Jake sat alone in an empty room in the federal building, counting the moments by listening to the pounding beats of his heart.

After about a hundred beats, the door opened again, and the marshal returned. Behind him was the very last person in the world that Jake had expected or imagined.

Debbie Cantrell.

Jake was out of his seat and bounding to her within one second. The marshal grinned and sat down by the door. Jake scooped Debbie into his arms and squeezed her in his embrace, then suddenly found that he was helplessly crying on her neck. Debbie held him and rubbed his back with one hand as the strong heaving sobs slowly subsided. Then she gently pushed him away. Jake shifted his hands to her shoulders, holding her far enough away to look at her.

The face and hair were the same, but the lines were just a tiny bit more pronounced around her eyes. There was no tan or sunburn, Jake noted. Her figure, with her imperious bust and shapely legs, seemed the same as always. Jake’s hands slid down her arms, and came to her hands.

And there was the difference: the ring on her left hand.

Slowly Jake looked back up.

Come and sit down, she said quietly.

Jake wiped his eyes, wishing he had a Kleenex to blow his nose. The marshal pointed at a small table next to the door: Kleenex, a pitcher, water cups. All plastic or cardboard, no glass or metal.

She led him to the seat, and sank down beside him, still holding his right hand in her left.

We have forty-five minutes, she said, and Jake noticed that she wasn’t crying, and seemed quite composed.

I went all the way to El Paso looking for you, he babbled. I tried everything I could think of. Your parents were even gone. I was frantic. Jake made himself stop.

Debbie just nodded. I just have to tell you, first of all, I am so sorry for leaving without telling you, she said. The marshals came before I could text you, and they said I had to come with them immediately, or I’d never be able to see my parents again. If only we could have talked that last night, before I left. I’m so sorry, Jake, Debbie looked down at her hands.

No, it was my fault, all my fault. What happened? Jake urged.

But she shook her head. I can’t tell you, she said, glancing toward the federal marshal by the door.

And suddenly Jake had an idea, which should have come to him long ago. Federal marshals were guarding Debbie. That could only mean that her parents, for some wild reason, were in the Witness Protection Program. It didn’t matter; none of it mattered now. She was alive, she was safe. She hadn’t hurt herself or been hurt because of him.

But the frown between her eyes deepened as she watched him.

I called Dewayne, your partner, the night I left. He said you had vanished. Then they came, they took my phone, and I got on a plane.

Where did you go? asked the ex-cop automatically, but he knew as the words left his mouth, she wouldn’t be able to answer that.

Debbie shook her lovely head.

So, Debbie, you never got my text the morning I left LA? Jake asked.

She shook her head. And in that instant, the weight of that text, of the kiss-off Danny had so cruelly sent to Debbie’s phone, which had haunted and tormented Jake all these months, was lifted, and the guilt and shame he had carried in his heart began to ease.

What did it say? she asked, suddenly fearful of rejection and judgment.

Someone else sent it from my phone, Debbie. It doesn’t matter now. The important thing is you never got it. Then Jake frowned: the question he was afraid to ask hung between them like a heavy shadow.

I came because I had to, Jake. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. I’ve been seeing a therapist, and she said I can’t move on, until, until…

You came to say goodbye, he finished, his voice dull and thick.

Debbie nodded. I’m engaged. He’s wonderful. He’s good to me, Jake, I want you to know that. I’m happy.

Jake blew out his breath and raked his fingertips through his long hair. The fear and stress in his armpits stank in his own nostrils.

Jesus, Debbie, he said, then stopped. I never thought what I’d say to you, if we ever met again. I just had to find you, I never thought past that.

Tell me about your life, please, she implored him. What are you doing in San Francisco? Are you OK? Have you found… anyone?

For an instant Jake thought she meant his father: then he realized Debbie was simply asking if he was involved. He thought of trying to sum up the past seventeen months, and his imagination fairly collapsed under the weight of all the tangled details. He gave a short, choked little laugh.

I had to leave, Debbie. The police, LA, all of it; I was forced to leave, pretty much like you were. All of a sudden, with no warning.

Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, she cried, seeing the distress in his face. And you’re so thin; have you been sick?

Jake thought of the months of struggle and his slow descent into chronic alcoholism. He couldn’t even pinpoint the moment it happened; how could he summarize all this for Debbie in the minutes they had left? He helplessly shook his head.

Yes. I’ve been ill, and I’m in a facility now, he admitted. I became a private eye, after my career on the police force ended. I… I got involved with some people who kind of… hurt me.

Debbie saw how hard this was for him, and took him into her arms again. But Jake was past the tears now, and he just sighed as he clung to her warm and soft body, feeling for a moment like he was actually safe, like he could trust someone.

Like he was home.

They slowly separated. Jake looked into her eyes, and saw concern, but also wariness.

I’m getting better, he offered.

Debbie nodded.

Tell me about him?

Debbie nodded, and looked away, reviewing the short list of characteristics she could safely reveal. The marshal by the door listened.

He’s twenty-nine, he’s six feet tall, like you. He has a slightly receding hairline, though, and he makes jokes about it. He works—

The marshal shook his head.

He has a great family, Jake, and they love me. I am very happy.

When?

Another negative from the marshal. Jake blew out his breath in exasperation.

Sorry, just tell me what you can.

Debbie launched into a recitation of details, most of which were uninteresting to Jake. She presented them in no order, and the most impressive detail was the glow of happiness that spread across her features as she talked about falling in love, finding a friend in her man, planning a future.

Jake smiled and tried like hell to be happy for her. Then it was his turn, and he slowly told Debbie all his pride would allow of his new life in San Francisco, and the process of becoming a licensed private investigator. Though he longed to hide the truth from this young woman, Jake forced himself to tell her how he drove a beater car, was renting a couch in a small apartment, and taking menial jobs to survive. He could see the disappointment he feared in Debbie’s eyes, and he looked down in abject misery.

I’m sorry I was such a fuckup. I’m really glad you met a good man, he said, and the note of bitterness was obvious even to him. Silence fell between them.

What about you, Jake? Are you with… anyone? she finally asked, and the man saw how much she wanted him to be safely paired off, not miserable and alone.

I had someone, for just a little while, Jake answered honestly. One corner of his mouth lifted. In fact, I met him in El Paso, when I went there looking for you.

Debbie affected delighted surprise, and Jake smiled and played along. The marshal studied a corner in the room.

Is he still back in Texas? she asked.

Jake shook his head. He didn’t dare say anything more about Henry, since he wanted Debbie’s visit to end happily. Summoning up his best poker face, Jake got to his feet. Debbie stood up, too.

I wish I could dance with both of you at your wedding, Jake joked.

Debbie gave a small laugh.

I do wish you all the happiness in the world, Debbie.

Jake racked his brain for questions that wouldn’t be censored by their minder. But everything he longed to ask, the where, the when, the how long and the why, he realized that he would never know.

I’m so glad I got to see you again, she said as they enfolded one another again. I’m so glad to see you, Jake.

Me too, he said, and he meant it from the bottom of his heart. Be happy, sweetheart. I love you.

Oh, Jake, she cried. I hope I will see you again, one day.

The man nodded miserably, knowing it would never happen.

The marshal opened the door, and Debbie hurried out.

INTAKE NOTES

The door snicked shut, then Jake stood in the hallway again with Barnett and Murdock.

Tara took one look at his face and gently indicated the direction they should walk by extending her hand, palm up, toward the left side of the long hall. Jake walked beside her, following Murdock. Jake’s eyes saw nothing, his steps were shuffling, almost shambling. As bad as the past two weeks had been for him, this was the worst he had felt; and yet, paradoxically, it was also the lightest.

Finally knowing the truth of what had happened to Debbie had lifted such a tremendous weight off Jake Bennett’s heart; now he wondered how he had managed to function under such pressure for the past seventeen months. In a moment of emotional clarity, Jake clearly understood that the constantly escalating drinking had been nothing but an effort to flee from the pain of losing Debbie. Although he felt flooded with grief and sorrow for the end of their relationship, there was peace, as well. In his heart, Jake felt sure he would never see her again. Deep within him, the little boy that had become a man wailed his desolation.

As they approached the end of the hallway, Tara Barnett touched his arm. Jake looked up; they were at the elevators. Tara swiped her card, and an elevator opened. They descended to the garage. Murdock opened the car door for them, and shut it behind Tara. The big black sedan made its way back through the city streets that grew slowly more congested as the afternoon drew on. Holiday or no holiday, people had to get places.

I was so afraid she was dead, Jake murmured aloud, then looked, almost apologetic, at his flak-vested companion.

But Tara smiled, and suddenly the stony danger in her face evaporated, replaced by warmth and compassion.

I understand, she said. Believe me, you’re not the first to say that.

Jake stared at the tiny teddy bear pin clipped to one of the flak vest’s many pockets.

How old is your kid?

Tara looked down at the teddy bear, then into Jake’s bloodshot eyes, still brimming with unshed tears. Micah’s eleven. He’s a great kid.

Jake smiled back. I’ll bet you’re a great mom.

Thanks, said Tara Barnett, then stared straight ahead. In the past, Jake would often engage strangers in small talk, ask about the kid, about their lives, give them details about his own. But now, hampered by shame, Jake held back, acutely aware that this woman had met him for the first time in a court-ordered minimum security rehab facility. She would see him as an alcoholic, or an addict, and the shame of that fact made him shy, made him want to hide his face, to disappear.

They rode in silence.

Murdock and Barnett escorted him from the parking lot to the front lobby again, signing the forms that McFeely asked them to sign.

Best of luck to you, Bennett, she offered as they opened the door.

Thanks very much, Jake said.

The door closed and locked behind the marshals. The dreary beige lobby of the court-mandated facility, bland and indifferent, seemed to mock the tectonic internal changes Jake had just survived. The thin young man stood in the entryway, disoriented, bewildered. It felt like he had been gone for days or even weeks, but the clock on the wall said it was only one o’clock.

He had missed lunch.

Group starts in thirty minutes, Bennett, McFeely reminded him. Come on.

Taking Jake’s elbow, the man from the front desk buzzed open the door and led Jake Bennett once again down the long hallway to the day room. Before he opened the door, Terry McFeely stopped and spoke in a very low voice, without looking at Jake.

We just got a new coffee table book, rare orchids of southeast Asia.

I love orchids, Jake murmured.

Terry held open the door for Jake, then turned without ever meeting Jake’s eyes and walked back up the long hallway to his post.

Jake entered the day room, walked to the bookshelf next to the sofa, and scoped the books. There it was, on the bottom shelf, half hidden by a jigsaw puzzle box.

The book weighed about ten pounds, and still had the original dustcover on it, featuring, unsurprisingly, an enormous color picture of some bizarre and florescent orchid flower, blazing in unnaturally brilliant jewel tones. Jake lifted the book, took it over to the sofa, and carefully opened it. Turning over the pages one after another, Jake pretended to admire and study the pictures.

Finally, between plate number seventy-eight and seventy-nine, he found the photocopy of the page he had paid McFeely to get for him.

‘Intake: Jake Bennett Date: 8/24/15’ it read on the top.

Wagner’s handwriting was not the most legible, but Jake could manage. The PI glanced around the dayroom: he still had twenty minutes before his group therapy started. No one else was here. He resisted the urge to glance up at the two cameras at opposite ends of the room. Jake knew McFeely was watching, but there would also be a recording that someone might review, someday. Jake crossed his legs and spread the book over his knees so that the page, inserted facing a picture, would look, to the camera’s eye, merely like the inevitable boring explanation of the obvious flower.

‘Physical and mental health: Patient still betrays physical signs of recent extreme over-intoxication. Blurry eyes, slurred speech, long delays before answering questions. Though very slim, patient appears to be physically fit, and describes himself as a runner. Mentally, patient exhibits extreme paranoia, repeatedly asserting that he has been ‘set up’, as he puts it. Completely denies responsibility for his BLACKOUT, DTs and the resulting arrest. Mental acuity 6/10. Emotional fragility: weeps at the mention of relatives and friends. Patient insists he must be allowed to explain to his friends what has happened to him.’

‘Types of substances used: Alcohol. Patient admits constant state of intoxication beginning sometime around the 4th of July holiday and continuing through to the date of arrest, 8/23. No other drug history.’

The door to the rec room opened, and Jake automatically closed the book, leaving just the tip of the xerox sticking out. He looked up.

Mildred sashayed toward him, adopting the exaggerated air of feminine sexuality she always affected whenever a male of any age, size, shape or color was present. She lifted the tunic of her scrubs five or six inches, disclosing uncaged breasts that hung almost to her waist. Jake looked away, face carefully neutral. Mildred cackled.

Everyone wants pussy, she spat at him.

Jake knew the rest of the line, and muttered it with her.

But no one wants to pay for it. I know, Mildred. Do you mind? I’m reading.

Good thing it’s a picture book, you moron, she taunted. Don’t try to read the big words— you might pull a muscle in your head.

Mildred firmly believed and loudly proclaimed that any man who didn’t want to fuck her was a congenital idiot. This, despite the fact that this was her third time in Sutter, and she was easily sixty-five, though she always said she was forty-nine.

The aged seductress paraded to the TV at the far end of the room and plopped down in front of Jerry Springer after cranking up the volume.

‘Family history: Only child, mother deceased at five, father whereabouts unknown, no known history of alcohol abuse. Raised in the home of paternal aunt. Possibly secret drinkers, but never to the point of public intoxication.’

Jake scoffed out loud. Mildred couldn’t hear over the screeching of the latest pair of trailer trash combatants on the show.

‘Other variables related to the disease of addiction: Patient exhibits paranoia in all areas, including past history, where he claims a well-organized conspiracy ousted him from the LAPD. Admits to only sixteen months residency in SF, refuses to disclose details of life before April 2014. Blames a number of other people for current state. Patients holds a valid private investigator’s license. Roommate works in a bar, resulting in patient’s constant exposure to alcohol. Associates and clients also frequently drink, according to client. Patient refuses to provide names or exact nature of past relationships, but admits that his drinking began as self-medication for extreme emotional pain. Without more honesty, effort and openness on the part of patient, treatment will fail, and relapse is inevitable.’

Jake let out a heavy sigh. He had been breathing shallowly as he read the counselor’s intake report, almost holding his breath. Quickly he re-read the document, then methodically destroyed the xerox, disposing of the pieces in the sink in the kitchenette. He ran the garbage disposal for a few moments. The PI carefully replaced the new coffee table book about orchids on the bottom shelf, behind the puzzle box.

Hey shit head, time for group, announced Mildred as she flounced past him to the door.

Jake’s nose wrinkled at the stink of her BO. Slowly he got to his feet and headed out of the social room, formulating a new strategy for getting out of this place. Step one would be to begin seriously participating in the mandatory group counseling.

Mildred was already inflicting her unwashed self on the other females in a small group, including John, a gay man who habitually caucused with the women. Jake found a seat in the circle one seat away from the group leader, who today happened to be his own counselor, Wagner. Tina, a Black transwoman, sat next to him and greeted him in the bayou patois she affected, for some reason, only in group.

Hiya honey chile, she tittered, giving her generous implants a few shakes for emphasis.

Hey, Tina, Jake replied.

John leaned his bulk forward and started to get to his feet, but at that Wagner held up his hand.

Let’s start, the counselor said.

The first segment of group always consisted of a short check-in. Jake considered it largely a waste of