DISCLAIMER: I don't own Bobby Goren. If I did, I wouldn't share.
x-x-x
It was a huge comfort to the residents of the Welles apartment complex to have a cop on the third floor. Not just any cop, either: Detective Robert N. Goren, Major Case Squad. Mrs. Flaherty once referred to him (after he left the Laundromat where the tenants do their jeans) as a soda machine with a head.
"At least that head has a brain in it," she continued senilely. "When he talks you get conversation, not pop."
So the girls on his floor took to calling him Big Pop. He didn't get it, but he didn't ask.
Everyone knew him because everyone knows each other in nice apartment buildings. Of course, not everyone liked him. He was just too right-brained and left-winged for some people. Most thought he was an arrogant, know-it-all jerk, and they may have been right. But if there was any kind of ruckus that requited an authoritative figure to step up, no one stood in Bobby's way. Liking and respecting are two different things.
Those who did like him loved him. A fresh-out-of-college art major named Sid McCann would shift anxiously from one foot to another every time they spoke, waiting for the magic question. Then it would come at last. "Done any more sketches lately?"
She'd beam and present him with her sketchbook, reveling at the attention and aching for his opinions. "This one's one of my favorites; you're great with pointillism." "Now, I don't mean to sound like a critic, but if you ever consider doing this one again, you might consider putting the light source on the left and completely shading the right half of the face. Adds mystery." "Is that Stan Kindle down the street? You captured him, Sid."
When he happened one day upon the picture she drew of him, she held her breath. His brow relaxed as he studied the sketch. At length, he sighed. "You caught me. It's perfect."
Her stomach knotted. "You don't like it?"
He shook his head and forced a grin. "I'm just thinking—I should sit up straighter."
Her art improved under his guidance. One evening, he'd brought his own thin portfolio. "In case you're interested," he said with a shrug.
"Very much so," she said enthusiastically.
He busied himself with something else as she slowly turned the pages. His talent was raw and untrained, without the formal taming that sometimes helps and sometimes ruins an artist. It would make sense that he'd never taken a drawing class. He devoted his studies to whatever would help him be a successful cop. How was drawing helpful?
Most were portraits of people she didn't recognize. Such a profoundly intimate look at people she'd never met almost made her blush. In his scrawling handwriting he'd jotted names on the lower corners, as though afraid he might someday forget them. His feelings toward every subject he ever studied were brought to life masterfully.
A tall, white-haired man labeled "Jim," for whom Bobby obviously had great respect, showed up a few times. "Eames" was petite and beautiful, and Bobby's affection for her was evident. She was probably his best friend, the number of times she appeared. "Carver," a stony-faced black man, was not very well liked. At "Nicole," Sid stopped. She didn't like the power this woman had over her neighbor. "Nelda" was clearly pitied very deeply. "Bishop" annoyed him, but he knew it wasn't her fault. And finally, "Mom" nearly made Sid's heart stop. Love, regret, loyalty, fear, admiration and disappointment leapt from the page as she studies the frail, tiny woman, literally shaking on the paper.
Ah, the mystery of Big Pop. Sid wanted to piece him together like a Rubik's cube, but she knew she had to ignore that want. What fun is a solved Rubik's cube?
Among a few pictures of other tenants, she gasped at "Sid McCann" and gawked at her own face. She could have wept when she read their relationship in his pencil strokes: sexless friendship.
x-x-x
If you needed someone to talk to here, break something. Then pretend the landlord was ignoring you, and ask Bobby to take a look at it. Keep your cool, though. If you're distraught and do something transparent (say, cram a shoe in the garbage disposal), he'll give you The Look, sit you down, and ask you to talk about it outright. That's a therapist's job, not a friend's.
Vivi Wood was an attractive, thirty-four year-old divorcé whose ex was Satan's younger brother and whose mother was the female form of Hitler. Over the three years she'd lived next door to Bobby, she'd become a master at inconspicuously ruining her shower. Which accomplished two things: one, she got a sympathetic ear and sensible advice from the smartest man she'd ever known; and two, she got to see him in her shower. Even fully clothed and swearing from time to time at the mysteriously bent pipes, he was there.
She often thought about him behind the foggy glass door. She'd washing him with a good, thick lather—particularly his back. Rinsing off in the clear, pressurized water, his curls would hang damp and loose on his forehead and she would not—oh, no way in hell—be able to resist him. They'd make love standing against the tiled wall, her legs around his hips, and it would be fantastic.
On nights when she thought of him there she'd fall asleep, pink and warm to the touch from the hot water, her hands behind her head in complete comfort. He could bring her to the highest climax she'd had in years in her dreams. If he ever touched her, she'd melt onto him and stay there forever.
But when he actually stood in her shower, she had to direct the conversation carefully.
"So, how's it going?" he'll ask.
She'll sigh. "Not too great." He'll furrow his brow at her. "To tell you the truth, this is just the most recent addition to all the stuff I have to deal with."
"Anything I can do?"
"No, I don't want to trouble you."
"Come on, you'll feel better when you get it out."
She'll look torn for a moment, then grin in appreciation and lean against the sink, starting her rant. She'll finish long after Bobby does, but he's too concerned to interrupt her. He can see she needs this.
When she stops, she'll be embarrassed for sharing so much.
"No, don't worry about it," he'll tell her. "I really don't mind." He'll give her once in a lifetime grins. "You know, in the end everything will work out just fine for you. I know."
She'll smile shyly in return and stand on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"At least let me pay you."
He'll cock an eyebrow and she'll throw up her hands. "All right. No money. But I'll think of something."
His voice naturally drips with innuendo, so he means it with all possible innocence despite the sound when he says "I'm sure you will."
x-x-x
Carol Crowe lived down the hall from Bobby and thought about him only when she saw him. She was happy with her life and her husband. It was her granddaughter she was worried about, living with them after her father died of a heart attack, God bless him.
Little Sammy was fourteen years old and had always been something of a tom-boy. Boys were beneath her, and she'd never noticed a man who wasn't grinning at her from the movie screen. The development of her attraction to Mr. Goren was a slow one. She knew he wasn't the kind of boy she should like.
If she pointed him out to her new friend Megan, she knew the kind of reaction she'd get. The same reaction she got when she popped in "Swingers" or "Indiana Jones" and sighed over Vince Vaughn and vintage Harrison Ford. Megan's eyes would widen, her nose wrinkling slightly, and she'd say, "You think he's hot? Omigawd, why? He's got to be—like—thirty something. And so not… just not hot, you know?"
So Sammy kept to herself as best she could. But it was becoming increasingly difficult as the days went by. Especially after… well…
One time, after Mr. Goren's dad died, Papaw invited him to Mass with them, offering a church for his weary soul to take rest. Sammy, Gram and Papaw got dressed and waited. He was supposed to meet them for a quick breakfast and then they'd be on their way.
Gram looked at her watch. "He must not be used to getting up on Sunday. Sam, would you go knock on his door and remind him services start at ten?"
Since Sammy was done with her breakfast and her guardians usually took at least five more minutes to finish up, she had no objections.
She stopped outside his apartment door and knocked. "Mister Goren?" she said. "It's time for Mass, if you still want to go." No answer. She heard the TV inside, so she knew he was there. But there was no other noise, so she grew concerned. "Mister Goren?" She knocked harder and the door, unlocked and unlatched, fell open. She stood there a moment, wondering what to do.
She tasted iron in her mouth as panic snuck up her throat. Dad died with the TV on. Everything was fine, and then she came downstairs and her father looked like he was asleep as Katie Couric told them about a new book. But he wouldn't wake up. Sammy started to flashback in front of Mr. Goren's door. Calm down. He's not going to die. He's healthy as a horse. When she shook her father his eyes came open but he didn't see her. They never closed again.
With that image in her head, she charged into his apartment and followed the sound of the TV into his living room. As she drew closer, she heard him snoring quietly and was able to breathe again. The problem then became what to do next.
He was sprawled out along the couch, a thin blanket covering what it could of his long body. Huge socked feet poked out from the other end, propped up against the arm rest. She almost grinned and turned off the TV, deciding to let him sleep in.
When the drone of the news stopped, he snorted and opened his eyes for a moment, half-awake. "What are you doing here?"
She blushed. "I-I thought you were dead."
"Dead?" He closed his eyes again and ran a large hand over his face. "No, I'm not dead. My father's the dead one. Yeah. I just popped a Unisom too late last night and can't seem to wake up." He peeked at her from between his middle and ring-finger. "Who are you?"
"Sammy?" she said as though it were a question, hoping he'd remember.
"Hm." He was quiet again for so long she thought he'd fallen completely back to sleep. Suddenly, he threw the blanket aside and sat up on the edge of the couch cushion, rubbing his eyes and trying to bring himself to Earth.
Sammy had never turned a deeper shade of red. Not only was he shirtless, clad in only sweatpants and socks, but his morning erection was beyond anything she had seen before. She wasn't a virgin, and had seen enough swollen cocks to be accustomed to these normal bodily functions. But the fourteen-to-sixteen year-olds she serviced posed no threat of hurting her. Someday, if she wasn't prepared for Mr. Goren, he could very well split her in half like a wedged log. The thought of which moistened her up so good she was still self-conscious about any trace on her skirt through confession.
"Hold on, kiddo," he said, oblivious to the world around him and on him. He stood and headed for the bathroom. "Give me fifteen minutes and I'll be right with you."
"Th-that Unisom is good stuff, huh?" she said lamely.
"Huh? What time is it? Dammit, I knew I should've taken that thing before Conan."
She watched his powerful body disappear behind the bathroom door and sat on his couch with her elbows on her knees until he came back out, fully wakened by a cool shower. "Thanks for waking me. Ready to go?" He placed his hand on her back as she stood, guiding her out the door like a gentleman. "You look nice today."
She wondered if it was possible to be ruined for other men at such an early age.
x-x-x
Lynda Marx was a black woman next door to Bobby who had never had a white man affect her the way he did. Once in awhile they'd share a smoke out on the patio and talk about the world and how they'd fix it if they were in charge. They were both arrogant S.O.B.s and they knew it. And they loved it. Occasionally Little Alex would join them, but she didn't smoke and rolled her eyes more often than she spoke, so for the most part she stayed away.
She sat on that patio every night she could, looking at the moon. When there was no moon, she looked at the stars. When the stars weren't visible, she watched the clouds. When the clouds weren't interesting, she'd practice blowing smoke rings. All alone on the third floor deck, she watched the comings and goings of her neighbors. Bobby was particularly interesting, of course.
Until recently, he'd had a hell of a healthy sex life. His girlfriends never stuck around long. They didn't know what they were getting into when they said yes to Bobby. His one-night stands were frequent, but Lynda knew better than to blame it on a sex addiction or hyper-active libido. The man was lonely as hell and didn't know how to deal with it.
Women of all shapes, sizes, ages, races and social backgrounds got out of the taxi he might as well call his own. Many of them came upstairs. Several of them stayed the night. Lynda snorted humorlessly when she heard them leave before midnight. Bobby was too afraid of disease, germs and heartbreak to roll over from everything that threw itself at him.
Damnedest thing about Bobby, he asked if you had something. If you lied, he knew. He was a detective, after all. He wasn't so rude as to kick you out if you admitted to having herpes or something, but there would be no intercourse. You'd have a pleasant evening with a pleasant man and, if you were a skilled seductress, you might convince him to finger you up in exchange for a nice BJ.
Lynda had learned to judge what kind of night she was going to have by the sounds of their foreplay. Their bedrooms shared a wall, which was sometimes fun. Sometimes not. He was a considerate neighbor, but an extraordinary lover. Women she could tell were ordinarily silent cried out; the moaners became screamers; the screamers he had to shush, lest Mrs. Flaherty ask her the next morning how her opera lessons were going.
Once he'd gotten pretty rowdy when a petite redheaded woman showed up at his door with a friend and knocked boldly. "Detective Goren," she said. "I'd like to speak with you about the case, if you're not too busy."
"Of course not," Bobby began before the door was completely opened. "Come in, please."
The redhead and Asian woman she was with exchanged glances as they stepped over the threshold. Lynda still grinned about that.
The only time Lynda had actually heard him scream was because of a sturdy-looking blonde lady from the South who must've been astoundingly flexible, incredibly strong and irrepressibly open-minded. Friday night wore into Saturday morning, and they rested. Around noon they woke up and went at it again for the rest of the day. All Sunday was off-and-on insanity. They both had every page of Kama Sutra memorized and were both dying to try a few dozen Cosmo positions, as well.
They emerged from the torn apartment Monday morning and caught the same elevator downstairs. Must've worked together. Lynda caught a glimpse of her t-shirt, proudly proclaiming that this golden-haired goddess was a Scorpio. Well, that explains that.
For herself, sure, Lynda fantasized about sleeping with him now and then. Thought about one hand on the back of his head, one on the small of his back as his lips caressed her neck and his strong arms nestled between her and the bed, encasing her securely. Her ideas came from the scummy boyfriend Bobby chased away. Wolf by the ears, that man. The first time Shawn slapped her, Big Pop was at the door, pounding away and threatening to arrest him whether or not Lynda wanted him to.
The man was good to people. That's all there was to it.
This evening she sat outside, as usual, when taxi 5149 pulled up again. Goren got out and helped tonight's girl behind him. Well well, that blonde again. Who knows. Maybe these two can get along. Maybe she's not just a bed-warmer Bobby tries to convince himself he only needs for a night, once in awhile. Maybe.
Before the elevator doors open to let the animals in, Lynda crushes out her cigarette and goes to bed.
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