Looking for Mr. Goodbar Read online

  RAVES FOR

  LOOKING FOR MR. GOODBAR

  “Hard, fast, frightening. . . . Looking for Mr. Goodbar has gut excitement.”

  —Newsweek

  “Haunting, compelling. . . . Theresa Dunn acts out a fantasy many women will identify with, but few will admit to.”

  —Ms. magazine

  “Dazzling. . . . I, for one, won’t ever look at a young woman prowling a bar quite the same way again.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “It compels the reader by its sheer energy and force.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “Penetrating, frightening, and unforgettable . . . it would be hard to overpraise Looking for Mr. Goodbar. . . . Perhaps today’s reader has grown up and wants her emotions wrapped around a lovable but confused character, in this case, Terry Dunn, who resembles every woman you’ve ever known.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “A bittersweet cavalcade.”

  —The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)

  “It grips you with its force and chills you. . . . From the first page, we have known how it all will end, but the story’s relentless inevitability holds us fast. . . .”

  —John Barkham Reviews

  “An emotional hurricane.”

  —Carol Hill, author of Let’s Fall in Love

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  FOR JOSEPH PERELMAN

  ABOUT

  THE

  CONFESSION

  Gary Cooper White was born in Jersey City, New Jersey. He moved to Georgia the year he began school, when his mother’s husband, number three of five, got a job in a mill there. Some of the feeling you get from the resulting combination of accents is, inevitably, lost in the transcription from the police tapes. But I’ve tried to note questions, interruptions and clear changes in emotion that came through in his voice.

  The police found him a particularly cooperative witness. He got somewhat violent and incoherent while being taken to New York on the plane, but he’d offered no resistance to those in Ohio who found him. At that point he was eager to unburden himself. Back in New York, he never denied the murder; he wanted the circumstances understood. He seemed to think that almost anyone in the same situation would have committed the same murder.

  For me, as a matter of fact, this was the most notable quality of his confession—that Gary White, who had brutally assaulted and murdered Theresa Dunn a few hours after meeting her in a Manhattan singles spot called Mr. Goodbar, had a very clear sense of himself as the victim of the woman he had murdered.

  He had just come up from Florida, where he had a very young (sixteen) and pregnant wife. There was a warrant out for his arrest (armed robbery) and he couldn’t work there. In South Carolina a careless driver gave him a hitch and left his jacket on the seat between them. From the pocket White extracted a wallet containing more than thirty dollars and enough identification to get him jobs in North Carolina and Virginia. Each of which he left after his first paycheck.

  He was a handsome young man, from the photos that are available. Blond and square-jawed. Looking, in his faded denim jacket and jeans, like an extra in a cowboy movie. It wasn’t difficult for him to get jobs or pick up girls.

  He arrived in New York with the intention of staying with a buddy from his unit in Vietnam until he could find a job. But his friend was no longer at the Greenwich Village address he’d given White. He wandered around for a while and that night found himself in a place which he eventually recognized as a gay bar. It was there he met George Prince (or Prince George, as he sometimes called himself), who some days later would give the police the information they needed to find Gary in Cleveland. Gary told George how he’d come to New York for a job, counting on his war buddy for a bed until he could get work, only to find his buddy gone. George offered him a place for the night. One of the few contradictions within White’s confession is that he at first claims not to have realized George was a homosexual who would want him, while at some later point he says he knew George was gay but he figured he could handle it.

  The way he handled it was to have sex with George for a week or so without ever suggesting to George that all he really wanted was a place to stay while he found a job. Only when George brought another man onto the scene did Gary rebel and then he seems to have been more perturbed by the idea of the extra man as a witness than by the notion of a third sexual partner. Until then he had regarded what he was doing as a practical matter. He redoubled his efforts to get a job. But the holidays were already upon the city, most temporary winter jobs were filled, and he didn’t score those automatic points that a drifter in the South gets for being white.

  He became increasingly hostile to George, who retaliated by taunting him about his good looks, and finally, on New Year’s Eve, by insisting that Gary dress in drag for a dance they were attending. In contrast to his readiness to relate much of what happened with Theresa, Gary gagged as he described, at the urging of the police, the wig, tiara, white satin gown and silver platform sandals George had provided for him.

  As in his dealings with Theresa, Gary lacked any sense of having done something wrong or avoidable. He was bitter toward George for forcing him to have sex while admitting that no actual force was involved. He could not see any way in which he had exploited George. (His response at a later date, when he was being interviewed by a court-appointed psychiatrist who asked if he thought people would criticize the idea of taking money, food and lodging from someone you didn’t like, was, “But he was just a dumb ugly queer!”)

  He seems to have lived always with the sense of fighting for his life with his back against the wall, a context in which otherwise insane acts seem quite reasonable. The supreme irony of his situation being provided by the fact that the police who searched his clothing after he was booked in New York found more than a hundred dollars in fives and tens tucked into the hem of his coat lining. He was startled when they asked him about the money.

  He had saved it for his pregnant wife out of the pay he earned during his weeks on the road. He hadn’t wanted to mail the cash or risk going into a Southern post office for a money order. So he had hidden it in his coat lining with the intention of mailing it with his friend’s help when he got here.

  When he arrived in New York he had six dollars in his jeans and never remembered the money in his coat until the cops found it on January 13th, not quite two weeks after the murder of Theresa Dunn.

  THE

  CONFESSION

  . . . It was like he was doing me a favor taking me to this place. Because it wasn’t just for queers. It wasn’t a bad place. I don’t remember the name. There was some old movie on the TV, with no sound. George was talking to some guys he knows. I was just watching the TV. Thinking how I could get out of George’s place. I figure I’ll split New York altogether if I can’t get work.

  She’s sitting on the last stool, you know, against the wall. I wouldn’t’ve even noticed her except she’s reading a book. In a bar. Not looking at the TV. Once in a while she talks to the bartender. They laugh, talk, whatever. I’m too wasted, I don’t care.

  George says to me, “She’s got her eye on you, sweetheart.”

  I say, “No shit.”

  George says, “You can have her if you want her.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I say. Just making conversation.

  “She’s in here plenty,” he tells me. “She fucks anything in pants.”

&nbs
p; I tell him she don’t particularly turn me on. Not that she’s all that bad-looking, but . . . blondes turn me on. For a few minutes there was this other chick there talking to her, a real sharp-looking blonde. The kind you don’t talk to so fast, you know she’ll just cut you.

  “Not like some of those beauties last night,” George says. Meaning the queers at the dance. “They really turned you on, huh, Gary?”

  I said to myself, Oh, shit, here we go again, he’s gonna tell me he don’t believe I got a pregnant wife. I had it up to here.

  The bartender says something about her. I don’t know. It was like he was asked to introduce us. We all started talking. The only thing she said in the bar bugged me, was, she started on my accent. “Where’d you-all get that accent?” Where the fuck did she think I got my accent? I got it from my mama and the rest of them. All week long I was getting that same crap from George’s friends.

  Anyhow, we’re talking and after a while she pretends like she can’t hear something I’m saying and she moves over next to me. Tells me she’s a teacher. Boy, some of the people they got teaching kids, I’m keeping mine out of school. Especially if it’s a girl. Anyhow, then she starts yawning, says she’s tired. Do I feel like having a drink up at her place?

  I figure what the hell, I was pretty wasted, like I said, and she didn’t turn me on, but she wasn’t all that bad and it’s a flop for the night. I’ll go home with this crazy chick, get some, you know. Get away from George.

  So we go up to her place. One room plus the kitchen and bathroom. She makes a couple of drinks.

  “How come you was reading in the bar?” I asked her.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she says. “I like to read and I like to sit in bars.” I don’t say nothing. “I don’t like four walls,” she says. “I’d go nuts if I had to stay in my apartment.”

  That I can dig. “You should try jail,” I tell her. “You’d really go for that.”

  “You been in jail?” she asks. Not scared, almost the opposite. Like it turned her on. She was a fucked-up chick. She asks what’d they get me for and I tell her petty larceny, assault, possession, robbery one, and she smiles. George used to do that, groove on my fuckin’ record. It really bugged me. Where I come from no one thinks it’s cute to have a record. Marilyn almost didn’t marry me when she found out I had a record.

  I just sat there, drinking. Looking at this broad. Thinking if I even feel like balling her. Wishing I was home. Of all the warrants that’s the one . . . the one that keeps me outa Florida. That one I could’ve gotten out of with a good lawyer. The guys that got me into that one . . . I didn’t even know what we were doing to the last minute. I practically went along for the ride.

  “Who’d you assault?” she asks me.

  “A cop,” I tell her. “I was just trying to get away.”

  “I once hit a cop,” she says. “In Washington. I was in a demonstration.”

  “You get busted?” I ask. I figure that’s what she wants me to ask.

  “We all got taken in but they didn’t book all of us,” she says.

  “How come?”

  She shrugged.

  “Did you have the limp then?” I ask. I figure maybe that’s why they didn’t book her, she’s got something, this funny walk, like a short leg or something.

  “No,” she says. “I have an ingrown toenail.”

  I don’t say nothing. I’m thinking maybe George won’t even go back to his place. I could go back there and get away from this crazy broad and maybe even get a night’s sleep. I don’t sleep since I been in Nam. Maybe two, three hours, the most. . . . I’ll tell you something weird. The times I got into trouble it was never doing something I wanted to do. Always I was just sitting there and someone asks me do I wanna go along. (His voice begins to sound excited.) I swear to Christ, that’s the truth, I didn’t even wanna . . . (after a long pause) . . . Then she says to me, “You queer like your friend?”

  “No, cunt,” I say. “I’m not queer like my friend.”

  God is my witness, I never talked that way to a woman in my life. She just . . . anyhow, she sort of yawns. Stretches out. And she says, “I think you are. I think maybe if I feel like getting laid tonight I oughta go back downstairs and find someone straight.”

  Naturally that pisses me off. All I need is for this miserable cunt to go back down there and tell everyone I’m a queer. As soon as I get pissed off . . . I get a little turned on, right? So I say to her, “You’re not going nowhere.”

  “Mmmm,” she says. “Maybe you’re right.” She starts to get undressed. “Maybe you’re right. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.” Getting undressed like I wasn’t there. Then she says to me I should slam the door on my way out, so naturally the next thing you know I’m balling her, right? (A long silence.) We went a good long time, I don’t know, or, fuck . . . what’s the . . . yeah . . . so then we’re finished and I’m feeling okay. You know, relaxed. The only thing in my head is now maybe I can get some sleep. Now I don’t have to hear any more of that queer shit. And I close my eyes and . . . (His voice trembles and he has difficulty continuing. After a while another voice prods him gently. With great effort he forces himself to start talking again, although his voice cracks.) And then . . . then . . . I’m half asleep and this voice says, “You can go now.”

  At first it didn’t even hit me. The words. I didn’t know what she was talking about. I’m out of it, y’know? Then she starts tapping my arm. I don’t say nothing. Then she says, “Hey, don’t fall asleep.”

  I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong, but still it don’t really hit me. I say something. I don’t know, like, Why shouldn’t I—I don’t know. I figure maybe I’m taking too much space on the bed, I never think . . . (Voice trembles again.) Then she says, cool as anything, “Because you ain’t sleeping here.”

  That really jolted me. It was like . . . like . . . all of a sudden I’m wide awake and spinning. My head. The rest of me is . . . I’m paralyzed. I’m so tired I can’t move. I remember this picture went through my head of my buddy Ralph who got it in the spine in Nam, and I caught his face when they was lifting him up onto the stretcher to the copter, and his face, you know, he can’t move anything, he knows, and his face . . . but he can’t move. . . .

  “Why?” I ask her.

  “Because I don’t want you to.”

  “Why don’t you want me to?” I’m stalling. I mean I can’t do it. I don’t give a fuck why. My head is . . . the blood’s pounding in my head.

  “ ’Cause I hardly know you,” she says. (His laugh crosses with a sob. Then there is another long pause.)

  “I just fucked you pretty good, didn’t I?”

  “Okay,” she says. “Just okay.”

  That really . . . anyhow . . . I say to her, “Fuck you, I ain’t going nowhere.”

  That blows her mind. “What’re you talking about?” she screams at me. “Where the fuck do you think you are?”

  She sounds scared, y’know? I remember I thought that was funny. Like, what was she scared of? I was the one getting kicked out.

  “I’m right here, cunt,” I say to her. “And I’m staying until I get some sleep.” I don’t know what the hell I said it for. I was wide awake by this time. I shoulda just . . . but the idea of this lousy broad shoving me out (voice cracks again) . . . like I was a piece of shit. Shoveling me out like a piece of shit, that’s what she was doing.

  Then she says, “If you’re not up in one minute I call the cops.” And she reaches for the phone near the bed like she’s gonna really do it and I grab the phone and pull it so hard the fucking thing comes right outa the wall, I had no idea, and I threw it across the room. Then I think I went out for a minute . . . no, I mean blank . . . I don’t remember . . . everything was red or something . . . and the next thing I know she’s half across the room and I’m going after her and she starts screaming and I gotta cover her mouth so the neighbors don’t hear. By this time all I want is out. For her to shut up so I can let her go and
get the fuck outa there. I swear to you, that’s the truth, all I wanted was out and she wouldn’t let me out. If she would’ve just stopped struggling I woulda got outa there. But she wouldn’t stop. She was trying to bite my hand that’s over her mouth. (Long silence. The other voice asks a question.) Mmm . . . Yeah . . . that’s when I decide I better tie her up. Just tie her and gag her good enough to get outa there before she gets loose. I get her back to the bed so I can do it. (Long pause. When he resumes, his voice has gone completely dead. As though he’s reporting something seen at a distance and not of any particular interest.) I get her back with my arm around her face. I get her down. I don’t know how to tie her, to tie her first or gag her first. Gag her. I figure I can use the phone cord to tie her hands . . . and then . . . I don’t know what happened next. . . . (The other voice says something, and for the first time he sounds angry at the intervention.) What difference does it make? I killed her, I said I killed her, I don’t know, I . . . (subsiding) Yeah . . . I know, I know. All right.

  When I first put the pillow down over her face it was just to shut her up. I tried one hand but she kept biting. I put the pillow over her . . . it was, like, her mouth. I mean, I thought in my mind I was covering her mouth. Then, I don’t know, we was both naked. I got turned on. (Other voice.) Yeah. That’s what I mean . . . mmmm . . . So I (voice) No. I tried but while I’m trying to . . . get in . . . (he chokes on the words) . . . all of a sudden she makes a big kind of . . . I don’t know, I’m not thinkin’ about the pillow and she gets it off and starts screaming and I’m scared shitless because of the neighbors and before I know it I pulled the lamp off the table and smashed it down on her head. It was like I wasn’t thinking. I swear to God. It was like someone else was doing it. I remember I’m looking down at her just before I bring it down and I’m looking at her face . . . she’s so scared . . . but it’s like I had nothing to do with it. It’s like I’m a million miles away. Then, when I saw the blood . . . I saw she was out . . . I got scared more. The phone was ringing, maybe it was the doorbell, I don’t know, something was ringing and it didn’t stop. I got crazy. I was afraid to leave. I started, I don’t know, running around the place, then I wanted to . . . (breaks) . . . make sure. . . . I knew how bad it was and I . . . I better make sure. I got out my knife and I stabbed her. (He is crying as he talks.) I stabbed her all over. I don’t know why I stabbed her. I stabbed her in the . . . all over. I don’t know why, I don’t know if I knew she was dead. There was no life in her. I think I went to sleep.