Body of Immorality (28 page)

Norson had come downstairs after a long hot shower, and was now fully dressed. He was standing in the dining room.

Terrance hadn’t heard Norson address him. He could smell the man’s aftershave, though. He chuckled at the television, pointing at Sylvester and Tweety with his spoon as Froot Loops rolled down his robe.

“Hey, Terrance,” Norson said, a bit louder. “I was thinking of having a little party over here with Dana on New Year’s Eve. Little festivities, you know? You don’t mind, do you?”

Terrance tried to speak through a mouthful of cereal:

“O-tay,” he said. “I ’ave t’work tha’ ni ay-way.”

Norson frowned. Something about having to go to work that night anyway?

On the television, Tweety and Sylvester traumatized each another. Tweety was winning with sticks of dynamite, of course, and Terrance was the kind of person who rooted for Sylvester, Tom, on
Tom and Jerry
, and Wile E. Coyote on the
Road Runner
cartoons. One of these days, he thought, all three of them were going to get what they wanted, and that goddamn bird, that fucking mouse, and the bastard road runner were going to be shish-ka-bobbed over open flames and dipped in a spicy sauce while Tom, Sylvester, And Wile E. toasted each other on a job well done.

The crunch of Froot Loops was loud in Terrance’s head. He swallowed the cereal as if something had just occurred to him. Why was Norson being so amiable lately? Hadn’t they talked about this months ago?

“You don’t have to ask me, Norson,” Terrance said. “We’ve talked about this before. Have fun. Dana seems
quite
the slender catch.”

This amicable role was starting to make him ill. When he was home, he forgot he didn’t have to play the role of Big Orange Goofy anymore. That was only for work. Norson
must
have other characteristics, he thought, besides being such a goddamn gentleman all the time.

“Well,” Norson replied. “I just wanted to let you know. In case things are a little crazy when you come home.”

“Sure,” Terrance said. “Hope the festivities are still in full swing when I get here. Have a blast. Ring it in!”

Norson smiled, nodded as he always did, and walked through the living room, glancing at the television where Sylvester’s face suddenly exploded. Norson told Terrance to have a good day, opened the front door, and closed it behind him.

Terrance stood up, went to the kitchen, and put the bowl in the sink. He looked at the calendar. He wiped his mouth on his robe, suddenly not so child-like. New Years Eve was only three days away.

Four tedious months,
Terrance thought, smiling.
Time for a change.

*

Much like any alcoholic, all he needed was an excuse. It was progress. One thing led to another, and those things had been piling up for weeks now: Dana’s shoes in the bathroom, the lipstick, the curlers, beer bottles lying along the kitchen counter. It confirmed his suspicions. Things happened for a reason. It was only a matter of time.

He’d been meaning to have a long talk about these things with Norson, those liquid blue eyes.

On New Year’s Eve, Terrance giggled to himself, and dressed for work. He’d traded with the night cook, Vince Cabanero, earlier in the week, even thought the restaurant closed at 11:00 pm. Vince wanted to ring in the New Year with several friends without having to worry about the job the next day. Terrance was fine with that, he’d said. He had plans of his own. And working New Year’s Eve wasn’t a problem. He’d be home before the celebrations started anyway.

*

He made it through a virtual, hassle free shift, ringing the bell, getting on people’s nerves whenever the mood struck. The only thing he had to get used to was cooking dinners instead of breakfasts and lunches. Hardly a dilemma.

At the end of his shift, he punched out, left The Tasty Station, and drove his Cavalier through a cold, blustery, snowy evening. The grease from the restaurant and the heat added a layer of sweaty grime to his skin. He looked forward to coming home, relaxing with a cold beer, and unwinding in front of the television. He’d take a shower first.

The scene throughout the neighborhood—when he parked the Cavalier in front of the house—was the purest of festivities. Faithful arrays of colored lights ran along windows and doors. Lights lay embedded in bushes and trees in front of several houses. A nativity scene told the story of Jesus on the front lawn across the street. Pictures in windows of Rudolph and Santa were cheerfully displayed, decorations of stars, and every kind of angel imaginable. A pure, six-inch blanket of snow draped the entire neighborhood in a cold, winter mantle. It was still snowing when he shut off the car.

Terrance smiled, humming
Noel
. He stepped out of the car and shut the door. The caking sweat and grease froze to his skin when the cold hit him. Yes, a shower would do him wonders.

Norson and Terrance had exchanged gifts on Christmas morning. Norson had bought Terrance a thick blue sweater Terrance had worn the entire day. Terrance had given Norson a scarf with piano keys on it because Norson was always typing in his room to the sounds of Chopin. Norson had loved it.

Terrance sighed with the maudlin reality of it, stepping over the curb, and onto the snow-laden sidewalk. Flakes descended from a slate driven sky tinged copper from the sodium lamps.

It was the music first, the thump and bass bumping from the windows. The front door was ajar, too, he saw.

Norson was ringing in the New Year with a slight lack in self-discipline.

Wasn’t the New Year still twenty-minutes away? Was Norson trying to blow the speakers in his stereo?

Terrance walked up the path to the front door, the thumping bass growing louder with each step. Snow crunched under his feet. He couldn’t recognize the song because the volume was so loud.

Anyone in the world could make off with his stereo, even the television. They could grab the goddamn Froot Loops if they wanted.

Terrance pushed the door open. The television was on along with the stereo, some movie—like the song—he couldn’t recognize. It wasn’t a replay of Times Square ringing in the New Year two hours earlier, nor was it Las Vegas with Dick Clark. Did Dick Clark do Vegas anymore?

The house was in virtual chaos. He raised his eyebrows, more amused than angry. Pastel colored streamers lay across the recliner, the coffee table, the dining room table, and the railing leading upstairs. Silver and gold glitter covered the floor like a powdered treasure. It would be hell trying to vacuum. An open box from Blackjack Pizza lay on the floor beside the recliner with half a pizza still inside. Mushroom, olives, artichokes, and pepperoni. Scattered from the kitchen to the living room stood various beer bottles, some half-full. Two champagne bottles stood on the kitchen table. A fire blazed and crackled in the fireplace with the safety gate set to the side.

Was it more than Norson and Dana? Had they thrown a party? Were others here, too? If so, where was everybody?

The sliding glass door leading to the back patio was open as well. Shards of wood and dirty footprints made a trail through the dining room, across the living room floor, and stopped at the fireplace. A tube of lipstick lay smeared into the carpet. The air was replete with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes.

The man was good; it was
too
good. Terrance felt like clapping.

Going to the stereo, Terrance hit the power button. The noise died instantly. He took a deep breath. He turned the television off, too. Silence breathed into the room. All was quiet except for the sound of muffled laughter upstairs, a drunken Dana twittering at something Norson said.

As if on cue, Terrance turned, and Norson’s door opened. A drunken Norson Adler wavered in the doorway, a bright pink smear of lipstick on his cheek. His pale blue shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a hairy chest.

“T’rence!” Norson tried to say. “We’s nist-nin’ t’ dat myoosnic!”

Terrance smiled. “
Now,
we are listening to
silence,”
he said. “And, when you get a second, Norson Addlepated, I could use a word.”

Norson cocked his head, not grasping what Terrance meant. Behind Norson, a sultry, tan leg came into view. A slender hand with sleek red nails slid around Norson’s chest stroking his nipples and hair.

Terrance was impressed. Dana, he realized, was completely naked behind Norson, trying to pull him back into the room.

“You can leave the little hot rod alone for a few seconds, Norson-honey,” Terrance said. “Just a word I heard could I relate!”

Swaying drunkenly to his own rhythm, Norson turned to Dana, as if he’d just remembered something, and pushed her back into the room. A golden spill of hair came into view behind Norson’s head and shoulders, lipstick matching the nails.

Norson said something Terrance couldn’t hear.

“Oh,
Nor
-baby!” Dana said. “Don’t be a
minute!
Please, a minute's all I can
take!”

Terrance threw his keys on the recliner and walked into the kitchen. “Time’s wastin’, Nor-baby,” Terrance called. “We’re working a tight schedule! Gotta beat the clock!”

Terrance opened a drawer by the sink and pulled out a six-inch cooking knife, concealing it behind his back.

Big Orange Goofy with a knife,
he thought, and smiled.

Terrance returned to the living room just as Norson was making his way downstairs.

“How many drinks have you had tonight?” Terrance asked. “Do you have a problem with alcohol, Norson?”

“No, ovz-ifer.”

Terrance laughed. Norson could—at times—play the role to perfection.

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, Norson,” Terrance said, looking around the house, “it seems we’ve had a breach in contract.”

Norson tried to smile. He fell short, wavered, and grabbed the banister, trying to right himself.

“Trence,” Norson said. “New Y’rs, Even. Having some fun. Thought it was—”
(hiccup!)
“—o’tay?”

“One thing,” Terrance said, “I cannot stand is a broken contract, Norson, a breach in business partners. Is that understood? I would think it clear as crystal. If it’s
not
clear as crystal, perhaps something needs to be established.”

“Sumtin’ neeww?” Norson played along.

“Yeah, something new,” Terrance said. “Like,
you
break the contract, and
I
get to stick a very sharp piece of steel through your Adam’s apple. How’s that, Nor-baby? Sound fair?”

Norson looked on the verge of tears. Terrance almost felt sorry for him.

The next moment whizzed by in a blur for Norson Adler. He barely had time to register the following seconds. It was all a dream, a drunken nightmare.

Terrance pounced, his hand swinging into view from behind his back. A flash of bright silver emerged in front of Norson’s eyes followed quickly by a searing bolt of pain in his neck. Norson gasped for air, fell back, and gagged on his own blood. His eyes went wide in shock. Blood erupted from his jugular like a geyser.

Big Orange Goofy rammed the knife repeatedly into Norson’s throat until it resembled a shredded, mutilated mass of flesh.

Terrance whooped with glee! He emphasized his words as he shouted, driving the knife now into Norson’s chest:

“Like
this!”
he cried. “Like
every
time you
screw
something
up,
I get to
pull
out the knife and do
terrible
damage to your
body,
Nor-baby!
See
how that
goes?”

Terrance stabbed Norson twenty-seven times. In seconds, the act was over. It was strangely quiet in the house. Terrance couldn’t hear anything except the muffled television in Norson’s room.

A surprised countenance, a lifeless gaze stared up at Terrance.

In a demented moment of reverence, Terrance Wattercliffe knelt at Norson’s feet. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. He offered up a prayer. Let the knife do the talking, he thought.

Terrance said, “Amen,” and opened his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed, but in the time he’d been praying, Dana had emerged at the top of the stairs. She was wearing one of Norson’s shirts with red panties. The bedroom door was open behind her. She’d come out to see what was taking Norson so long. Instead, she’d found Big Orange Goofy splattered in blood, crouched over her boyfriend.

Dana screamed in hellish terror and retreated to the bedroom. The door slammed shut.

Terrance stood up and smiled.

Of course,
he thought.
Lady Luck. The added bonus.

Terrance stepped over Norson’s body and ascended the stairs.

A single window in Norson’s room provided a chance to escape, but Terrance wasn’t worried. Two feet of snow covered the ground. Dana was virtually naked, and it was too high to jump.

Terrance grabbed the knob and threw the door open.

Dana continued to scream, huddled in the corner of the room. She grabbed the lamp beside the bed and threw it, missing Terrance by several inches. Green ceramic shattered against the wall.

On the small black and white television on the other side of the bed, a large crowd cried, “
HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

He couldn’t have timed it any better. What a way to ring it in!

Terrance moved around the bed.

Dana’s screams made his ears ring.

At his feet, Big Orange Goofy kicked aside a beer bottle. He advanced with the knife. Sometimes, it was disappointing how easy it could be.

*

Driving the road, seeking some place new, the idle hum of the Corvette purred under him. He wanted to get out soon, stretch his legs. The drive had been long, but it was good to be in the car again. He’d always had a thing for ’Vettes. The one he was driving now was a vintage 1961, red and white convertible. With the winter, the top was up. He’s kept it in a garage for the last year. The Cavalier was only part of the act. He only drove the Corvette until he absolutely had to. He didn’t like the attention it brought.

He wanted to get a bite to eat, a cup of coffee before he drove farther…

Leaving Colorado wasn’t terribly difficult. The sights of new places made it worth it, but it always left him feeling sad.