Body of Immorality (29 page)

He’d rolled up the carpets, taken the bodies into the mountains, and spent a day digging one deep grave. Because of the snow, the task had been long and arduous. He’d burned the carpets and scrubbed the blood off the walls. He spent another day painting Norson’s room (coat after coat), the wall by the stairs where he’d killed him. He ordered new carpet to replace the old. The house actually looked better than when he’d moved in.

He had to leave before people started asking questions. If they did, he put on his long ears and the bucked teeth of Big Orange I-don’t-know-a-damn-thing Goofy.

Mexico would be his final destination, Canada perhaps. He was a gypsy, but even Terrance had to quell his appetites at some time. Settling down was inevitable. He had to savor these moments while they presented themselves.

The restaurant was, The Happy Belly, outside of Cleveland, Ohio, home of the Indians, the resurrected Browns. It was two-thirty in the morning.

He parked the car in the empty lot and stepped outside. He locked the door of the ’Vette and sauntered across the snow-filled lot to the entrance. He pulled the door open, feeling a blast of warm air against his face. He shivered, shaking off the last of the cold. He picked a booth by the windows. He wanted to look at the Corvette while he ate.

A young, short, Hispanic man came up to his table, setting down a glass of water. “Something besides water?” the waiter asked.

A silver diamond shimmered in the waiter’s left ear. These days, that could mean anything. Terrance didn’t pay attention to trivialities, only roles.

“Coffee,” Terrance said.

The waiter nodded and walked away.

Terrance picked up the menu and looked it over. Biscuits and gravy sounded good, chicken fried steak and eggs. Fried, of course. Lots of Tobasco, yolk, and pepper. The way a man
should
eat.

Terrance tuned his ear to a sudden conversation between the waiter and the cook. Something about a girlfriend, no place to stay…

The waiter broke off his conversation, returning to Terrance’s table, and set down a steaming cup of coffee.

“Decided?” the waiter asked.

“Chicken-fried steak,” Terrance said, setting the menu on the table. “Over easy on the eggs. Wheat toast. Hashbrowns instead of pancakes.”

According to the badge, the waiter’s name was Demitri. Demitri wrote the order on the ticket, nodded, and was about to walk away when Terrance held up his hand.

“Hold it,” he said. “I couldn’t help but overhear—”

Demitri raised his eyebrows.

“You
know
someone,” Terrance said. “Or
you’re
looking for a place to stay?”

“
I’m
looking for a place to stay,” Demitri said. “It’s a long story. Why? You know a place I can shack up?”

Terrance took a sip of coffee. He winced. It tasted like charcoal. “I have an extra room at my place,” he said. “I just got into town, found a place yesterday. Rent’s cheap, too. Need to tidy it up a bit first, though. I can give you a deal since you’re having trouble with your old lady. Say…two-hundred a month?”

The Good Samaritan, usually a good role, but easily tiresome. He’d have to think of a name.

The waiter smiled.

“You playin’ with my emotions, dawg?” Demitri said.

Terrance laughed. “No,” he said. “I’m not playing with your emotions.”

“Damn,” said Demitri, with obvious relief. “That’s just what I need. I gotta get out of my place. Girlfriends, man.” Demitri shook his head.

“I know too well.” Terrance sipped the coffee again, despite the taste.

Demitri seemed to think it over. “What the hell,” he said, shrugging. He scribbled his phone number on the ticket pad, ripped it free, and handed it to Terrance. “Here ya go.”

Terrance took the number and nodded.

“I can afford that,” Demitri said. “A price like that.”

“Sure,” Terrance said, nodding. “I haven’t…hmmm. Can’t seem to remember the address off the top of my head.”

“Well, what do you expect?” Demitri said. “You just moved in.”

Terrance laughed, folded the number, and put it in his pocket. “I’ll get the place set up and give you a call. ’Couple of days okay?”

“Sure,” said Demitri. “Just enough time to get my things together and get out.”

“I’ll give you a call,” Terrance said.

“You’re a life saver, man.”

Terrance grinned and nodded.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Demitri said.

Terrance wiped his hands on his pants, discarding the old and donning the new. He put his hand over the table. “Franklin. Franklin Bonner.”

Demitri shook his hand. “Demirti Sanchez.”

“Glad to meet you, Demitri.”

Demitri turned and gave the cook a ‘thumbs-up’ as if all his problems had just been solved. He walked away from the table.

Franklin Bonner looked at his Corvette through the restaurant window and wondered what name was on the registration. He might have to check his driver’s license. He couldn’t remember. Sometimes, he got the roles mixed up, and couldn’t remember who the hell he was. The idea made him laugh.

While he waited for his meal, he sipped at his coffee, moving his head to the muzak coming from the speakers. He tapped his feet under the table.

Who’s Franklin Bonner?
he thought.

It didn’t matter. He’d find out soon enough.

He shook his head and chuckled to himself. He didn’t know
who
he was. He shrugged, not caring one way or the other. Something about Lady Luck…

He finished his coffee and waited patiently for his meal to arrive.

Life certainly had a tendency of taking care of itself.

Perhaps he was immortal.

Red Joe

He called himself ‘Red Joe.’ Charlie Tenebrook no longer stared back from the mirror. Charlie was a stranger to Red Joe now, the forgotten picture of a distant cousin. Something about the face, though, Red Joe thought…telling him he should
know
who Charlie Tenebrook was, but just couldn’t place the bastard.

Red Joe remembered Tenebrooks’s life, every detail, every reverberating chord of it: the supervising position at the plant, Charlie’s girlfriend, hockey games, and ginger ale. Tenebrook wanted it all back. The poor sod was crying inside, demanding to be let out! He was pounding on the walls of Red Joe’s skull! Red Joe could put his slapdash on hold long enough for Charlie to savor the last vestiges of his life, couldn’t he?

Charlie Tenebrook, the ‘other face,’ had Red Joe to thank for all that. That ruby-colored avenger was running the show! Red Joe owned every aspect of Charlie’s life: the keys to his apartment, his new truck, the safe deposit box, even the keys to Amy’s heart. Charlie was going to ask Amy to marry him…

Then Red Joe came along…

He was Tenebrook’s caretaker. His presence was everywhere: the kitchen cupboards, cabinets, refrigerator, doorknobs, even the toilet paper roll in the bathroom. Scarlet footprints made a trail across the carpet. Red handprints stamped the walls.

Charlie was still in there, though. He was getting used to it, this amorphous creation made more slippery as Red Joe waltzed dramatically from room to room. Red Joe was quite the thespian when he wanted to be.

I absolutely
love
the handiwork!
Red Joe told him.

He knew how to approach the situation. He had
character,
a sense of
humor!
Red Joe was trying to tell Tenebrook this.

Just lighten up and enjoy yourself.

But Charlie wasn’t listening. Red Joe was schooling him in the arts of slapdash. Yes, he knew how to entertain.

See, you have to let yourself go to the current,
Red Joe told him.
There’s a bigger world out there, Charlie-boy. Quit taking things so seriously all the time. Have a drink, for God’s sake! Lighten up! After all, none of this is actually
your
fault.

It could be worse. Charlie could complain, but what good would that do? He was lucky. This wasn’t your average case of the blues. Things had taken an unlikely turn was all, a detour into the unexplained. How could you
not
be thankful?

Yeah, Charlie, so just lighten the hell up,
Red Joe told him.
I thought you
liked
this shade of red. I thought it was your
favorite.
It’s the same color as the truck you just bought.

The truck he’d never drive again, the truck he
should’ve
driven to the hospital. It was too late for that now.

Tenebrook didn’t reply. He came and went. Maybe he agreed. Charlie wanted Red Joe to shut up, let him contemplate this situation, accept this sudden shift into blacker regions of the macabre.

Behind Red Joe’s ruby orbs, Tenebrook eyed what used to be his apartment and (a sign of Red Joe) couldn’t help but laugh. He
had
to accept it eventually, didn’t he? Maybe Red Joe was right. Even the smell didn’t bother him now, that sharp, pungent, coppery aroma. He was used to it.

Tenebrook cackled like a lunatic. It was funny when he thought about it. Ironic. If he didn’t find humor in the situation, he’d go crazy.

Or worse.

Your mind would be
my mind,
Charlie-boy. Why do you think you’re dealing with this so well? Anyone for water sports?

The twist paved the way for slaughter. Accepting it didn’t make the situation easier. He had a lot of cleaning up to do was all: buckets of soapy water, bleach, and countless rags…

What’s the big deal anyway? You’d think you never saw a little blood before.

Red Joe, obviously. Tenebrook took a seat in the back of his mind and let Red Joe pilot his flesh. He didn’t necessarily enjoy the way Red Joe was acting. It scared him. When Tenebrook gazed in the mirror, he looked for signs of his old self. He was still in there somewhere, but
where?
Dark hair, blue eyes, the moles on his cheeks? Not a trace remained. Governing the ride was that ruby-eyed thespian, that ever smiling, always comical jester.

Tenebrook had created a bond between himself and Red Joe, despite how he felt. Pretending it never happened wouldn’t make the situation easier.

Humor is in all things,
Tenebrook thought,
no matter how sick and twisted.

Wasn’t it time he looked at things in a brighter light, this everyday ritual in blood?

Red Joe put a hand to his stomach and doubled over with laughter.

Ritual in blood? That’s good, Charlie. You ought to write books. You ought to have your name in lights
!

Charlie Tenebrook didn’t rule out conclusive madness. That he was wading in it,
relishing
in the same bliss as his benefactor must prove
something.

Yep, it must prove something. It proves you’re truly bonkers, whacked right out of the old brain-pan. Nuts to the root, rover baby. How does
that
grab you?

Red Joe wiped comical tears from his eyes. It was either that or become one with the bloody hell lapping at his knees.

But you
are
the bloody hell. What have you got to say for yourself? No autographs, please. I must have time for meditation. Stand aside. Give me some breathing room, for God’s sake! I must have breathing room! Oh! I don’t know if I can handle all this attention! No more pictures! To all my fans, I adore you!

What would’ve happened if he’d never cut himself? Would he be all right then? At least until he cut himself later? If his thumb hadn’t been under the knife, this never would’ve happened!

The little bastard,
Charlie thought, thinking of the knife.
Look at it smiling, laughing at me! It knew what it was doing all along, the bloody fiend, the goddamn villain!

Tenebrook was officially gone. He couldn’t distinguish what was his or Red Joe’s thoughts anymore.

Yes, the knife
had
been the villain. The knife had a personality of its own. It laughed when he cut himself. It was laughing now, holding onto its steel belly, curling into a sharp, silver ball, similar to what Red Joe was doing.

Things were different, though, now. The knife, like Red Joe, was a friend. Tenebrook, Red Joe, and the knife, were regular pals!

Comedy held beauty. The sonofabitch couldn’t stop laughing! Laughter was essential. Tenebrook didn’t want to consider the ramifications without humor.

Being crazy wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.

Yeah! So laugh! Sing a song, dance! Take my slippery hand and put on your big sombrero! We’ll toast to friendship, lunacy! They’ll have to cart us away, we’ll be having such a
good
time!

Humor had saved his life. Life without lunacy?

Buried behind a vermilion guise, Tenebrook shuddered at the thought.

Death was an option, though, right? Death was inevitable.

Death is over-rated,
Red Joe said.
Death ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Why, look at
you,
Charlie. You’re dead, and you don’t even know it, and you
still
manage to put on a smiling face!

Tenebrook didn’t care, not now. Dismayed, he shook his head, trying to understand what had gone wrong, who this dancing, comical nightmare was living in his flesh now.

It didn’t matter. Everything was clear in the eyes of Red Joe. Everything was exactly as it
should
be. Amy would come by, worried about him, even the police. Tenebrook and Red Joe’s world would come to a screeching halt.

They had unfinished business, these two. Red Joe harassed Tenebrook to the brink of tears. It was understandable, even hilarious. Watching Tenebrook crack was a goddamn uproar!

As Red Joe laughed, Charlie quietly wept inside, hidden in the recesses of safety. Charlie’s downfall made Red Joe laugh like a goddamn loon!

Laughing and crying,
Red Joe said.
Is that all you ever do, Charlie? Doesn’t it get tiresome? Me laughing, you crying?

He tried convincing Charlie it was best to play along.

Soon, he did. Charlie surveyed the blood through scarlet orbs, a deep pool of vermilion wet lapping at his knees, the walls, and the furniture…

Laughing, of course, was the only thing left to do.