by Lane Diamond
Tom and I had conspired to invent the beer hat at a party last New Year's Eve. Those party hats with the tight elastic chinstraps had inspired us, but instead of a conical hat, we'd strapped on a plastic cup containing as much beer as one dare place on top of one's head. Poorly balanced, it posed a high risk of spillage—the whole point of the game.
Diana hooked my arm and slid out of my side of the car while Tom danced his exaggerated slow jig up to greet us.
He offered his best Irish brogue. "Top o' de fine morn, an' a hardy welcome to ye."
He shook my hand and bowed, the preplanned result of which is the emptying of his beer hat down the front of my tee shirt. I saw it coming, but he'd trapped me against the car and I was unable to evade the spill. Everyone around got a good laugh, including me, who'd dressed with such a possibility in mind.
I played along. "Why, thank you, sir. You are a gentleman, a scholar, and a drunken bum." It was the proper response according to the rules of our game.
He became Winston Churchill. "Tit-tit, no need for that, what. I don't allow just anyone to call me a gentleman, you know."
"Please accept my sincere apologies, Lord Bum of Drunkenness."
Like a rock star from the British Invasion, he said, "Hip-hip, right-o, and all that rot."
The game thus played, party time ensued. We joined a few others who had gathered for Tom's performance, and meandered to where the rest of our group, about fifty kids, had set up.
Tom leaned down and pulled three cans of Old Style beer from a cooler. Two nineteen-year-olds in our group, being of legal drinking age, had taken up a collection yesterday, and we'd stocked up for a long party. The cops, much like the school administration, appeared to be looking the other way.
Tom handed two cans to Diana and me. "Here you go, kids. Drink up."
"Geez, you guys didn't waste any time getting sloshed." I shrugged my shoulders at Diana, who rolled her eyes and smiled.
"Don't be a wimp, Tony-Boy." He chugged half a can and expelled a burp for the ages. "Ah, breakfast of champions."
Diana laughed. "Real nice, Tom."
"Thank you, my dear, I do try." He turned to me again. "Well?"
"All right, all right, hold your horses." I popped the top off the can and took a deep breath. "Well, shit, here goes nothin'."
***
Diana finished talking with several other girls about whatever girls talked about, and jogged over. She plopped onto the blanket and tackled me.
"Kiss me, my prince."
"You wouldn't be getting a little tipsy, would you?" I grabbed her ass and grinded her to me.
"Yep, and happy."
"I'll drink to that."
"Not until you kiss me."
We kissed to the edge of indecency, and my hands became bolder by the second, but she pulled away and hopped up from the blanket. "I've got to go talk with Emily."
Oh sure, leave me here holding my— "If you must." I admired the view below her tied-up yellow shirt as she scooted away. She kindly threw in a couple hip flourishes.
About thirty yards beyond her, on the edge of another picnic area, two guys played catch with a Frisbee—one about our age, the other in his mid-twenties. The older one fixed his gaze upon Diana. It happened often and I tried to compose myself when it did, but it put me a little on edge. The younger one joined the festivities, and said something to the older one, who pointed toward Diana and me.
I sat up straight and my gut clenched as I squinted to bring them into better focus. Something about the older one's face bothered me—his demeanor, his pointing, his smirk.
Come on, Tony, jealousy is not your most attractive quality. Relax. No sense worrying about some harmless ogling. Let him have his fun.
I didn't want to spoil the day over nothing.
Tom wobbled in my direction with two more beers in hand, and a look on his face as if to say, I'm gonna get you drunk, Tony-Boy. I laughed and glanced one last time at the two voyeurs.
Screw 'em! They weren't hurting anyone. No harm, no foul.
Chapter 8 – May 12, 1978: Mitchell Norton
"A covetous man does nothing well 'til he dies." – Thomas Wilson
~~~~~
Tommy and I often went to Flora Park to toss around a football or, as we did now, a Frisbee. He was surprisingly good at it. I was decent enough too, when not constantly distracted. A girl wearing cut-off jean shorts and a yellow shirt tied up in the midsection, exposing her belly button and much of her shapely stomach, broke my concentration. Talk about built!
Why must girls expose themselves so... provocatively? Don't they know how that drives men out of their—
"What are you looking at, Mitchell?"
Tommy, the intruder, broke into hysterical laughter over my exaggerated leap in the air.
"I scared you, huh, Mitchell? I scared you good!"
He made a spectacle of himself, jumping up and down, laughing and clapping his hands. I attempted to calm him by assuring him that he was the "Champion Scarer of All Time." He stopped his antics to consider this new title, which he accepted with pride. Good old Tommy.
I returned my attention to the girl, who tackled her apparent boyfriend on the blanket where he sat. She kissed him, and he traced his hand down her back and grabbed her ass! I grinded my teeth and my head hammered me again.
Fuck it! I got better things to think about. "She is one seriously hot babe, Tommy."
He looked around the park like he'd just landed here from Neptune. "Who is?"
I pointed to her. "The girl over there on the left, wearing the yellow shirt."
He located her, barely smiled and shrugged—hardly a ringing endorsement. Despite his physical age, he didn't understand or appreciate the splendors of the opposite sex. Even I had limited experience in that realm, a circumstance I hoped to remedy.
Soon. Real soon.
"Tommy-boy, I'd sure like to spend some quality time with a girlfriend like that."
"You could do it. You could have any pretty girlfriend you want."
"You think so?"
"Sure. Hey, you're the MAN!"
Good old Tommy—had to love him. I'd been with only two girls, both prostitutes, but I expected that would change soon. Why shouldn't it? Everything else was changing.
The girl in yellow played around while visions flashed through my mind—visions of power and pain, of possibilities.
"Maybe you're right, Tommy-boy. We'll have to see."
***
I'd taken Tommy home and treated myself to a nap, but rather than waking up fresh and renewed, I awoke feeling like someone had bulldozed my ass while I slept.
I massaged my head in the hopes of easing another of my fast-becoming-famous headaches, and when I rubbed the zit, my head damn near exploded. I should have popped that disgusting thing before it turned into Mount Everest behind my ear. I also awoke with memories of demon-laden dreams, my other common occurrence these days.
At least I enjoyed one good thought: an image of me with my newfound angel. I left Tommy with Mom and returned to the park.
I couldn't get the girl I yellow outta my head. She played with her friends like she didn't have a care in the world. I sat in my lawn chair, placed strategically between and behind the front seats of my van, and relaxed. No one would see me here.
She filled the lenses of my binoculars, like I could reach out and touch her.
I wonder what you would say, sweet thing, if you knew of my... violation.
The sun dipped below the trees on the west end of the park, and I struggled to keep the binoculars focused on my spectacular subject. She stopped goofing around and rejoined her boyfriend, and they kissed. He grabbed her ass again, and they practically mauled each other.
I lowered the binoculars and stared at the floor between my feet. I didn't know that other man—that kid—but I sure wanted to rip the fucker's heart out and feed it to the crows. Then I could take a shot at the girl and make her mine.
I grinded my teeth and i
ntensified my headache—again. "Shit! Just what I fuckin' needed."
Another girl yelled from three cars over. "Diana, stop fooling around with Tony and get your butt over here!"
Several girls gathered around that car and giggled, no doubt sharing the latest gossip. My prize in yellow stood, laughed, and jogged over to join them.
Well then, your boyfriend's name is Tony, and your name is Diana—a good name for a heavenly babe.
I slid farther back in the van to ensure the girls wouldn't see me, rested my head on the back of the lawn chair, and closed my eyes. I needed to beat this fuckin' headache. Thoughts of my angel substituted for my usual three aspirin and a shot of bourbon.
Yeah, that's good.
My mind wandered again—foggy, drifting.
***
She smiles and holds my hand in a vast field of fragrant flowers. We lie against one another, naked and warm, and kiss. I trace her every contour and soft curve with my gentle fingers, until I touch her at last where I've rarely touched a woman. Her radiant moisture pushes me to the edge of frenzy. She accepts me and I plunge deeper into bliss with every quiver of her body, every gentle rhythm of her movement, every pleasurable moan. Seconds turn to minutes, and minutes turn to heaven without time. She calls my name and screams, and suddenly a tidal wave washes over us as—
***
"What the fuck!"
I jerked my head forward and opened my eyes. I'd thought I held Diana, but that weren't her in my right hand. I had no idea how long I'd been at it; hadn't been aware that I was at it. I couldn't even remember dropping my pants.
I peered through the windshield and breathed a sigh of relief; I didn't think anyone could have seen me. A crumpled rag from the floor of the van sufficed to clean away the results of my activity, but I needed a shower.
"I'll need some fresh clothes, damn it! I can't believe I was jerking—"
I glanced around the park again.
"I wonder if the van was rocking."
This was not what I'd had in mind when I put that bumper sticker on the back door: If the van's a-rockin', don't come a-knockin'. The embarrassment faded and I hopped back into the driver's seat to—
Shit! I strained through the advancing darkness to find the special angel in yellow who had so fired my imagination. The crowd had thinned out to a few stragglers.
"She's gone! How will I follow her and discover where she lives? I couldn't have been distracted for that long. Do I have the worst fuckin' luck, or what?"
My gut rolled over and shook.
"Mitchell, if you didn't have shit for brains, you'd have no fuckin' brains at all!"
I vice-gripped the steering wheel with both hands and plunked my head down on top of them. I closed my eyes and strained to concentrate through the marching band blasting inside my skull.
"Fuck a rubber duck! What am I gonna do now?"
I had considerable experience with this kind of shit—insecurity, inferiority—but that hardly comforted.
I remembered my first glimpse of Diana, arriving in that big, slightly dinged old car. I didn't know the make, but I might have recognized it if....
I scanned the parking lot.
"Shit."
My queasy jitters returned, and my renewed sense of hope went up in fuckin' smoke. The car had vanished, and with it my latest, greatest dream.
"What now?" My pathetic whine served as an unpleasant reminder of my former, dumbass self.
A deep, familiar voice boomed deep inside my head. The car, Mitchell, find it, no matter how far you must go, no matter how long it takes, for it will surely lead you to the angel and your own slice of paradise.
"Yeah! How hard can it be to find a car in this fuckin' hick town?"
You can do it, Mitchell.
"You think so?"
Hey, you're the MAN!
Chapter 9 – June 6, 1995: Tony Hooper
I followed the devil from the courthouse to his destination, so perfectly natural that I might have guessed it. Where else would Mitchell Norton go after getting out of prison but back home? His father, who'd referred to Mitchell as his "bad seed" during the trial those many years ago, died of a massive stroke shortly thereafter.
I can't imagine that Mitchell grieved.
Dear old Mom, however, never gave up on her boy, and is now doing what Mom's do: welcoming back her baby in need. Never mind that her baby is a forty-three-year-old one-time serial killer. Mitchell's brother, Tommy, a hulking brute of a man with the intellectual capacity of the average ten-year-old, is probably pleased as well.
I must often fight against nagging guilt, having played my own role in their melancholy existence. I secretly check in on them from time to time, although I don't know why in hell I should blame myself; Mitchell's actions, not mine, drove them to this place in their lives. Still, they strike me as decent, salt-of-the-earth people, in no way similar to the family monster.
They deserve better. Mrs. Norton has maintained a relatively menial job since the death of her husband. Even Tommy, with his considerable limitations, holds down a job most of the time, performing whatever simple manual labor he can find. I can hardly fault him for being thrilled at the return of his big brother, or his mom for doing her part.
Yet I fear for them, certain there will be another sad price to pay for their affiliation with Mitchell Norton—son, brother, the devil.
I remain down the road from their place and watch from my van for a short time. I mustn't call attention to myself, and theirs being an older and less densely populated neighborhood—a rare enough thing in Algonquin—someone seated in a van for hours on end might cause concern. If they agonize over the darkened windshield and the blacked-out windows, they might even call the local authorities.
I must avoid the cops at all costs. Time to go.
The devil's unlikely to go anywhere tonight—at least, anywhere he'll cause trouble. It's his first day out of captivity, and as I learned long ago, Mitchell Norton's not that stupid.
***
Few things beat the simple pleasure of a comfortable stool at the bar in Murphy's Irish Pub, home of the world's best corned-beef sandwich. That's according to one of the world's foremost experts on corned-beef sandwiches—me! I wash it down with a velvety Guinness stout that goes down like the class slut on prom night. Nice and easy.
That may be a bad sign. My nerves, honed to a jagged edge, rifle me into a whirl of doubt and uncertainty. What the hell, perhaps a few more of these lovelies will help. I drain the glass in a power chug and prepare to order another, but someone behind me beats me to the punch.
"Bartender," she says, "you'd better get this guy another one. He might need a few more before the night is out."
I fidget with my empty glass and stare at the bar; no need to look at her. A wisp of lilac combines with her distinctive New England voice, eliciting instant recognition. The memories flood back as the bar jockey drifts in our direction.
"And you'd better get the lady a single malt scotch, neat," I say.
I avoid eye contact as we reminisce in silence, but I can feel her gaze all over me, like spiders crawling in search of a juicy spot to bite. My damned left foot bounces as if it has a life of its own. Ditto my fingers, drumming an indeterminate tune on the bar.
What is she doing here? And what in hell am I supposed to say to her? Shit! I feel like I'm sixteen again.
The bartender arrives with a new round of liquid courage. Just in time.
I keep my head down and my eyes on the beer. "Hello, Linda, or would you prefer Special Agent Monroe?"
"Hey, it's just we two charter members of the Lonely Hearts Club here."
Her distinctive laugh, a raucous, no-holds-barred blast, conjures pleasant memories—her sense of humor, her keen intellect and insight, her passion. We have history.
Most recently, we crossed paths in the pursuit of our common interests, hers strictly legal and sanctioned by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, mine outside the law and capable of landing me
in a six-by-eight box of concrete and steel bars.
I believe she knows enough about me to understand, though she has never spoken of it.
Halfway through my second glass of Guinness, my courage restored, I straighten up and look at her. She wears the same dark blonde hair and suffers the same perpetual slight blush. I stir in my seat. I swear those intense green eyes, like a fluttering lure drawing me to the hook, could flash through any man's defenses like lightning through rain.
Although some might not consider her a knockout, I'm sure they would nonetheless desire to sleep with her. This assumes they're men with the necessary motivations—a pulse, for example—or women who prefer a soft, sensitive touch.
Heat rushes to my face and I take a deep breath to dowse the flame. I hope to hell she can't see that. "How did you find me?"
She raises one eyebrow as if to say, I don't need to answer that, do I?
She answers anyway. "You think you're that big a mystery? Where else would you be—where else could you be—on the day they released Mitchell Norton? And Algonquin, Illinois, isn't exactly a metropolis."
It might be funny if it weren't so... not funny. I force a smile and nod.
She huffs and shakes her head. "Can you believe they released that monster?"
It's a rhetorical question.
I stare again at the sandy foam hovering over my mahogany beer. "I don't know if I properly thanked you the last time we saw each other. You could have gotten me into some real hot water, had you chosen to."
"Oh, but I did!" She pauses, apparently waiting for some response. "Don't tell me you forgot that hot shower! That would destroy my ego."
The tilt of her head, the crook of her smile, the glint of secret thrill in her eye: they tell the whole story. Oh yes, I remember that shower, and the sofa, and the bed, and the shower again. It's hard to believe Linda was forty-two and I was thirty-two. We were like teenagers.
She was mulling over a marriage proposal at the time, from some stiff congressional aide in Washington DC. She appeared entirely unenthusiastic about it three years ago.
I smile and nod in response. "I suppose you're a respectable married woman now."