Terminal Life
by Richard Torregrossa
We are delighted to welcome back novelist Richard Torregrossa to Omnimystery News.
Richard visited with us last week, when we discussed his new mystery thriller Terminal Life (Oceanview Publishing; June 2014 hardcover and ebook formats).
Today we are pleased to introduce you to this book with an excerpt, the first three chapters.
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LUKE JOGS UP THE SUBWAY STEPS AND catches a glimpse of his reflection in a store window. His suit is freshly cleaned and pressed, his shoes polished, his shirt crisp despite the summer heat. The dimple in his necktie required three attempts to get the symmetry just right, but it was worth it. He thinks to himself that he looks and feels quite well for a man who doesn't have long to live.
The job interview is set for one o'clock, but he is kept waiting for twenty minutes until Shelly, the director of human resources, is able to see him.
His suit seems to be as much a candidate for employment as he is, for he sees, at times, her glancing at the smooth roll of his lapels, his rectilinear white pocket square, the way his trousers drape when he crosses his legs, and the sliver of white sleeve that contrasts with his Glen plaid jacket, all intended effects that follow the law of angles.
Shelly seems both puzzled and impressed. Puzzled in that she does not quite understand the sartorial fine points that have created the force of the suit's gravitas, its crafted geometry, its arresting statement of order, its monochromatic subtlety.
She will never be able to see that we are all on our way to becoming someone else and his suit is his vehicle, a discrete entity, a bulwark against chaos, a whole and not an array of disconnected accessories.
She rudely answers the phone in the middle of their conversation as if he is not even in the room. Zaftig and curvy, her confident body language makes it clear that she finds her girth empowering, a useful substance over her trim and lithesome col- leagues. Her black dress with white polka dots has a plunging neckline that shows off her plump breasts and an alabaster neck around which she wears a black beaded necklace with a gem- stone pendant.
She fixes her elbow on her desk so that her arm stands straight up like a phallus, showing off her sizeable wedding ring and gold wedding band encrusted with diamonds. She rotates the rings with her thumb, a habitual gesture that has an element of preening about it.
Luke listens to her conversation because it is impossible not to listen.
"Tampons! Exactly!" She giggles and glances at him as if suddenly remembering that he is present but present in some deeply insignificant way.
It is a bright summer afternoon, the view panoramic from the fifty-first floor of this Midtown office building. The window blinds divide the abundant sunshine into shards as sharp as glass and they seem to cut rather than lightly shine on her.
He has no plans for the afternoon, nowhere to go, no one to see, just back to the streets, back to the shelter. The job has no practical interest to him because he is not here for a job. He is here for another reason, the best opportunity he's had since his breakdown, since the murder of his wife and the disappearance of his seven-year-old son, a first step toward finding the truth, the truth that is being kept hidden from him.
White clouds scud across an arresting azure sky. They are soft and vaporous as if they have emanated from a genie's lamp. Luke is comfortably seated in the plush chair across from Shelly's desk, rolling his MetroCard over his fingers like a card shark. He does this carefully because he has sharpened one edge of the MetroCard with a razor blade.
Shelly finally concludes her phone call and offers a half- hearted apology that is really no apology at all.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Now, where were we?"
"We were nowhere," he says and gets up to leave. "That was discourteous and unprofessional, behavior that reflects badly on the company as well as on you. We are concluding this interview."
Flustered, her mouth falls open and forms a vacuous moue. Her lips are full and her red lipstick is as thick as cake icing. She is taken aback by his insolence, his flouting of her authority, until she sees the cold look in his eyes, the stalwart stance of the man in the smart suit before her.
Clearly, she senses the imminence of danger, of something awful happening if she makes the wrong move. Her composure vanishes, her confident demeanor turns to nervousness and fear. No longer does she feel protected by her girth, her diamond ring, and the job title that makes candidates fawn and grovel before her.
She puts her hand on the phone as if on the handle of a weapon. Her expression makes her thoughts easily readable. He might be loony, the kind who would do her harm. She must call security.
"I'm sorry," she says again, starting to pick up the phone. But it is too late.
He slashes her neck with the sharpened edge of the MetroCard. The gesture is so quick and surgical that it makes a perfect incision — so perfect that it seems not to cause pain nor even draw blood at first, just surprise, but when the blood rises to the surface, it comes fast and fluidly. She presses her hand to her neck, but the blood oozes through the interstices of her fingers. Droplets fall onto his résumé.
The blood is deceptively profuse, but she will be okay, for the compression of her hand on the incision will stave off the flow. But the look on her face is one of shock and fear and surprise and confusion and that was his intent. That was his assignment. Mission accomplished.
CHAPTER TWO
He leaves her office, shutting the door behind him, and calmly walks past the receptionist. "Have a good day," he says. She nods, smiles perfunctorily.
The elevators are unavailable, all on different floors, so he takes the staircase to the suite below. He is aware of the security cameras and avoids them by ducking his head. He is also aware of the landscape of cubicles manned by workers who are transfixed by the lambent light of their computers. They do not look up. They do not pay him any mind. Still, he keeps his head down until he is on the elevator. In the palm of his hand is his MetroCard, a concealed weapon. He is surprised when the elevator doors open and there are no security guards to accost him.
But as soon as he turns the corner, two appear. One is beefy, tall, and dark-skinned, a Puerto Rican, and well fed; his stomach hangs over his belt. The other one is white, perhaps Irish, with red hair and freckles, pale and pasty with a neatly shaved head that is oddly lumpy. Both are holding walkie-talkies. He appraises them quickly, reads their name tags. Brandon and DeShawn. They have been aroused from the boredom of inaction, but just barely, and their expressions clearly reveal that they are bovine, slow-footed, dull, feckless. He keeps walking and that's when the Puerto Rican security guard confronts him by holding up his hand, a signal for him to stop.
"Hey, Brandon! DeShawn!" He greets them cheerfully, as if they're friends, and they pause, struggling to recognize the stranger. This makes his assault all the more unexpected.
He grabs DeShawn's hand, rolls it back and to the left until he hears a slight crack and then jerks it forward as his knee rises up to strike his solar plexus. DeShawn coughs, sputters, and tries to catch his breath. Luke brings an elbow down into the center of his back, which causes him to drop to the floor.
Brandon is frozen, confused, scared. He clumsily reaches for something on his belt — pepper spray or a baton, but he fumbles, and the leg that felled DeShawn, without touching the ground, juts out like a spear into Brandon's kneecap. It makes a sound like the snap of a dry twig. Brandon crumbles to the floor and grabs his leg as if it might fly apart. In one fluid movement they have both been disabled.
Luke pauses briefly, ready for some kind of manly retaliation from at least one of them so that he can preempt it, but they both remain in a polyester heap, gasping, groaning, so he walks slowly to the revolving doors that open onto the street, sidesteps a few onlookers who have not comprehended what has happened because they are too distracted by the text messages streaming into their smart phones. By the time they realize what has happened, Luke is gone, long gone.
CHAPTER THREE
The sidewalk is teeming with pedestrians and Luke blends easily into the eddying crowd. He casually walks two blocks to the subway near Bryant Park, where the throng is thicker, and uses his MetroCard for the purpose it was intended, to pass through the turnstile.
McKenzie is waiting for him on the subway platform, but he does not have the rest of the money. Luke grabs him by the throat and pushes him against the wall.
"She ruined me, that bitch," says McKenzie. "It was a fling, that's all."
"Yeah, yeah, I heard it all before. Everybody's got a hard-luck story," says Luke. "Tell it to your priest."
"Fired me after eighteen years of loyal service. I lost everything. I'm broke. Not a dime in my pocket."
"That's what you get for cheating on your wife."
"Everything, man. I lost it all."
"You've still got your life," says Luke, holding the MetroCard to his neck, "but you'll lose that too unless I get the rest of my money. See that train coming into the station? How'd you like to take a tumble onto the subway tracks?"
Luke grabs his arm and forces him through the crowd to the edge of the platform.
"All right, all right. I'll get you your money." "Let me have your watch."
"It's the last thing of value I own," says McKenzie in protest, but strips it off and gives it to Luke. He tries to wriggle free from Luke's grasp but Luke subdues him by incising his arm at a pressure point; his sharpened thumbnail draws a nipple of blood. Almost anything can be made or used as a weapon — everything from a towel to a toothpick, one of the many skills he learned as a Navy SEAL. Improvisation is the key to survival, in combat or on the streets.
The train rumbles into the station. The crowd ebbs and flows and McKenzie, glistening with sweat, looks around to find that Luke has vanished. He is as relieved as he is surprised.
Luke boards the downtown Q train and returns the MetroCard to his wallet with more care than is usually associated with this act, like returning a gun to its holster. He will need it again, for it has taken him exactly where he wanted to go.
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Photo provided courtesy of
Richard Torregrossa
Richard Torregrossa is a journalist and the author of eight books, four of which he also illustrated. His most recent non-fiction title is the biography Cary Grant: A Celebration of Style. A first-degree black belt, he is an enthusiastic martial artist who teaches and continues to study a variety of forms, from Kenpo to Jeet Kune Do. Richard's expertise in the world of men's fashion and in the world of martial arts shine in Terminal Life, the first in The Suited Hero series.
For more information about the author, please visit his website at RichardTorregrossa.com or find him on Facebook and Twitter.
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Terminal Life
Richard Torregrossa
A Luke Stark, Suited Hero Novel
Luke Stark, a Special Forces veteran, returns home from his second tour in Afghanistan to learn that his wife has been mysteriously murdered and his son has disappeared. These tragedies, in addition to suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, push him over the edge. He has also been diagnosed with an incipient form of cancer, but he forgoes treatment, a decision that is akin to a slow suicide.
Although he languishes in a shelter, he wears an impeccable suit, an eccentric characteristic that sets him apart from his fellow down-and-outers and just about everybody else. He is nicknamed, somewhat ironically, The Suited Hero.
Revenge and the search for his son spark a kind of rebirth in him that is as cathartic as it is brutal. This leads him into the dangerous world of illegal prescription drug distribution, where nobody — not even some family members — is who they appear to be.
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