CLEAN AS TWO DOGS' BALLS

          Rudolph Crowell lay on the floor face down, his gray pants and white boxers around his knees, right arm splayed out in front of him. His left arm curled under his body, as if protecting his privates. Everything about him was obscene, especially the fleshy buttocks exposed to the air. Caitlin sank backwards and sat herself down in a chair next to the couch. She pulled off her jacket and looked for the phone. She yanked the cord down to where the dead man rested, for dead he certainly appeared to be. He lay on the left side of his face, and she could see only one eye, that one unblinking. His famously long shoulder-length white hair looked slightly damp, as the poor man stared straight ahead at eternity, she thought grimly. Rigor mortis, she’d heard of it, possibly seen it on television, but was he in it? She looked at her watch, only one hour since Aleysha’s telephone call. Probably not she guessed, she prayed, as she would have to place herself properly. She removed her jacket so that it appeared to have been hastily tossed aside. She loosened one button on her blouse and undid another. Clean, she was altogether clean, and of course, stone cold sober. Hmm, she hadn’t thought of that and picked up one of the heavy glasses, pouring herself a stiff shot of vodka, being careful to leave her lipstick on the rim. For a moment, she and the dead man communed, in sort of silent prayer, but then shaking herself out of this, she poured herself another, shorter vodka shot and drank it more slowly.

          Beside the man now, she took off one of her shoes, then pulled the bottom of her blouse out from her waist, until she could put her task off no longer, as she knew time was part of her assignment. She tried to lift his arm, but it was too heavy and flopped back down again. Should she roll him over, could she? He was six-foot four, probably two hundred pounds. For a moment across her eyes flashed the pictures she had seen of him in life, at charity dinners, holding little children’s hands, clasping the rich and the famous with a grin. How would this particular image play? She shoved him a bit, but he did not move. Finally she got at his head, her two legs akimbo above it and began to slide herself down under him. It was difficult, and only as she managed to get him to about her knees did she see the spittle still dripping out of his mouth.