Selections from: THE HANGING OF LITTLE TIMMY TIPTOE

We will skip over chapters 1 – 13 and begin at the bordello.

CHAPTER 14: THE BORDELLO

Minnie heard him coming over a mile away and the Harley's RPM's told her of his mood. 

"Cissy, go up to my room and start a bath, hot! Jennifer, break out the silver shot-glass set." She took a key from the chain around her neck and handed it to the young woman, "and bring me a bottle of Lethe from the special cabinet."      

"The one in the beautiful bottle?"

Minnie nodded, "It's worth a year of your salary, so be careful. Now hurry!"

The two young women ran off in opposite directions and Minnie headed for the bar. There, sheathed in red cashmere, a tall, curvaceous woman, studied the night's reservations. 

"Charlotte, keep an eye on things. I'll be occupied for the rest of the evening." The whine of the motorcycle was coming closer.

"So, I hear," said Charlotte, and nodded to the reservation book, "Funeral director's coming at ten."

"Well, get out the coffin… and warn Sandy."

"She hates those cold showers."

"It's his dime."

"Yes ma'am."

As the volume of the Harley increased, Minnie became increasingly focused. "Find Wilbur an tell him to stay out of sight while the Judge is here. Is Sarah working the Ashton party?"

"Yes."

"Keep her away from the petit fours, and don't let Colonel Billings play pool with Yvonne. She takes the game much too seriously."  

The engine roared, died and backfired loudly. Conversation in the lounge stopped.

"He needs a valve job," said a new arrival from Michigan. 

"Turn up the music," Minnie ordered and hurried into the hall.

She stood in the open doorway and studied the approaching judge with professional eyes, gauging the gleam of his black leather in the moonlight, and the lurch of his body mounting her too-steep stairs. His breathing was labored, his eyes sore and red. This was more than an off night. 

"Good evening, Harold."

"Minnie." The Judge removed his cap and bowed ever so slightly.

"It's good to have you with us again."

Unseen by Minnie and the Judge, a dark cloud settled onto the roof and wrapped itself around the gables, probing for decay. Had the judge remained home a little longer it would have found a way inside his mind. But now the odds had changed. The woman he stood with on the porch could undo what had been done. The demigod Entropy, Lord of Undoing, Master of Clocks-running-down, settled in to wait.

Sensing confusion in the night air, Minnie led her charge inside and closed the door. They entered the lounge and the chattering girls fell silent. Judge Harold Armpt had that effect on people. In the background the faint sweetness of a Hayden trumpet concerto could be heard.

"You haven't slept."

"Not much."

"Why?"

He smiled ruefully.

"Shall we sit a while then?"

"I'd like that."

"Come."

Minnie's professional skill lay in her ability to read the details. She heard the way the carpeted floor responded to his walk, noticed in the mirror that he didn't hold himself as straight as on other visits. But, most obvious, the fire was dim, almost missing. And she'd never known him to be without his fire. 

When they reached the landing, she led him through a curtained doorway and down a narrow hall to the first of three sitting rooms positioned like box seats overlooking the lounge. Two opulent Victorian armchairs and a Louis Quatorze occasional table furnished the room. As Armpt sat she pulled a heavy, brocade curtain closed. The murmur from the lounge diminished.

"What can I get you?"

"A good night's sleep."

She squeezed his hand, "Nothing to eat or drink?"

"Not now..."

After a moment of silence, Minnie spoke. "Rumor is strange things are happening."  He eyed her guardedly. "Whores are always the first to know."

"And what is it that you know, Minnie?"

"All of it, the tunnel closing, the dreams. And Mrs. Appleseed's little aviator."

Armpt ruefully shook his head and scowled. "Filthbore."

"He says it's wonderful."

"He's a fool!"

Debussy’s Afternoon of a Faun began to play causing Minnie to close her eyes and imagine the face of her father. As a result, she did not see the puff of dust drifting down from a hairline crack in the frescoed ceiling. Armpt shivered as the faint penumbra settled in his hair. His raspy whisper broke the silence. "The child's no longer human."

Minnie sat up slowly. "Why do you say that?"

"No seven year old born on this planet can stand up against me."

"And he did?"

The nodding judge’s eyes were deep hollows in the reflected light.

"How?"

"I don't know, waves, or something. I was on a ladder and tried to touch him. I couldn't get close." Armpt felt a tingling where the back of his neck met his skull and worried that the fluttering distortions in his vision would return.

"Waves?"

"Something that keeps you from getting too close. Same thing happened to Fundle. Couldn't stand up, had to crawl to get out of the room." The judge dropped his head forward then stared at her with gray, uncertain eyes. “Minnie, if it was possible to bring everlasting peace by killing one innocent person, would you do it?”

“That’s not a becoming thought, Harold.”

“Theoretically, damnit. I don’t mean the boy.”

“Of course you do.”

“No, I don’t. Say it was the Mayor, say by killing Shasty we could…”

“Don’t Harold, it isn’t even faintly amusing.”

“I’m talking theoretically!” He barked loudly, bringing an end to the chatter in the lounge. She raised a gentle finger to her lips. Then someone giggled and the murmuring began again.

"Theoretically or not Harold, I never have to think about that one."

“Why not? Eternal peace for one innocent death?”

“Never,” she replied.

“But eternal peace…”

“The whole question is a lie.”

“Why?”

“Because God doesn’t play that game.”

“What does a whore know about God?”

“As much as a whore can, I suppose,” she said, quietly.

"I’ve never believed in God."

“That’s why I keep you in my prayers.”

The weight of the world seemed to settle on Armpt’s shoulders. He looked old and tired, and very much in need of her services.

"Human's can't do the things that boy does,” he said, softly.

"So he's no longer human?"

His eyes bored into her and he pushed slowly to his feet. "We’ve talked enough. Let's go."

Minnie held her silence 'til they reached the second floor, then asked, "What was it you were trying to do up there on the ladder, Harold?"

He didn't answer.

They walked arm in arm to the end of the hall where she unlocked a small Black Walnut door and led him into the dimly lit passage known as the inner gallery. The gallery, lined with erotic paintings depicting every conceivable sexual act, wrapped around the four walls of Minnie’s inner sanctum, and only the men she personally attended to were permitted to view its contents. She took him the long way around, watching carefully as he renewed his acquaintance with the works of art. Each variation was masterfully painted and somehow managed to transcend the mere act it depicted to capture the essence of desire and creative delight inherent in the choice. Predictably, scenes of bondage and discipline caught his attention. Now, she watched carefully. At the sixth painting in the third hall, she noticed a faint hesitation, a barely discernable catch in his breath.

The taboo subject was prettily conceived. Lying plush in a Victorian bed, cherishing the head of a pubescent boy sprawled upon her like a child, his hands and lips upon her breast, lay a beautiful woman with long auburn hair. So tender and adoring was her expression that, at first, their sexual union was completely overlooked. The plaque below read Mother and Son.

Bending to unlock the two doors leading to her chamber, Minnie felt Armpt's hands on her hips. 

"There's a bath already drawn," she said.

"Let it wait." He guided her toward the bed.

Seeing something on his hair she tried to brush it away. He started violently.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing." As he unzipped his leather jacket, she looked closely at the back of his head, but whatever it was seemed to have disappeared.

Minnie assumed a shy pose, eyes downcast, hands opening and closing at the edges of her dress while Armpt hurried out of his shirt. His body odor accosted her. Usually she insisted he bathe before they had sex, but tonight his desperation wrote the scenario. Hearing him unzip his pants she raised her skirt and lay face down over the end of the bed, hoping his haste would result in the desired effect. 

It didn't.

A wan silence followed.

Armpt sat beside her staring at the wall, his face darkening with each tight-jawed breath.

"He's done this to me," he said, through clenched teeth.

"I think you've done it to yourself," she replied. There was something obscene about men in boots with pants around their ankles. "Come on, Harold, take off your boots, it's my turn now." 

The bathroom was warm and wet, and smelled of exotic spices. Steam rose from the great, claw-foot tub, its temperature maintained by a continual trickle of scalding water from the golden faucet. 

"Get in," she commanded. 

 Cautiously, he stepped over the rim. It was deep and full and dangerously close to being unbearable.

"Both feet."

"It's hot."

"Good."

Descent through the magma took eons. Fire crept up his buttocks, swirled over his legs and the useless appendage between. 'Burn it off' snarled his mind, urging the water to consume, cauterize and finish him smooth and sexless as a window dressers mannequin. Finally, bottom. Done. Closing his eyes he lay back slowly and sighed for what seemed like half an hour. 

A sponge with cold water caressed his forehead, face and neck. She poured green fluid in and the steam smelled of balsam. Fingers of heat lifted the vile scent from his flesh, probed deep into his muscles and bones. If only they could reach his mind. Now came a red liquid with no discernible scent. Moments later he felt dazed and light headed. The thought that he might lose control made him start. Swirling fire raged around him.

"Relax Harold. You're safe here."

Again, she cooled his brow. Something in her voice allowed him to trust. He gave in. Weariness overwhelmed him.

"I'm going to do a reading, Harold. I've never done one for you but I think it would be good. Do you know the rule?"

His mouth opened but he could not speak.

"I decide the how we have sex and the nature of the fantasy. It's my choice, my scenario, my rules right to the end, no turning back. Is that acceptable?"

Heat murmured in his legs, thighs, back and arms. Words were impossible. He could barely move to nod.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

"Give me five minutes."

Through the blur of rising steam he watched her lean forward, arch her back then return to an upright position, hands nestled in her lap. Her breath became regular, deepened, then her eyes closed, and, despite all intentions to the contrary, so did his. 

When he awoke she was giving his body a vigorous once over with a soapy sponge.

"Did you do it?"

"Yes."

"What did it say?"

"That's my business."

She worked on his back with professional intensity and he remembered an earlier time when his prize bathtub possession had been a small green tank with a gun turret that turned. When she told him to leave the water, he could barely stand. She dried him vigorously with towels as big as bed sheets, and he pretended irritation. It was unseemly for a judge to feel like a child. On the bed was spread out one of the big towels and she bade him lie on it. The next thing he knew scented oil was being poured on his chest from an ornate bottle of the bluest glass he'd ever seen. Expert hands worked their way down until his entire front had been smoothed and penetrated by the oil with one notable exception,.

"Roll over."

The ritual continued on his back until he heard distant chimes playing the Beethoven’s "Ode to Joy." Her hands left him. Faint voices. She returned bearing a silver tray that held two crystal shot glasses encased in filigree  and a striking, cut-glass Baccarat decanter. The liqueur it contained was rare and costly. Teased from the leaves of violets and aged for a half century in Gopher wood casks, the spirit called Lethe by the Turkish monks who distilled it combined delicacy of flavor with an effect that was the stuff of legend. 

Minnie poured amber liquid into the glasses and returned to her work. The faint scent of violets mingled with that of the oil and Armpt abandoned himself to the magic in her hands. Despite exhaustion he felt the familiar tingle.

"Yes," she said, drawing a finger lightly from his tailbone to the space between his ears. "Sit up."

"What are you thinking?" she asked, when he complied, and offered him one of the glasses.

"Never you mind."

Dipping in a token curtsey, Minnie cocked her head to one side, and held up her glass. "To his honor's health."

Armpt eyed her with mistrust. "To milady's backside." 

Their glasses touched. The light, heady scent of violets filled his nostrils and he found himself remembering a picnic from ages past. He had been six at the time, sitting with his mother on a sun dappled bed of pine needles, she, reading from the poems of William Blake, he, imagining a wonderful Tiger striding through forest with eyes that burned like hers. They had dined on sandwiches, listened to the birds and watched sunlight change on the forest floor. It had been a perfect afternoon. How much he loved her. How sad he'd been years later, when she died.

"Drink," whispered Minnie.

Resisting, he clung to the melancholy sweetness. His mother would have known what to do about the chaos in the valley, the greedy priests, and flying child. She would have weighed all the variables and made a decision so perfect that even those who suffered from her wisdom as he had would be forced to acknowledge her justness.    

Without warning, the fluttering he so feared, began at the edge of his eyes.

The radiance withdrew from his face and Minnie knew she was losing him. "Let it go, Harold, and drink what I’ve given you. Drink it now."

Fire and violets cascaded down his throat, enchanting his sinuses, seducing his tongue. Never was perfume so rare, flavor so exquisite or fire so tender. Heat filled his belly. 

"Time to let go," she whispered, her blurred-angel countenance smiling as the Lethe took possession of him..

Now he floated in an endless sea where shafts of setting sunlight burned the clouds and swells of amber liquid rocked him gently. He tried to do as she had bid but letting go was not easy. Mistrust rose from the depths and began circling. No liquor could work as fast as this. It had to be a drug. She had drugged him! Doubts and torments surfaced, and in a feeding frenzy, attacked. He struggled for control.

Minnie had never seen anyone resist the Lethe with such force. In all men it unleashed demons. But most eventually let them go. Not Armpt.

"Impossible, impossible, impossible," he cried, his body twitching, his hand batting imaginary beings from the air. He saw the boy hiding in his ceiling shelter, the frightened face of the priest, the law books in his study leering at him. He heard the defense pleading his case: “Do pigs have wings? Can children fly? Are gravity and sanity synonymous?” They were, he knew, which meant that he was mad, which meant that he must die. Unless the child could be done away with. Alarms clanged, the portrait of justice on the courthouse ceiling howled, and furies descended upon him. The very thought was treason. He was a just man! Could it ever be just to kill a child? Twisting and thrashing Armpt shouted his misgivings into the soundproofed silence. The very fabric of reality lay bleeding on the ground and seven-year-old boy carried the knife. But children were sacred. And this child belonged to Edna! She would hate him for all eternity. The haunting flutter returned to the corner of his eyes. His mother would have known what to do. Something was crawling through his hair! Thrashing he tried to shake it loose. "Get off, get off, get off!"

Minnie watched darkness settle around Armpt’s head and knew it was more than the Lethe. Whatever was affecting the Judge was affecting her too. Lunging onto the bed, she beat the air around him, crying, "Get out, get out, get out!" Her arms encircled his head protectively, and she crooned softly that he was safe again. Yes, he was safe.

Unable to endure Minnie’s healing touch the penumbra withdrew. On the roof, a dark cloud roiled disconsolately... so close, so close. Like the boy, the woman had power and could not be easily taken. It would wait for a better time.

Minnie’s eyes searched every corner of the room until she was satisfied that the dark presence had gone. Warily, her gaze returned to the shivering Armpt. Like a mother now, she promised him safety and sweet dreams and, slowly, he became calm. She'd shared Lethe with many men but had never witnessed such an explosive release. The liqueur had served its purpose though. Having learned what she needed to know, Minnie slipped away to prepare.

Again he found himself in the golden sea. The waves that had battered him so unmercifully became ripples, then lapsed into stillness. At peace now, he who had once been Armpt, lay on a warm beach contemplating oblivion. He had no name, no place, no beginning or end. He could not remember who he was.

"Come awake, Mr. Armpt." 

No chance of that. This was too sweet.

Again the voice... "Come awake, Mr. Armpt." 

Then someone was touching him in a very private place, and “awake” was hardly sufficient to describe the phenomenon. It had been years since he felt like this. He was a pole, a scepter, a resilient steel rod! 

Armpt opened his eyes to find himself seated on the carpet. Before him, a child's table was set for tea with pretty blue-glass dishes. A boy in blue jeans, a red baseball cap and green hockey shirt appeared from his right, and smiled.

"Who are you?" Armpt asked.

"Nobody special."

"And who am I?"

"You're Mr. Armpt."

"Ahhh..."  He became aware of his nakedness and obvious state of arousal. "I'm... I'm supposed to make love."

"Yes," said the child.

"Should you be here?"

"No, not for that. Shall I get the girl?"

"Not yet." 

The child tossed him a throw pillow. Having covered himself he felt more comfortable. The boy paced back and forth appearing troubled, as if he had something to say but couldn't get started.

"Well, what is it?" Armpt demanded.

"A secret," said the child.

"Don't play cat and mouse."

"It's about if people could fly."

"And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings," quoted the Judge.

"The sea's not boiling."

"Nor can people fly."

"But, if they could?"

Something wasn't right. Conspiratorial voices in his mind shared a secret from which he’d been excluded.

"Why would you want to fly?" he asked.

"Because it's wonderful. Because you're free."

A child would not say 'free,' cautioned the voices.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Peter Pan flew," said the boy.

"He was imaginary."

"Maybe I'm imaginary." The child stopped pacing and abruptly sat in the little chair. "Want to have a tea party?"

Armpt scrutinized the young face. "I thought only girls had tea parties."

"It's my stuff, I can do what I want with it," the boy said, belligerently.

He held the teapot like a girl. The kid would probably grow up queer like that black fag on the city council. Armpt's brow furrowed. Somewhere a door to memory was opening.

"It's good,” said the child. “It's made from scabs and stings and little boy's wings. Drink.”

Suspiciously he lifted the contents to his lips. It contained the aroma of clouds racing through a warm afternoon sky. He took a tentative sip and a rush of vapors carried him back to the golden sea. Seaweed swam over his floating body, sliding against him with a million, caressing fingers. Lust was on his mind. And Edna was before him decked out in her Tuesday best. She stood lightly on the sultry waters doing a striptease. One by one she removed her little white gloves and dropped them into the warm, amber liquid. A dainty kick. A little black shoe went sailing over the horizon. Its sister tumbled after. Barefoot now she teased up her skirt and stepped daintily out of her crinolines. Bending low, revealing pale thighs that he knew to be softer than an Angel's kiss, she set her petticoats in the way of a passing breeze, and like a tiny sail they floated toward the horizon. Next her blue hair ribbon pulled away and captive hair slid sinfully down. What a smile. Her eyes gleamed with lascivious thoughts. Take me. Fondle me. Spank me. Own me. Come in and make yourself at home. Artful hands reached behind her back, a zipper parted like a flower and she emerged - bare - warm - and delicious.

Nestled in cool, smooth, satin bed sheets, she welcomed him. And soon he was immersed and drowning in her sweetness. Dear Edna, in all things perfection; giving herself to him entirely, in all ways, for all time. And he, Hephastus pounding at the forge, pounding and pounding, as the spiral rose, until there was no difference between them, and they had merged completely, and it could last no longer, and in a crescendo of mutual annihilation they burst into a million stars. Then the stars burned out, and bit by bit, returned as particles of holy dust, tenderly rebuilding Harold and Edna - so that they might sin again.

When Armpt opened his eyes, barely aware of the tears trickling down his faced, he was happy. He lay on his back amid the pillows of Minnie's marvelous bed. And she, the perfect image of a wanton boy, lay sleeping on his chest, her lips grazing his nipple. He remembered the painting in the hallway, fingered the baseball cap, and admired the Little Pucks logo on her sleeve. She was the best. None could touch her in the arts of love. He stretched and sank deeper into the pillows. The plan had worked. Elusive, sleep swam all around, wonderful, blissful, his at last, free for the taking. How luxurious to be fading away, going deeper and deeper. So much care, he thought and as he passed into unconsciousness he felt the faintest tingling at the back of his head.

Neither he nor Minnie had seen the gray mist fill the room and then withdraw. But the damage was done. A tiny tube as fine as spider's silk now attached to the back of the judge’s head.