Selections from: THE HANGING OF LITTLE TIMMY TIPTOE

CHAPTER 15: SLEEP

Shaking, prodding, even a glass of cold water in the face failed to rouse the sleeping judge. Minnie called for help. Minutes later, two of her girls arrived, accompanied by the brothel’s handyman, ex-mail-pilot and former alcoholic, Wilbur Filthbore.

She indicated the tall, gaunt figure sprawled in the middle of her enormous bed. "He won't wake up. We have to move him."

"Where?" asked one of the girls.

"We'll put him in Cissie's room."

“Aw, why mine?” complained Cissie.

“Because, it’s closest to the door,” snapped her boss.

With a girl on either shoulder and Wilber holding his legs they struggled down a painting-lined passageway that led to the main hall. As Minnie opened the door to Cissie’s room, an enormous gust of wind shook the brothel.

“How long has that been going on?” she asked.

“Ten minutes,” gasped Wilbur, awkwardly hefting the Judge onto a pink coverlet covered with dancing Teddy bears.

“He’s dead to the world,” said Cissie, nudging the tall man’s foot.

Wilbur shook him. No reaction. He stuck a finger in his nose. "Hey Armpt, smell a rat?"

"Wilbur, stop it!" Minnie snapped as she paced beside the bed. "Something's happened to him." Another blast of wind howled mournfully in the eaves.

"What?” Wilbur asked.

"I don't know. I wish I did.”

"I think he's just exhausted," Cissie’s companion offered.

“I hope so,” said Minnie. “It’s probably nothing… I mean he needs sleep. He hasn’t slept for days, but…” her voice trailed off. She moved to the window and peered out into the darkness between cupped hands. The room fell silent. Only the judge’s rhythmic breathing could be heard.

“Big storm’s coming,” she said. “Cissie, go, advise the guests, some will want to leave.”

“Why? Its just wind.”

“It’s more than wind.” She turned to Wilbur. "If he doesn't wake up soon somebody's going to have to take him home."

"Can’t we just let him sleep it off here?"

"No, he’s a judge. You know how it would look if he spent the night.”

“So, who cares?”

“I do.” She gave Armpt a final glance and headed to the door. “Keep an eye on him girls, if he wakes up call me. Wilbur, my office, now."

Wilbur caught up to her in the hallway. “OK, OK, I’ll take him home.”

“Hush,” Minnie spoke in a low voice. “I didn’t want to talk in front of the girls.”

“About what?”

“It felt like there was something in the room with us."

“When you were with Armpt?”

“Yes.”

"What do you mean something? "

"I don’t know. It felt really weird, like it was hard to think. The air seemed thick.”

“You’re probably just over worked.”

“No. He felt it too. It scared him.”

“Nothing scares Armpt.”

“This did.”

“What do you want me to do?”

She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. Just… keep an eye out. I don’t like the way things feel.” Minnie entered her office and beckoned for Wilbur to follow.

It was a tiny space on the first floor nestled between the lounge and the stairs. It contained a diminutive sofa dressed in faded, lace antimacassars, an old roll-top desk, and a petit end table upon which perched a 1920's art deco, lamp with a square, peach-colored shade upon which naked breasts and bottoms were painted in delirious profusion. Hanging over her desk was an original oil painting, rumored to be the product of a famous 16th Century Dutch artist. It featured a satyr with a blue butterfly on his finger. Those who looked closely could see the butterfly reflected in his eyes.

"Wilbur, there’s a storm coming. I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know. But you’ve been acting… really weird.”

"I get manic without the booze," he replied.

“I’m going to need you focused.”

“Have I ever let you down?”

“You mean aside from being a drunk, a letch, a liar and a lousy handy man?”

“Jeez, Minnie… I never lied to you.”

“I know,” she said, regretting her outburst.

“The rest is true… was true. Except for the booze part. I told you, I’ve quit.”

“Just like that? After fifteen years?”

“It’s no big thing.” This was a lie. It was huge. It nearly killed him, and it wasn’t over yet. “OK. So it isn’t easy. But I’m not going back. I’d cut off my arm before I break a promise to that kid.”

“You told him you quit drinking?”

“I told myself when I met him.”
She shook her head, at a loss for words.

Wilbur plunged on, “He’s my second chance. I saw it on the night of dreams. A voice told me he was my second chance. I can’t explain it. I don’t expect you to believe me but… When I was a boy I dreamed of being able to fly like him without wings. I’d lay in bed and will myself to get lighter and lighter and I’d almost start floating. But he does it for real Minnie! When he’s not afraid he just floats there, smiling, like a little piece of magic. I taught him how to roll, how to dip. He needs me. And I need him.”

“I need you,” Minnie said. “We’ve got to get Judge Armpt home.”

Wilbur went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “I’ll tell you something, he can do a lot more than fly."

"What’s that supposed to mean? "

He dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "He gets inside people's heads. Remember the night of dreams? He got inside a lot of heads that night, and saw things that people didn't want him to see. Now they’re scared."

She eyed him mistrustfully. "What kind of things?"

A window-rattling gust of wind struck the brothel with such violence  it drew gasps from the lounge and extinguished candles around the coffin in which Appletown’s funeral director was about to have his way with a very cold member of Minnie’s staff.

"The fat priest…”

“What about him?” Minnie asked, as the tassels on her lampshade swung back and forth.

“He’s into children."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's a big accusation."

"I know."

"Wilbur, the Appleseeds aren’t Catholic, how would he…?"

"Not Timmy -- little Phoebe Daniels, she lives on your side of …"

"I know who she is. She told him this?”

“Never said a word. He saw it in her mind. He saw it in the priest’s mind!”

“That’s crazy.”

“Maybe. But I believe him.”

"If it’s true… no wonder Armpt’s scared.”

“Huh?”

"I wasn't going to tell you this... You know I take my profession seriously when it comes to privacy." She stared at the painting over her desk for a long time.

"Minnie, I would never betray your confidence."

"… You hate him."

Wilbur shook his head. “I hate that the world needs autocrats like him to make it run smoothly. But I don’t hate him. Asshole or not he plays by the rules."

"Not anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"Tonight, he took Lethe, he went crazy. And he blurted out some things…”

“What things?”

“Father Fundle and Rector Spector. They’re planning to come out against the boy."

"They know?"

"Yes."

"Have they seen him?"

She nodded.

Wilbur suddenly felt confined in the small office. "Why against him?"

"Strange things happened when they tried to talk to him. They think he's possessed."

"Possessed? He's a little kid!"

She was silent.

"You mean... like, by demons?"

She nodded.

He grew pale. "Christ, they'll try to kill him."

"Don't be silly, Harold didn't say that."

"He doesn't have to. Oh shit, Minnie, I've got to get him out of here!"

“Calm down. He's not as helpless as he seems.  Apparently he put Harold in the hospital this morning."

“How’d he do that?”

“I don’t know. He went up a ladder and some feeling came over him and he fell. The priest wound up crawling around on the floor. Harold said there was some kind of force around the boy."

"Damn! I never felt it."

"Maybe you don't threaten him."

“Damn!” Wilbur said again. “I’ve got to get over there and see him!” “Well, right now I need you to take Harold home.”

“Yeah, yeah… OK,” Wilbur muttered, staring into space with a half smile on his lips.

Again winds buffeted the house. Minnie groaned. "God, I wish you didn't make me so nervous. How the hell are we going to get him there?” The station wagon's in the shop and he'll never fit in my little car."

Wilbur snapped his fingers. "Isn’t the funeral director here tonight?"

"Sure, with Sandy. Didn't you hear the chatter of teeth? Oh, the hearse!" Minnie broke into a big smile. "I’ll get the keys and meet you out front. You get Armpt." She gave Wilbur a big kiss on his dimpled chin and dashed from the room.

On a World War I army stretcher from the prop room Wilbur, Cissy and Charlotte transported the sleeping Judge and a bag with his clothes into the foyer. Outside the wind was a steady roar.

"Here we go," said Cissy, turning the doorknob.

The door blew in and hit the wall with a merciless crash. Armpt's sheet billowed, wrapping itself around Wilbur's head. And from the lounge came startled cries as papers and magazines blew about the room. Through it all Armpt slept. An engine was heard as they fought their way out onto the porch, then headlights illuminated the thrashing gray branches of the trees. A handsome old Mercedes hearse with chrome trim rolled into the driveway.

"Come on," said Wilbur.

They had to take the steep stares sideways to keep Armpt from sliding off the stretcher.

Hovering unseen in the air above the whorehouse the demigod Entropy found the wind's unpredictability comforting. Dead leaves that had survived the winter snow scuttled across the drive like neurotic rodents. It was done. Contact with Armpt had been made. Soon the woman would be gone and nothing would stand in the way.