THAT'S SHOW BIZ! by Milton Knight

WELL, THAT’S SHOW BIZ!

By Milton Knight

Ninth Draft: 6/10/16

Printed Oct. 16, 2016

Chapter One: SETTING THE STAGE

The two men squinted away from the light glaring above.

One of them was what one would have, in the popular colloquial of the time, labeled a “runt”. Thickset, perspiring, he was no match for the tall, rawboned man who clutched his collar, nearly lifting him from the floor.

The thin one, features beet red, convulsing, pushed his face into the runt’s, and drew back his palm. He threw it into the other man’s face for a smack that rang through the premises. He shook the little one by the collar, and hurled him down to the floor. The runt’s straw hat spun on the floor, as its owner wallowed in a foolish heap, arms and legs impotently thrashing about.

The tall one plunged his hand into the inside of his jacket for the object naturally in it; a pig’s bladder. He advanced to assail the runt with it, delivering slap after hollow slap. The smaller man started to skedaddle away, turned back, recovered his hat, put it back on, and raised his hands to protect it against further damage as the pair stampeded out of sight.

The pit band lunged into a hokey, helter skelter finale; the pianist bashing his fists through the keyboard; the drummer assaulting the woodblocks, and a saxophone fiercely hooting the melody, creating a din so appropriately fast and crazed and spirited, one couldn’t help but grin, wince, or laugh out loud. The comedic duo, perspiring, panting, glowing with elation, trotted back onto the stage. Graciously, they doffed their hats to the audience and bowed. They bowed to each other, grinning generously and pantomiming shooting gestures with their fingers, as if both were saying “Good going pal, I couldn’t have done it without you”. As he bowed, the little guy thrust one foot in the air behind him, staying balanced on the other, striking a fleeting pose that was simultaneously clownish and oddly elegant. The partners continued with fast bows, nods, hat wavings and silent mouthings of thanks to the crowd, and winsomely trotted offstage. Back they came for second bows, and exited for the last time. The tall man returned to the stage to introduce the last act. The small man waited.

The tall man came back behind the curtain, applause still echoing from out front. The small one kept pace with his partner. Their pace slowed into a trudge as they were enveloped in the backstage dimness. The tall one, Paul St. Clair, lost his smile. Wheezy Gibson, the small one, very deliberately inspecting his straw hat, shot him a glare that almost pierced the darkness. The small man remarked, “I’d watch it with that bladder if I were you.”

Paul did not turn to look at his partner. He kept walking, and faster. “What did I do this time?” he said.

Wheezy followed him: “Don’t you kid yourself, St. Clair; don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. On purpose, that is. You delivered three extra blows this time. I was counting. You think you’re being cute. You think you’re getting your own back on your boss, don’t you?”

The pair had slowed to a halt, facing each other. Paul was aghast. Wheezy had been counting his blows? One simply wouldn’t know what complaint he was going to have next. The comedian was unpredictable!

Paul St. Clair remembered the valuable rings, watch chains and tie clips Wheezy had given him when he was in an effusive mood. And then Paul thought of Wheezy’s alternate bursts of cruelty. Wheezy’s instability could be simply frightening.

Paul gazed to the ceiling’s peaceful pitch blackness, where he wished he could be himself. His eyes, looking older and wearier than his forty-eight years, were dreading, pleading, but resigned. “Wheezy, please…the audience ate it up…and every time I ease up, you say I’m losing them..”

“Oh, they ate it up,” Wheezy snapped. “We did just fine, but don’t you forget. That slapping business is out there on that stage. I’m the show here.” Paul periodically tried to break in, but Wheezy always drowned him out. At this, he was expert. The pitch of his voice turned higher, almost into a whine. “I’m the boss of this team. You cannot withstand the power of my fists! Back here, I can throw one special delivery and knock you into next Monday. And you wouldn’t dare do a thing about it. NOT A THING.”

Now Wheezy shoved his little face as high and close to the tall man’s as he could. He was trying to goad Paul into indignation. Playing with him, seeing if he could spur Paul into self defense. Then, brother, would the house erupt. Wheezy was hoping, striving to bring the confrontation to its zenith, giving him the excuse to pop like a cork.

Paul was forced to look down into Wheezy’s bovine face. He was dressed like a little clown in his checkered shirt, red bowtie, violet suspenders, outsized green trousers and sunflower in his lapel, and he was breathing fire into the cleft of Paul’s chin. Paul wished the whole ugly, one sided argument could be shrugged off; just called on account of rain. Damn it, he knew his job. If he pulled his punches, Paul wasn’t doing his job. Deal three extraneous whacks, and he’d be verbally abused and physically threatened.

Off to the side, among the lamps and ladders, stood the nightclub’s two stagehands. As “working men”, union men, proudly standing “a world apart”, they observed the goings-on through half lidded eyes, chewed their gum, and waited for the fuse to go off.

“Oh, Wheezy, why don’t we just forget it?” he wailed, gripping Wheezy’s hand and petulantly throwing the small man’s arm aside.

Wheezy deflated like a child’s balloon, his head sinking behind the bow tie on his wide collar. Once again, his partner had called the game to a close, just by remaining calm. Fidgeting, Wheezy struggled to renew his aggression, but the house manager called out to delay the storm.

Exchanging looks between the two men, she mocked, “Break it up, children.” To the straight man, she poorly affected the cluck of a weary Chinese mother: “Show over, Paul. You go home.” Relieved, Paul took not another glance in Wheezy’s direction. He simply retreated to the team’s dressing room.

Turning her attention to the “funny man”, Mona said disdainfully, her eyes over the rims of her glasses, “Wheezy Gibson, I want to see you in my office.” Wheezy gladly trailed after the manager, studying her round, pleasing rump with his connoisseur’s eye. He felt he could read womens’ butts like others could read palms.

The stagehands, disgusted by the termination of the spectacle, exchanged looks as if they had been cheated, and resumed their duties. It was 1:30 am. The show onstage was coming to its end, and they could gladly close up the club.

The dressing room the comics shared was just large enough for two men to apply their stage makeup without bruising each other. As in most of the other backstage rooms, the walls were whitewashed brick, the floor plain, pebbled concrete. Remains of old posters were plastered on the walls, irremovable. Lighted mirrors were fixed to opposite walls, and the team shared the bench in the middle. They also shared a bulletin board for stage notes and pinups.

Paul entered and turned to stare in the mirror. He furrowed his brows as he gazed at his long face, sharp nose, his moustache and his thin, slick sheet of black hair. Paul held his chin, and pivoted his face in a few directions to inspect the ravages of age. The lines he saw did not please him. He pulled at the bags under his eyes, and checked his teeth, which just didn’t look as white as they once had been. Perhaps it was the cut-rate, yellowish lighting they used in this place.

He had played the roles of house singer and straight man at The Candl Club since 1946; for over ten years. His engagement had spanned the years of three successive owners. He had been partnered with a succession of comics. They were of varying quality, never outstanding. They’d arrive; get itchy feet or a better offer and bid farewell. Paul always stayed behind, convinced that he lacked the fortitude it took to survive outside the walls of the little downtown club, and terrified by the prospect of maneuvering in a crueler, more competitive arena. In the club, he felt, were people he had known for years, where he had built up a record good enough to call it home no matter what. There was no sign of disapproval from management. He was a fixture here. Part of the family. The customers had come to know him. Here he was and here he’d stay. As long as possible.

The straight man had been always considered a man of equal talent to the comic’s. The straight man was admired for his expert timing, providing an earthly contrast to the buffoon’s flights of fancy.

Traditionally, the straight men were the managers of the teams. Employers went to the straight men with their wants and needs, not the clowns. Whenever possible, management avoided having to deal with the unpredictable “funny men”. Clowns were irresponsible, self destructive, demented children who needed the guidance of a sober adult. Personalities onstage and off were thus melded.

Comedians came, comedians went away. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference. But when Wheezy Gibson had been hired to fill the spot, Paul was aware that here was someone special. Not only did St. Clair and Gibson click, they brought out the best in each other. Paul had been doing just alright before. Now Gibson was the one that kept the audience coming back and loving them both, raising the pair above and apart from the declining standards of burlesque comedy.

The normal sixty-forty salary contrast remained in place. However, through subtle aggression, Gibson had appointed himself the ‘boss’ of the team. He introduced knockabout comedy into the act. The severest and most boisterous kind, offering simultaneous laughter and shock. Wheezy deeply admired the daring acrobatics of the silent film comedians, just loved this school of comedy. The team was among the last to practice it. Wheezy had educated himself until he had become an expert practitioner of the craft. He could propel himself into dazzling cartwheels and somersaults, and send himself thudding on the concrete floor. It was painless to himself, but disturbing to spectators. Paul was dazzled, afraid and even guilty for slapping Wheezy and triggering what seemed to him a suicidal self punishment, would naturally ease up, and get “Come on stupid! I want you to lay it on! Just give it to me! Don’t worry about hurting me! You just aren’t that strong. Next thing you know, the slobs won’t laugh. Then what could happen?”

The team could fail, thought Paul. Destroy this partnership so successful? Another threat to Paul’s livelihood. He had many fears, but the loss of his livelihood was the greatest. Paul needed to maintain a sense of security to protect himself from the world around him, where anything might happen.

Glum, Paul removed his snappy suit and carefully, slowly, trembling, hung it in the closet. The outfit had improved his build considerably. In his underwear, Paul stood, lanky and sallow, with a hollow chest and a weak belly.

He shrugged, changed suits, threw on his knee length tweed coat and left by the back alley exit.

Mona Fago, the stage manager, opened the windowed door of her business office, and kept walking until behind her desk. Wheezy, still in his ludicrous costume, followed her in and closed the door, happily anticipating more than the gin Miss Fago noisily fumbled for in one of the drawers.

A single, yellowed bulb inside a rusted tin cone hung above the desk. Only the nearest edges of the office paraphernalia could be discerned in the greenish light. The olive blotter on the desk. The blue grays of file cabinets. The washed out whites of the piles of papers and contracts, the muddy melange of photos and posters hanging on the walls. However, a spray of moonlight was thrown upon a cot at the opposite end of the office reserved for Mona’s off duty “siestas”.

Wheezy reached for the wall switch for further illumination. “Don’t do that”, Mona blurted.

It was possible she didn’t want to break the mood. It was also possible she wanted her face to remain unseen. She must have been over forty, but she still had what it took as far as Wheezy was concerned. Her face was in shadows, but the dull bulb highlighted her pointy breasts and the bottle of gin.

“Drink with me”, she said without expression or pleasure as she poured two glasses. The sound of the liquid was clear and delicious. Wheezy picked up his glass, sat across from her in the rickety swivel chair and sipped.

After a pause to savor the taste, Mona said gently, “Stop picking on Paul.” It sounded like a gesture of obligation, not concern.

Wheezy snorted. “Pick on him? On him…did you see us out there tonight? He could have killed me!”

“Oh, stop being a crybaby, Wheezy. A few extra smacks with a pig’s bladder. A balloon! Is it or is it not you who tells him to keep it violent? You’re strong. You can take it with the best of them. That’s why you’re a winner. And you know Paul can’t take your outbursts, loser that he is.”

Wheezy turned his drinking glass from side to side, studying its reflections, and chuckled to himself. He liked Mona, and not just as a nice piece of tail, as he felt about most decent looking females. She had a good sense of humor. And a capacity for frankness. You didn’t have to choose delicate words with her. Sure, she acted like a stick. But one had to be tough to stay in her business. Her po-faced demeanor made it clear that she wouldn’t court any nonsense. Her jaded expression, the hair worn in a tight bun, her cat’s eye glasses, her tailored suits and the clipped rhythm of her clacking heels conveyed that well enough. But the turtleneck sweater she was wearing close to her, and the banana breasts peeking out from under the jacket, warmly suggested a good time could be had. And, oh, the two of them had enjoyed some good times. But off of that cot, it was all business and only business. Sex partners received no favors.

For her part, Mona felt no cause to give Wheezy any favors. He was breezy, agreeable enough to dally with, but he was no friend. He was an unpleasant little mental case, she felt. At his best, abrasive. At his worst, an egoist son of a bitch. In his clown suit, he was a repellant sight. Out of the suit…well, he had an alright body and an impressive member.

“You wanna talk to me about somethin’, Mona?”

“We’ve talked. I WANT…a siesta.”

Paul St. Clair walked down the alley from the rear exit. The globe of light beside the door set the pebbled, moist brick walls glistening. The alley was intimidating, but the crew, even the dancers, had grown used to passing through it to the street. There had never been a problem, except for an occasional wino…

“What do you say, Skipper? Gotten good right Friends with God Jesus?”

It was Beautiful Joe, a vaguely nautical regular at the club, who came and watched the show every evening he could afford to, and tried to proselytize the cast after it ended. He wore a dark seaman’s jacket, a striped t-shirt, and rough jeans, hard with crust from lack of a wash. From under his cap, his gray hair and beard flew out of his head in every direction, giving him the appearance of a wounded yet noble porcupine. One of the Lord’s own oddballs.

“Jeez, Joe, you scared the hell outa me.”

“Just what I want to do, son. Well, how about it. Joined the denizens of Jesus Christ, our Lord of America??” Joe insisted on walking at Paul’s side as he continued up the alley.

Paul felt some empathy for this well-meaning eccentric, but was irritated by his pressuring. Paul was simply not interested. Looking pained, he said, “Look, Joe”, he said, “You know I’m a believer, but I can’t dedicate my soul to it. I’ve got too many questions.”

“Ask the Lord, and he shall forgive them, Pappy. All you need is some spiritual food, and that’s free; anywhere, anytime. Let me tickle your tastebuds.”

Joe was getting poised for one of what he considered his “masterful” diatribes. Paul nipped that in the bud. “He shall forgive me, you say. Why is having a question an error on my part? Isn’t the Lord all-knowing enough to recognize that so many things about the world He created are going unexplained? That His world to us makes no sense whatsoever? That it hurts just to be here?”

“As you say, Paul-o, He made the Earth. And so there are no questions. Come; let me take you on the merry-go-round that is Our Lord, Jesus Christ.”

Merry-Go-Round was right. There was nowhere to go with this clod. Paul was losing his patience. He fumbled in his pocket, and laid a coin on the old man’s palm.

“Thanks, Paul-o, bless you. I shall pray for you. I shall use this money to lead others even less enlightened than you on the Path to Glory. Hallelujah, Brother! And then some…” His words faded into the distance as Paul walked out of the alley.

As he approached the stairs of the subway, Paul couldn’t help but consider that the fifty cents he had just “contributed” would simply be used to finance another grape soda at The Candl Club.

Back in the alley, Beautiful Joe slipped the fifty cents into the pocket of his jacket, then thrust his palm upward, as if he was carrying a tray, letting the other arm dangle like a doll’s, and, moving around in a circle, exploded into an eccentric shuffling dance step. “Well, Hallelujah! Well, yes, yes! Well awereet!! Yas, yas!!!”

The two stagehands, walking out of the nightclub, stopped behind Joe and exchanged truculent sneers. “Alright, clear the way, Beautiful”, muttered one.

Snorting derisively, the other one stupidly repeated, “Beautiful.”

The old man turned violently on the pair, thrusting a wizened finger. “And you, my friends, are the most sinful of all! Using God’s light to illuminate the Devil’s work!! Why not Henry V?? Why not Twelfth Night?? Yes, the pair of you! Repent!! Repent your wicked ways and make way for the true light, the Phosphorescence of Heaven!!”

Unimpressed, the two men pushed past him, one on either side, squeezing the old man in the middle. The stagehands linked arms as they left the scene, proud of this improvised, perfectly synchronized expression of contempt.

For that instant, Joe had been thrown off balance. He had to hop on one foot, but he gracefully regained his balance and barked after them, finger in the sky, “Yes! Yes, you, too, will see! Thou shalt learn the Wisdom! You will cognize the Magic of Paralysis! Repent, you juveniles! Repent and…I LOVE YOU!! I LOVE YOU!!” he shouted with vitriol.

The stage door clicked shut once again. Beautiful Joe’s face puckered into a smile. He turned. Yes, it was dark, but, Glory, her loveliness shone as would a lantern! Even draped in an overcoat, she could raise an erection. If God had ever sent an angel forth to do Satan’s work, it was her. Beautiful Joe was overwhelmed by a wave of pity for the poor, sinning girl. His heart ran over with pity. Again raising his finger, he said to her:

“Slut!! And you are the most sinful of all! A whore leading men astray! Flaunting your flesh, dredging up a man’s basest instincts!! The face of an angel…and the soul of a demon!! You sin!! You SIN!!” Beneath his whiskers, Joe’s face had gone florid.

The redhead stood calm before him.

“Did you like my dance tonight? I did it thinking of you.”

Beautiful Joe stood paralyzed, only his filmed eyes following her as she drifted toward him. His breathing was audible as he nobly toiled to resist this woman’s obscene charms.

“Jezebel…Queen of Sheba…”

The redhead draped her arms around Joe’s neck. It was like being wrapped in Heavenly Swaddling Clothes. But he was wise; yes, old Joe was cognizant of this trollop’s game!

“Mae West…” he croaked, shuddering.

The woman’s tongue slipped through his bristling whiskers to loll about in his mouth. Joe’s eyes danced. She sucked away at his lips. Joe’s eyelids fell. He was nearly in tears. The redhead’s bulges were held generously against his body; her hips ground deeply into his crotch.

The couple came out of it for air. Joe was panting helplessly. Her expression was almost a snarl. Her hands rubbed hard over his spine. “Does that feel good, Joe?”, her body still drilling against his.

Beautiful Joe’s eyes moved skyward. “Oh…oh, get thee behind me, Satan…”

“No, Joe. YOU get behind ME. We’ll have so much fun. Like this…”

With an adroit index finger, the woman goosed Joe through his heavy jeans, deep up his anus. He quivered and seemed to propel an inch or two off the pavement, smearing his manhood against the woman’s pubes. She laughed throatily. “Yes, Joe. You’ll do that to me someday.”

Joe whinnied and snorted as would a mad stallion. The woman strummed his enflamed crotch like a stringed instrument. Even her eyes were widened by the dimensions of his ripening bulge tonight. The gravel crunched under her knees as she lowered herself, planted her face in his crotch, and lovingly moved it back and forth. She hummed softly, musically. Joe melted.

“Oh…oh, Cleopatra…Lady Chatterley…” he inhaled.

The woman’s fingers kneaded his crotch with increasing speed. Beautiful Joe leaned backwards, balanced on his spine. He had surrendered. The woman unzipped his trousers in order to play more intimate games with his testicles; but one brush of her hand across the underside of Joe’s bare cock produced a fat, thick belch of semen.

Joe pitched backwards with a melodic exhale. The woman caught him in her arms, hooked her fingers under his armpits, carried him a few steps and gently sat him on the lid of a garbage can. From out behind the can, a cat hissed and scampered out of the alley.

The sweet purr of a luxury motor swelled in the street. The wicked woman’s heels lazily clicked away on the pavement. She still looked back at the old sailor. She blew him a kiss.

“Good night, Beautiful Joe.” Then she disappeared into the night.

A car door slammed. The auto’s hum faded in the distance. Bathed in the halo issued from the exit bulb, Joe sat slouched against the moist brick wall, his head dangling to the side like a puppet’s.

Oh, that blasphemous woman, with no labor dragging him to the gates of perdition! He must save her! Someday, he would succeed! “Every night, my child! Every night I can I will return and fight to rescue you from the Depths of Whoredom!!”

Joe felt rejuvenated, only half conscious of the recent events and the ooze trickling down his thigh. He had a sudden, final inspiration. He looked down to the club’s basement window. A yellowish light still glowed, and the clicking of a typewriter could be heard.

Inside the office, under the weak light, her back to Joe, Mona sat at her desk, nude, typing. Wheezy, also unclothed in the semi darkness, loitered on his back on the cot, blissfully gnawing one of his fat cigars. Suddenly, Joe’s head, goggle-eyed and hair blasting like Struwwelpeter’s, appeared outside the window:

“KNEEL AND PRAY, MY CHILDREN!! KNEEL AND PRAY!!”

For a moment, the couple was frozen, staring incredulously at the face in the window. Then Wheezy inhaled, “Son of a bitch”, and hurtled forward to the stairs leading to the door.

Beautiful Joe righteously stood his ground, doing his idiotic pseudo-Gospel dance step in place, feet skittering, hips shifting, until he heard the door click. Coming to the conclusion that the angry comic was not about to have a turn of conscience, Joe decided to give this sinner up as lost for the moment, and insanely scrambled down the alley into the street.

In all his bellicose nudity, Wheezy lunged out of the door, flooding the alley with light. He lifted a large stone from the pavement and heaved it at the back of Joe’s head. The stone sharply ricocheted off a wall and clattered into the street. Wheezy screamed. “Go back to your Coney Island whores, you creep!”

Clutching a thin house coat to her throat, Mona came out behind Wheezy and grabbed his shoulder, whipping him around. “For God’s sake, Wheezy, you might have killed him! Do you want to go to prison??!” Wheezy pushed past her back into the office: “Fraud! Faker! That old pervert’s no more an evangelist than I am!!”

Chapter Two: THE STRAIGHT MAN

Once again, the subway had cost Paul two hours getting home. It was five in the morning now. Plodding up the staircase from the subway, the pale bronze sky was turning yellow, making him squint; irritating him no end. Paul St. Clair was no “day person”. The slight frost rendered his street, an unchanging line of brownstones, duller and even more colorless than usual. Paul entered his building, and traveled up the three flights of slippery marble stairs, carefully clutching the banister. His mother was already very much awake in the living room, jogging rapidly in a very small circle. “Beep! Beep!” Then, in a lukewarm tone betraying her disapproval of her son’s strange schedule, she called, “So at last you’re back, Paul?”

“Yes, Mama”, he responded, feeling her schedule was just as odd. Who’d get up before five a.m. if they didn’t have to?

“Eggs and bacon in the fridge, son. Beep! Beep!” She bounced out the door and down the slippery marble stairs for a jog through the park; her personal passion.

Paul fried up the cold meal and ate at the kitchen table. Unlike Mama, Paul just didn’t feel filled on just vegetables and fruits. Like the rest of his life, he yearned for total comfort, and that meant frequent steaks and chops.

As he peppered his eggs, he grimaced as he ruminated. His mother was an utter health nut, to the world at large a peculiar thing for an old lady to be; it was like practicing Yoga, which she also did. Yes, Mama was an eccentric.

Mama, in turn, thought her son would benefit from a proper schedule, but he was in show biz, providing food and rent for the both of them, and that was that.

Paul was frustrated by the long trip home, and too keyed up to go right to sleep. He drifted into the living room. It was an old lady’s home. Dark brown dominated, with its heavy, antiquated wooden cabinets and tables, its faded, striped wallpaper, its dust colored floral cushions and doilies. Aged and unchanged since Paul’s parents took the apartment as newlyweds.

Paul’s joints trembled slightly as he slowly sank into one of the easy chairs. The family cat leapt from nowhere into his lap. Paul smiled and cuddled the pet, scratching her head. He carried her into the kitchen and poured her a bowl of milk. The cat lapped away. Paul squatted over her, stroking her fur. He thought of his mom doing her calisthenics there moments before.

“To see her behave, you wouldn’t think I was taking care of HER, would you?” he affectionately said to the cat. In truth, after his father had passed away, Mama didn’t need much taking care of at all. Paul loved his mother very much. But he had assumed the heroic role of in-house guardian so that he could stay put.

Paul stood up to return to the living room. He was forty-eight years young; eighteen years Wheezy Gibson’s senior. Glumness shot through his body. Paul felt so much older than he actually was.

Did Paul dislike Wheezy? Paul shook his head. He was resentful. Even jealous. Paul was jealous of the man, with his bald nerve and cocksmanship. Wheezy had all the balls Paul lacked. The comic personified the orgiastic youth that Paul himself had avoided and regretted having missed. Paul dreaded the inevitable day Wheezy would be swept off to Hollywood, leaving the straight man to the mercy of fate and lesser comics. But the mature are past such petty foibles as hate. The experienced man understands and has risen above the follies of youth.

Even though Paul had always been in show business, the word for his life would have been ‘prudent’. Increased wealth had been by no means the goal in any of his endeavors. Maintaining the status quo, keeping his life content was his obsession. Safety. To keep the four walls around him; to be able to sink into this upholstered chair, the cat in his lap, and to be able to think, to dwell on the fact that there were no threats on the horizon, no problems to solve; these were, he felt, the only things he needed to be truly happy. To be able to remain on salary at the club.

But conditions in his business were changing. The male entertainers were becoming quaint holdovers from a grand tradition; “old tyme” burlesque; nostalgic Americana. Comedy had been devalued. New talent was not encouraged. The established comics were growing older and wearier; for Paul, being around them was like being stranded in the Bowery on a bad night. In the glorious past, the strippers had been the grand finale; they were fast becoming the whole show. Society was ‘growing up’, proprieties had loosened and the nightclubs had little need to act as if they were offering “programmes”. Coming were full evenings of masturbatory delights. In this uncertain atmosphere, Paul feared his little niche was a fraud not yet revealed. If he clung on tight, didn’t rock the boat, perhaps he could play it for the remainder of his working life. And the longer his partner stayed with him, the more assured that would be.

Paul raised his eyebrows in a kind of facial shrug, then lifted his shoulders in a full one. The future he could not predict or deal with, and that bothered him a lot.

It was his nerves that got him, his goddamn nerves. Paul walked into his bedroom. He sat on the bed. He pulled a bottle of rye from the night stand. Paul was past the point of enjoying liquor. But just the assurance that there was a nip or two at hand gave him something of that warm, quieting sense of stability. Every thought became a profundity. He could get through life by himself. Bittersweet surrender was at hand.

An hour later, Mama found her son stretched across the bed, with one foot on the floor, his mouth hanging wide open, not snoring at all, but drooling noticeably. She took off his shoes, put his leg on the bed and covered him with a blanket. But she drew the line at removing his pants. That he could do himself.

Chapter Three: THE CLOWN

Wallace C. “Wheezy” Gibson prided himself as being the antithesis of his clodhopping stage persona.

Giving the driver an ostentatious tip, the comic shambled out of his taxi and up the path to his apartment building. Wheezy could barely afford the rent on the midtown suite, but felt it was necessary to keep up appearances. He nodded to the doorman and took the elevator to the sixth floor.

Wheezy had come from a family which had never cared about art in the least; a home shabby and completely without decoration. The most artistic thing to enter the home was the Sunday supplement. It was a stubbornly functional working class home. There was a suspicion of art of all its forms, because ornament of any kind was thought to represent values alien to Americans who had to work for a living. Art was an indulgence of the privileged, the decadent and depraved.

The home with the beige paint chipping off the walls and its bleary eyed occupants depressed the child greatly. When the sun started to set, he dreaded having to return to it. His life was not enough. He was only a child, but gnawed by a tragic feeling that he was missing out. And he was obstinate about resolving it.

After school, three times a week, Wheezy dragged himself to the borough library to pore over the art books. It was all at his self prompting. He had no desire to be a painter, but he thrilled to the mystique of the cultured mind. He yearned to be walking through Leonardo’s cavernous, luxurious studio, witnessing all that genius applied in so many directions. So different from his own feebleminded surroundings. But the library would close and Wheezy would have to walk home.

Wheezy’s childhood interests were “uncommon”, and his neighborhood was tough. It was the sort of area where a child never knew when he would be cornered by six others. He grew up having to defend himself, and did so rather well. He had broken a few bullies’ bones, the only achievement his parents were really proud of.

Because of this hard-won approval, and the awe it elicited in others, Wheezy attained a natural interest in physical development and even in the violent. For a little guy, he was strong, and he soon became a bit of a bully himself. But his was an extreme malice. The people around him sensed that he was developing a fearful taste for the sadistic; a lust to hurt more than the average schoolyard bully; a passion for assault just short of murder. When he’d walk home from the library, classmates were obsequious vassals or tried to avoid him. And if Wheezy detected that, the kids could end up the victim of a savage beating ending with blood on the sidewalk. When Wheezy felt like coming home late, his father dared not think about whipping him.

Girls were easy to get. Wheezy was an outlaw, dangerous, and dreadfully thrilling. There was the threat of a bruise with every kiss. He gravitated toward girls with low self esteem; ones begging for his approval. Each dreamed they were capable of being “the one” to fill the gap in his tormented soul. Wheezy developed a contempt for them.

Wheezy walked alone a lot of the time. His alienation was nurtured like a hothouse plant.

On the other end of the spectrum, Wheezy chose to join the high school’s drama group. He reveled in it. His frightening side dissolved. His fellow performers saw another side of him: alive with positive energy, amusing, and gifted with a devilish sense of humor. From the beginning, he was playing Falstaff and Puck, any character with an imp’s spirit.

His parents couldn’t have cared less; they didn’t bother to show up at the presentations. Instead of disapproving of his interests, they ignored them entirely.

The extremes of his personality confused and threatened teachers; he was an adolescent personable and excellent in his English, drama and art classes, but could otherwise be deemed a brute.

Wheezy was certain of where his interests lay. Aware that he wouldn’t rate as a leading man with his pugnacious looks, he confined himself to playing for laughs. Low brow guffaws. He entered every amateur night he could. He picked up work in local presentations. He played hooky; he stayed out late. His family did not ask questions. They had given up actively raising him.

One year before graduating high school, without sentiment or ceremony, Wheezy left home. Unable to find an automobile he could afford on his meager savings, he got convenient hold of a battered motor scooter, and began a trek as a “hobo comedian”. He did spots at cheap clubs and resorts. He followed carnivals, playing the clown or athlete. He even bridged into doing trapeze and tightrope. He begged, he stole. His toughness helped. If any wise ass along the road even began to give him grief, he easily put a finish to the affair. When an employer deliberated over payment, he’d collect blood money. It was heavenly. Not only was such force necessary, Wheezy got a big kick using it.

Through skill, a string of lucky breaks and the boldness of youth, Wheezy got a foothold in vaudeville and was gaining a good reputation as a performer.

Now thirty, Wheezy prided himself as being a self-made man of the world. And, in his own slovenly way, he was correct.

He turned his key in the lock of his apartment. A snap of the switch revealed its interior. He hung his coat and hat on the rack standing beside the door.

Wheezy’s suite was spacious and sloppy. As a contrast to his drab home of origin, his anteroom was crammed with art awaiting him, helter skelter. Not an inch was empty. Oriental rugs lay in relative filth. A motley assortment of gaudily framed Renaissance and Restoration prints hung arbitrarily and often crookedly on the walls, and cheap reproductions of classical statuary stood everywhere, often inconveniently. Many of them had been manufactured as lawn decorations. All of them were of opulent nudes. The avant garde crap wasn’t even worth consideration. The female torso was true beauty, and Wheezy considered himself a connoisseur. His lip curled; he slid his palm across a pearly buttock of “The Fall of Eve” as he passed it. He was remembering his session with Mona, and her own round, ripe ass. He was proud to be fucking her.

Now, in delightful solitude, Wheezy strode into the bathroom, took down his pants, and enjoyed a most satisfying diherrea. A man had to keep his bowels moving regularly and often, he felt. And it had to be done in solitude. Here, away from the club, with no knocks at the door from Paul to destroy his sensual pleasure. He took the act very seriously.

He wallowed in a bath that was nearly boiling, soaking the pains he had sustained in the evening’s performance. The three extra whacks Paul had snuck in floated through his thoughts, but they would not disturb this night. Wheezy was relaxed and pleased; king of all things clever.

It had come late and not easily, but by now people were assuring him he was going places. He was at last a “rising comic”. Call him baggy pants, whatever. He had the gift. Eventually, Broadway, Hollywood…who knew? After taking his very sweet time, he lifted himself from the tub. Glowing with satisfaction, Wheezy slipped into pyjamas (fuck “pajamas”) striped violet and light gray, almost purring with pleasure as the silky material slipped over his skin.

He sauntered through the hallway, admiring the reproductions that lined it, and marveled. This is mine, he thought. It’s really all mine.

Wheezy turned off the hallway’s last light, entered the bedroom, and lowered himself into bed. But gingerly. He mustn’t wake Wifey. Oh, never EVER wake Wifey. She couldn’t take it. If that happened, she’d be up all night, and wouldn’t be happy unless she made him stay awake with her. Oh, mustn’t ever, ever wake Wifey.

Wheezy’s mood shifted suddenly. Was this what it all came down to, he asked himself? Working ‘til dawn and waking up to a dreary tub of a wife?

Chapter Four: BOSS LADY

Mona needed the least sleep of anyone at the club. Four hours would do her, and she was ready to begin work again.

She did not loll about after Wheezy left. In fact, she hinted he should leave. Sex was over, and she’d be ready for something unrelated in minutes. Her men were disoriented, and often hurt by this, but Mona just didn’t pay that any regard. Okay, we’ve both gotten our rocks off; it’s back to work for me.

Alone in the office once again, she pulled a “Variety” out from under a stack of papers and bent her brows as she snatched through it. There was nothing but news about that dratted “medium” that was crouched and waiting to claw her business to shreds. Television. The “new horizon”. Theatres were switching from flesh shows to films; burlesque comics were being snatched away to shill toothpaste on small screens for big money. Mona lit a cigarette. Oh, this was not a mere anxiety or intuition. Audiences were already starting to stay home. However wavy or washed out the image, people seemed to feel it would do for them just as well. And Miss Fago, who could never have been called free with her money, couldn’t blame them. No cover charge; no drink minimum, no travel. Just lie there in your come-as-you-ares and let those grey lines wash all over you. Mona Fago burned with resentment.

No use just burning, though. To keep her own little club going, the Box had to be beaten. Somehow, it had to be outdone, even as less money could be spent. Between the cost of production, union gouging, and paying off bribes to keep the law and the unlawful off her back, the nightclubs, so lucrative after the war, were ceasing to pay off.

But she refused to be driven out so easily. Since other clubs were closing, there would be less competition for her own. She had a distinct chance of doing better than ever, if she could find a way to goose up the entertainment and spend less. Yeah. That’s “all” that needed to be done.

Mona looked up. The morning sun was by then blaring too brightly from the window to suit her. Shadows hovered big and heavy on the wall behind her. As with many people in her business, the night was her time. Sunlight was as alien to her as to a vampire. After squinting at a few other documents, she figured she had squeezed enough work hours out of her mind and body, and considered the cot. But she decided she’d go have a breakfast before just plain going home and getting some one hundred percent peace. Barring the neighbors’ noise, of course.

Mona locked the club’s back door and started on her short path homeward. The city was just waking up. The air was bracing. The sun had calmed into a fainter, more benign yellow and the buildings and the people thrown into shades of olive green. She passed the shop windows with interiors still in darkness.

Mona stopped at the coffee shop across from her apartment. Friendly and rusty pink and silver. She sat alone, the way she liked it, in a corner booth. Her system was a little jumpy. She sucked at her coffee in large draughts and lustily consumed cigarette after cigarette. She always had a faint scent of tobacco, but anyone who didn’t like that could go soak his head in boiling water.

The place was full of early morning clientele; workers just beginning the day; the wealthy and weird in from a night on the town.

Mona had more complaints about life than anyone would care to hear; but how she did love the Village; this city.

She looked out the window and smiled faintly for the first time all night.

Chapter Five: BEAUTIFUL JOE

Two months had passed since Beautiful Joe’s last night at The Candl Club.

Late afternoon, just from the boardwalk, he was squatted on the beach, perfecting a sandcastle. Not only did the hobby relax him, but it made him forget the sinful world outside and to imagine a positive one. One in which all the inhabitants were pure and godly. All living in serenity, while the evil would find themselves broasting on sticks in Hell below, all suffering the Torments of The Damned, and…

A group of roughhewn youngsters were passing on the beach, slapping each others’ heads, dancing around each other, and spouting unintelligible foolishness. Joe eagerly leapt up and fell in line behind them.

“Pardon me, youngbloods”, he started awkwardly, “Have you gotten hip and made the scene with God??”

To a man, they stopped, and slo-owly turned to face Joe.

“Wha’d you say, Pop?”

“I said, have you gotten hep to Jesus Christ, our Lord?” Then he twirled a finger in the air, put both knees together, and started raising each foot in what might laughingly be called a “rhythm”.

The group exchanged sideways glances. One of them began to stifle a laugh, but another pushed his head from behind.

Then one young man countered, touching his fingers together and affecting a beatific expression, “Why no, Pop. I’m sure we’ve got a lot to learn from you. Drone on and we shall listen.” The kid had hoped for an elegant effect, but the others chimed in behind him, “Oh, yes!! Hallelujah! Praise De Lawd!!” and danced odd minuets among themselves. The first kid, the leader of the pack, seethed in disgust. His friends were entirely lacking in subtlety.

Warming to his task, rubbing his palms, Joe proclaimed, “You children are in danger of smashing your flivvers to slivers…misdirected into the cul-de-sac of Satan. You know those hot rod jalopy movies you go to with your dungaree dolls?? And those back alley Passion Pits after the show, palms still greasy with popcorn? Why, what are they but recesses in Satan’s black leather jacket?? Where sin is cultivated, raised into blossom like some Evil Fruit tree, nourished, caressed by the noxious Breezes of Maleficence?”

One kid put his fingers under his chin, and murmured in deep reflection, “Ah, fruit trees…”, earning him a slap on the head by the head of the group.

Oblivious to their lampoonery. Joe continued: “No, my lads, no…for while one may derive temporary satisfactions from these Delusions of Grandeur, one also suckles a twisted soul, beholden to Beelzebub and destined to ROT in HELL!!!” Joe was so confident that the last remark would shock the kids straight, he repeated, his hand sweeping the horizon, “Yes, ROT in HELL!”, drawing out the last word. Joe was on a roll. “Yes; thou shalt feel the puncture of thy flesh with the Devil’s mighty pitchfork, have thine eyes plucked out and rolled in the coals…of HELLL-LL!!” Then Joe reversed his tone, and giving the lads an imploring look, “So, instead of trailing Satan, fall in line and step in time with God’s Parade, our Maker, our Keeper our Savior!! In The Lord’s name, Amen.”

For a good long time, the kids stood saucer-eyed at Joe, the surf the only sound. Then the head of the group raised his arms, and fell into the sand, kneeling and bawling, “Oh, Mighty Messenger! Oh, Leader of our Pack!!” The rest got the idea, and all fell to the ground, rising and falling in false salaams.

Joe was genuinely touched. With eloquent modesty, he raised his hand and gently motioned it from side to side, urging them to stop. “No, no”, he said, on the verge of a tear, “I am but the distributor of The Word. Fall and salaam our Mighty Maker!” Joe bent at his knees, and achieved a few salaams with the boys.

“And now, lads, what say you come with me, and march in step with the Word of God??”

In his best Damon Runyan manner, the leader bowed to Joe, ejaculating, “Why, nothing would please us more, dear sir!”

And as the sun set, the group was cloaked in soothing shadows as they marched along the surf; Joe in front, earnestly bobbing a stick plucked from the sand. The lads trailed him in their own gawky parody of a parade. Joe boomed a hearty, heartfelt “Onward, Christian Soldiers”. The lads, not knowing the song, just approximated the parts of the melody they could easily absorb, filling in with “twangs” and guttural sound effects.

Joe’s heart was full. Never had so many had been converted so fast! My apostles.

They continued along the boardwalk for a small while, amusing or confusing the people in their path. By the time they had approached the general vicinity of Joe’s home, the rainbow of carnival lights were blazing, amusement park cacophony churned the air, and Joe had experienced an episode that was a True Gift from God Himself.

“Well, see you in the funny papers, Old Timer. You’re a Good Joe.” The youth passionately shook the old man’s hand.

“Well, my boy, I assure you, it’s been…”

Suddenly the gang piled on the old man, giving him “noogies”, rough embraces, and smooches on the forehead. Then one swatted him on the backside, and all of them cavorted down the boardwalk and out of sight.

Joe straightened his collar. This last moment was a disappointment. Surely, the lads owed their bringer of God’s Message a little more propriety. But, after all, they were young, and brimming with the Fervor of New Followers of Christ, Our Lord.

Joe shambled the rest of the way to his room, in an old building not far from the boardwalk. It had stained glass windows and an old wooden façade and walls. He shuffled on the tiny white tiles and started upstairs. Then he heard a friendly hello from a voice fuzzy with whisky. It was the madame of the bordello on the ground floor.

Big Tallulah leaned on the doorjamb, wrapped in a deep purplish negligee made of antique gauze and soft, comfortable dust bunnies. A big nest of her hair was in curls on her forehead, suggesting it still had to be done or she was channeling Betty Grable’s mystique. Come hither look, purple eye shadow, lips a sharp crimson, and a star-shaped beauty mark on her cheek. Her breasts, large with flab and beer, were alluringly propped up by her crossed arms. All this and formal high heeled shoes, too. A phonograph record of swing pipe organ, sounding like a cathedral of perversity, wafted from inside the room.

Big Tallulah advanced to the bottom of the stairs. “Sailor Man, you haven’t come down and seen us sometime for months!” Then, casting her head down and looking at him with a child’s eyes, “Why?”

Joe stood frozen and dignified on the stairs. In truth, he had long since given the whores up as lost causes to The Lord. “Well, my good woman…or I should say, my Wicked Woman…”

She reached up and gripped his hand on the banister. Joe softened a little, simpering sadly at her. Poor, evil woman. Destined for the Devil’s Tongs.

“All my girls would love to see you. Gentleman’s Special.”

Joe spluttered. “Really, my heathen, the Eyes of The Lord are upon us, and…”

“Oh, Honey, I could just eat you up!!”

A vision of this harlot whipping out silverware and literally consuming him flashed through Joe’s mind. He started to draw back, but Big Tallulah had his arm in her surprisingly powerful grip as she pulled him onto the landing. “Oh, Joe, Joe; the girls would love to have you!!”

Her door, too, had a stained glass window of many colors. Tallulah pushed it open, and a flock of lounging girls was revealed. In every state of tempting dishabille, girls of every size, shape, race and body type, every gleaming shade of skin, simultaneously cast their eyes upon him.

“Oh…Joe!” one heaved. Another simply said “Joe!”, her voice tinkling like a bell.

“Yes, Joe.” The madame smoothly affirmed. “And he’s consented to have at least one little drink with us. Sit over here, Joe. She forced him down on the settee, and the girls huddled around him. One stared at him with eyes alarmingly carnal. There were general murmurs of “Joe…oh, Joe…” filling his head. He knew that once again, he was in Satan’s wheelbarrow. His nostrils and eyes were befuddled in a feminine fog, and he pushed the madame’s offered glass away, got on his feet and rattled:

“Harlots! Scarlet women!! Look to God and question. For He shalt reflect your likenesses like a mirror, so that you can rightly see your Wicked Ways!! He…” The girl with the carnal eyes had crawled to his feet, worked her nose under his pants leg, and nipped his calf. Joe squeaked in alarm, and bending to clutch his bite, he froze and gazed at the girl. Miss Carnal Eyes remained there on her hands and knees, in her pink baby dolls and silk stockings, snarling like an angry dog. Literally, a bitch in heat. She growled his name as if trying to understand it: “Joe….” then pitched a high bark at him. Joe turned on his heel, and scrambled for the exit.

Big Tallulah grasped for his arm, trying to delay him. “Now, don’t mind Angel, Joe! She’s new here, and…”

Joe wheeled on the madame. “Angel?? ANGEL??! More like Cerberus, the Hound of Hell!!!” He turned away and ran up the stairs.

Chapter Six: SMOKE, MIRRORS AND SIN

The nightclub was in the basement of a Village brownstone. Behind an open railing leading down the stairs, the large front window announced the club’s name in heavy, blocky yellow letters that were bright but still depressing: “The Candl Club”. A shabby red checkered cloth, hung from a brass rail on the inside, so thinned by the day’s sunlight, it only semi-shielded the lower quarter of the window. On the pavement stood a placard with names and photos of the acts offered. Male passerbys frequently stopped to get a good, long look at the pictures.

It was nearing midnight; the club was alive with people waiting for the final performance. The bullet-shaped bartender mopped and swabbed, eyeing the incoming guests with thinly concealed distrust. Tired businessmen, sometimes in pairs; women in modish hats, in groups or with their escorts, well-to-do slummers, and the occasional character practically wearing a lapel button that said “lech’. These were easy to spot: they had eyes like a ferret’s, and skulked as if their appearances were in heavy secrecy. This was a good club, the bartender thought; if not first class, at least respectable. Not the place for teenagers, no; but consenting adults, sure. What can you do? Unless the soloists were up to public obscenity, you had to let them in. Though this was an erotic show, the bartender had contempt for the loners. The horny bastards, they bought as little drink as possible, they squirmed in their chairs, they were apt to offend other patrons and give the club a reputation as if it were a carnival or somethin’.

Like the devil, Beautiful Joe appeared at the door, his head swiveling as though it were on a barstool, looking so earnest and eager, it almost made the bartender throw up. Here was the king of perverts, yet he had been coming so long, the performers regarded him as some sort of landmark, like a plaque on a wall. He even made Miss Mona smile! The bartender shook his head in amazement and a smidgen of envy. He could at least get that hay shaved off his face before coming here.

Joe did his best not to come into physical contact with anyone, stepping around guests at the bar and over their feet at the tables, muttering a stream of apologies under his breath before settling down to get a good, close proximity of the parade of sinners. A waiter instantly appeared at his elbow. “May I get you something to drink, Sir?”

Joe ceased chewing the table nuts to look up at the waiter with an innocuous grin. “Grape soda, Son.” The waiter weaved away with an expression as if he’d had to address a turd on the sidewalk.

“Yep, yep, watch the heathens and learn, boy”, Joe babbled to himself. He observed a couple sitting across from him, a middle aged man and his wife, “Out on a night on the town for some perverse edification, I’m certain. Man running out of steam, wife growing frigid. Out for an evening of sin and corruption…food, late hours and drink…then coming home to do who knows what?? Buggery, cunnilingus…yes, who would know?? Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?? Jesus Christ knows!!” Then Joe broke out in an orgiastic cackle and slapped his knee. The couple stole looks at him, and became extremely intent on continuing their own conversation.

Joe widened his eyes, peering over a few heads. “And over there, a pair of young women! Mere girls, I say. Straying so far from home after their clerical work, only to learn ‘technique’ from these painted Jezebels on stage and impersonate their ways! Who knows what a stomach roll may suggest? Or the mere wiggle of a hip? Yea, this is a veritable finishing school for jaded whores, degenerates…”

The waiter practically slammed Joe’s order on the table. “Your GRAPE SODA, SIR!!”

“Well! Thank ye, Son, Thank ye! You’ll get your reward in Heaven, I assure you!”

Joe ignored the waiter’s stony look and the iced tumbler he had left, sucking at his soda directly from its bottle.

The fuller orchestra assembled in the booth on the side, and the saxophone player supplied an intro to the spirited playing of a popular ditty, in the jazz/bop idiom, informal, playful. Joe could hear nothing to object to here. It was the kind of music the kids danced to, in spite of the overriding saxophone lending a rather sleazy quality more suited to a sailors’ dance.

After a couple of choruses, lights dimmed throughout the club. A spotlight hit the curtain. The orchestra’s beat sped up into a sprint, accompanying Paul St. Clair’s nimble approach to the microphone from stage left. There was a cheap fanfare.

A nice lad, thought Joe, getting comfortable. Perhaps I have a chance with him. Seems like too thoughtful a fellow to be (guiltlessly) enthroned in this Temple of Iniquity.

Paul was at his most striking here, even though his face betrayed his age and the effects of alcohol. His jacket, pants and shirt were all black. His white necktie stood out. He greeted the audience, flattered them, tossed off a few lightweight jokes; then the band started to make some fuzzy rhythmic sounds behind him, and he launched into “Around the World in 80 Days”. Paul was as fine a baritone as he had to be. He had heart, he postured and caressed the microphone at appropriate moments, but was absolutely sexless. Well nigh characterless. He served one purpose: you were supposed to have a singer.

Joe sat back, crossing his legs. Paul indulged in a few barely suggestive moments: when he leaned back, he might have suggested an erotic thrust, but Joe could smugly enjoy fact that, aside from these occasional concessions to carnal tastes, here was good clean music. The audience was pacified. He was a satisfactory lead-in.

Paul himself was thoroughly sincere. He held the final note, throwing his arms back, slightly cocking his head as he squinted in the spotlight. There was applause of contentment. The music ended with a cymbal crash that was a little too loud.

“Thank you very much. And now, dear people, I’d like you to meet our Dimpled Damsels of The Dance; those Scintillating Nymphs; The…Desby Twins!!” Applause. Exit Paul, stage right.

The band began a tick-tock version of “Nola”, still with the simpering sax in the lead. The Desby Twins were pleasant, small, pale girls who minced out rhythmically from behind the curtain, stage left. They wore towering, shapeless plumes on their heads and frilly cigarette girl costumes as fair, even more whitish, than their skin. Joe’s head bobbed slightly from side to side to the dainty beat. Ah, yes, he remembered The Desby Twins.

Facing the audience, the girls did a synchronized bounce, their faces frozen in cheeky simpers. Their arms remained at their sides, their fingers splayed in either direction, pinkies bent. Then, the girls faced each other. One removed her partner’s plumed headpiece, tossed it off stage, and minced into the background. Joe’s smile narrowed. The other miss stayed up front and grew a bit saucy, with squats to the floor and tummy thrusts while retaining the same demure smile.

Joe started to squirm. Here was pure eroticism cloaked in innocence, to be revealed bit by bit in a manner disturbing and delicious. The Desby Twins were so “we’ll grind for you if you remain ladies and gentlemen”, so enticing in their false modesty, even as they grew more naked. Joe had to fight arousal himself. The girls stayed grinning as they plucked bits of costume from each other’s bodies, alternately taking center stage to weave and thrust their hips.

It was dirty and not dirty. It was simple, stars-and-stripes hypocrisy. Joe struggled to fight back tears and an erection as he witnessed the sisters humiliating themselves in public for a paltry few dollars. Oh, but they are eloquent little devils, aren’t they? , he thought.

By this time, the girls were in transparent tops and bottoms, peppered with spangles that bounced off the lights. They turned, wiggled their tushies at the audience, and tiptoed off stage right as the audience applauded warmly. There were even a few approving cheers. They were the crowd’s little sisters or daughters, stripping for bed.

The stage lights quickly faded. A spotlight popped on at stage left, and “Wheezy” Gibson strode onto the stage, wallowing in the oversized suit of a citified country bumpkin. He looked up and around the stage as if he was encountering the “big city” for the first time, and drawled some clunkers about the tallness of the buildings and the desirability of the women. He opened his suitcase. It was full of straw. He plucked one strand out and sucked it, jamming his thumbs into his suspenders as he made a few more cracks, like a degenerate Will Rogers. Paul St. Clair entered from stage right, in the suit he wore for his opening number, as theatrically blatant a “city slicker” as you could hope to see. The exchange was predictable. Paul hailed Wheezy; was he new in town; Wheezy replying “Yup”, and making some naïve remarks on the ‘bigness’ of Cactus Corners; a picture of dunderheaded smalltown arrogance.

Beautiful Joe had by now recovered from his outrage over The Desby Twins and observed St. Clair & Gibson blandly. Joe laughed at little beyond his own pulpit witticisms, and he was certainly unimpressed by stage comedy. To him it was trivial and foolish. He admired Paul’s singing more than his glib comedy stylings. And Gibson; simply a base transgressor. Joe actually had contempt for him. Joe had less hope for Wheezy’s soul than anyone’s in the entire club. He almost enjoyed the thought of this dirty little man meeting his eventual, sure fate in the Pits of Hell…

St. Clair & Gibson labored their way into a money changing routine, rather like the Two Black Crows in white face. For some odd reason, the crowd ate it up. There were males in the audience on the verge of losing their teeth at their brand of comedy. Joe couldn’t help guessing that the fame aroused the laughter instead of vice versa. That may have added to the effect, he realized, but the pair must have started with something. Joe conceded that it was the little movements that made the small guy something special; the little backward kicks and his modest manner of removing his hat and smoothing his hair back, looking angelic. Gibson, in spite of his genuine wicked ways, had his way of seeming entirely lovable and decent on stage.

In the onstage exchange, St. Clair, at first looking like the sure winner, was losing more and more money from his own pocket, and becoming more and more agitated, while Gibson looked ever more angelic. The tall man was eventually broke, and looking positively apoplectic, he hoisted the smaller man off the stage by the collar, and demanded to know how it had been done. Tipping his hat, Wheezy revealed the punchline to the wild laughter of the audience. An instant passed. It was time. The stage band went into its delirious tantrum as St. Clair delivered his ringing slap, pushed Wheezy into the corner of the stage, and gave him the rest of his punishment, the comedy team ending by running off the stage, chaos into infinity.

Joe derived a minor thrill out of seeing Paul’s attack on Wheezy at the conclusion, hoping that it hurt the small man as much as it looked. Then, enveloped by the insane noise of the crowd, the cacophony of the orchestra, Joe blacked out. He sat perfectly still, his eyes open and staring straight into space, his chin in his hand as his elbow leaned on the table, his legs still crossed. The occasional jostle from a cheering neighbor did not waken him. His interest in his surroundings had gone completely. He was in a place totally silent, but not peaceful. It had an edge. Irritation? Despair? He didn’t know.

Joe awoke to total darkness. A bass drum began a slow, rhythmic beat, the ‘tom-toms of the jungle’. A spotlight blossomed on the stage, a special effect of fire blazed over the backdrop, and a shapely red stockinged leg emerged from behind the curtain, slowly slid down a side curtain and stood on an impossibly high heel.

The crowd whooped and hollered as the Woman took the stage.

Here she was: ’The little lady you’ve all been waiting for’. But by Jingo, she was a big lady. Joe estimated about seven feet. An Amazon. Joe didn’t believe in thinking this in association with mere human beings; he barely considered such an entity existed: a Goddess, but in the regalia of Satan.

Clad in a skin tight, spangled cocktail dress, blood red with a pointed tail, matching opera gloves, earrings like pale falling water, crimson hair bursting like a ball of fire. On her head was a huge pair of Devil’s Horns. In her hands, she swung an immense pitchfork. Her colors made an elegant contrast against the backdrop of pitch black sky and ocherous flames.

Yes, Joe sank in his chair. There, in the spotlight, the Kama Sutra, personified! An overwhelming exhibition of beautiful, shapely, alluring Hell. Her eyes were on the audience as she strode to center, and she halted and struck a wide-legged stance. She lugubriously waved her hips from side to side. She threw the pitchfork to someone offstage, flinging waves of hair over her face. Then she grasped the hair, and parted it inch by inch, like a pair of curtains, and raised her head, craning her neck. Her eyes widened, as if saying “Well, HELLO!”, and she bore her teeth like a beast.

Joe froze, his eyes having bulged with hers, hungrily following the wide rotation of her hips. Saw her pitch forward to clutch her ankles and slowly rise, parting the glittering fabric just a bit to offer a hint of her legs.

His eyes followed her as she did a stately parade around the stage. Step by long step, giving the crowd disdainful glances and maneuvering her bosom for a generous view from every angle, she promenaded in several circles to the band’s smarmy approximation of a respectful paean to this vision of loveliness.

“Yes, yes, Woman…preen and strut…flaunt your pulchritude before us. Bounce those magnificent bubbies. We are powerless before you…Charm us…tempt us…make us crawl. Yes, yes…toy with that zipper.”

The lady walked, gazing at the audience and fingering the catch of her zipper for what seemed an eternity. Finally, she drew the garment away and she lifted both arms in an elegant, classical display of her body, now down to decorative brassiere, (g string and skirt) and shiny silk stockings, all red on her pearly skin. The band played a long, last, worshipful, orgasmic note.

Absently handing the dress to someone behind a curtain, she spun back to center stage and the band went into a “bounce”. The saxophone honked away at the beat. Beaming, the beauty capered round the stage once more, jubilantly hopping and kicking, allowing her head to bob and brazenly shaking her shoulders, breasts waggling from side to side. She occasionally lifted her skirt and bunched it at her crotch, giving views of her sturdy, shapely legs.

“…and suggest masturbation while you’re at it, Slut! See if we’ll survive your test, Salome!”

She kept her eyes, lashes thick with beaded mascara, cast below at the beauty of her own body, throwing bits of garment off the stage, out of sight. Her lips flared in an arrogant sneer. The muted trumpet bawled away mockingly, reaching the end of the final chorus as the Lady finished a twirl to the audience, striking a pose to herald her new stage of nudity: a pair of ruby tassels on top; a triangle of ruby fabric over her pubic hair. All blood red.

The audience raised a horrible din. There was an instant of total silence. Then the Woman cracked her palms together like a whip, bringing the orchestra to life, and went into a fevered “jive” step. It was as though a clock had lost a catch and was set spinning out of control. Here was a woman gone wild, and Joe was almost frightened now, for her life and for his own. The Woman’s head shot back and her back seemed in peril of cracking. Clapping her hands again, she thrust herself into a dervish of hip grinds and belly rolls, whipped her flaming hair to the four corners of the earth, dementedly grasped and pawed at her breasts and vagina. She madly whirled her breasts in circles. Her body was sleek with sweat. By now, the music had degenerated into a howling, repetitious riff. She threw off her last coverings. Now, in a state of complete nudity, she accomplished a breathtaking cartwheel and hit the floor in a split with a loud slapping sound providing the percussive finish.

Again, silence. Before the pitch black backdrop. the Devil Woman, breathing heavily, remained in her split on the floor. A ray of yellow light descended from stage left. The fire in the background faded away. A golden, shimmering powder fell from above. The little orchestra began to play an impoverished version of “Ave Maria”, and The Woman hid her face. God had come. The demoness flattened herself against the floor in defeat. Disgraced, her red hair shrouding her face, she dragged herself away. Grueling; erotic. Her shiny buttocks disappeared behind the curtain, and all lights faded.

Joe’s eyes were bulging. The audience was insane, whistling, yelling and stomping, including the ladies. Joe was heaving, and scrambled for the exit, even as Paul St. Clair was issuing his “good night” address. Joe had to save these sinners!!

The bartender noted his sudden exit. He can’t even make his way to the mens’ room; he has to do it in the street, the bartender thought, shaking his head and clucking his tongue.

The Woman had abandoned the stage. The Desby Twins practically jumped out of her path. A stage monitor blandly looked away, holding out her flannel robe, which she haughtily took and threw on as she strode. The Woman passed Mona Fago’s open doorway. Mona looked up briefly, at an inopportune time: their eyes met; they had to nod to each other. Both ladies turned their eyes back to their activities just as quickly, the stripper continuing to mop her face as she disappeared behind her dressing room door and clicked it shut.

The vile Wheezy was the only employee Mona Fago had anything to do with outside of the theatre, and she had no desire whatsoever to get close to Sugar Red. In years past, Red had been a fantastic theatrical draw; now, at age thirty-six, she was coming down the ladder, performing at The Candl Club, first heel firmly on the middle rung.

From her start at the club, she had confirmed her reputation of childishness, petulance and “difficulty”. Her major concern in life seemed to be making certain that her obsession with being “a star” was confirmed by everyone in sight. In a few situations, she had even asked peoples’ children if they recognized her. For her sacrifices to the citizens of America, the people owed Sugar Red.

Mona was used to dealing with “difficult” strippers. They usually came from similar backgrounds; isolated rural towns; unsupportive families and sexual abuse that triggered the painful need to escape.

Mona herself had been born in this city. She came from a fairly well-to-do background and was an art school graduate. She had started in burlesque as an assistant seamstress. She had spent some time as a dancer. She had been married twice, twice divorced. Mona had run her own life, and it had been comparatively tranquil.

But Red’s insecurity was so acute, it suggested that some damage had been done early on. Mona usually tried to make the strippers at home, to maintain an arm’s length but amiable working relationship with them. Red’s injured ego made her hostile, and Mona had given up on her early. The crew had learned to avoid her. The timid Desby Twins held her in reverence at the beginning, but after being cut a few times, it had turned into plain fear. Paul St. Clair seemed to turn his eyes away. Only Wheezy had such a shield of arrogance as to be on equal footing with Red. He was always ready for a cruel exchange, so “fat hog” would get a return of “sloppy twat” and get even more insightful from there.

Mona sensed that Red was socially comfortable only in sexual relationships. Sex and performing were the things that kept her pulse going. Mona suddenly shook her head. Well, so what? Who gave a damn about Red’s personal tragedies? She brought in good business, and that was all that mattered. A workplace wasn’t a fucking social club. Lighting a cigarette, squinting through the smoke, Mona bore down on her concentration.

She had a business to keep alive.

Red’s little dressing room was hardly more comfortable than the one shared by St. Clair and Gibson. But there was a sofa for resting, a few rugs, and the walls were painted yellow. On one side of the room, unframed photographs of fellow performers, most of them male and most of them ex-lovers, were taped to the wall and tucked into the frame of her mirror. On the other side were numerous photos of and press clippings about herself. The clippings had the most rewarding passages underlined or circled in red pencil.

Red was gracelessly plumped down before the mirror, a wide contrast of bottles before her, her face grimacing as she smeared on and rubbed off substances to remove her heavy makeup.

Red’s face was by no means of perfect beauty. She looked perpetually tired, a result of hard living and harder work. Those large, weary, disillusioned eyes, the color of dark whiskey, would occasionally sparkle; when she was performing or in love. Her lips meandered from one sensual twist to another. Every facial expression suggested an invitation to intimacy. Sexuality seemed to weigh her every move; her every step.

Sugar Red was seven feet tall. Out of public view, her shoulders would slouch. She was always ducking low ceilings and doorways, and dodging other people who were beneath her immediate view.

On stage, she changed; she was the picture of poise and self assurance.

Even though no one had dared to affirm it, Sugar Red knew she had put on a damn good show tonight, better than a dump like The Goddamn Candl Club should ever have hoped for. Red was receiving no perks and getting few compliments. She felt taken for granted at the club; that she was seen as just one stripper among the thousands. She was sure that was Mona Fago’s sentiment. Mona was just another bluenosed prig who envied her looks and lifestyle even as she turned a profit.

Red was never obliged to go out front to ‘mix’ with the customers, as the Desby Twins were. She insisted on maintaining a mystery, even a superiority. Red was putting on far more than a common titty show. Its beauty, she felt, was beyond argument. Her performances were “creations”; elegantly choreographed, by her; exquisitely costumed, by her at her own expense. She had to make careful calculations to make sure she wasn’t losing money in the process. She had to be a businesswoman. As well as a performer and an artist, athlete, psychologist and hypnotist.

Her productions were ennobling works of art, she felt, far above the crude evaluations of common minds. She reflected proudly on the fact that, far from being ‘turned on’ when she was on the stage, her mind was always on being the professional. She wasn’t as base as all that; her performances were the personification of “glamour”. She was fixated on being a “class act”.

She had developed a defensive attitude about her art and herself.

Red had her reasons. All her life, she had had to defend herself, in business and her private life. The praises of the press, the fawning over her glamour and performance, made a schizophrenic contrast to the lack of regard she was granted as a human being. She was a freak. Men, quaking, breathing heavily, approached her as if she was made of sex, hypersex; turned on twenty-four hours a day, always ready…and willing…to hump anyone or anything. Women were just as bad. She titillated them. She was a personification of their fantasies. She was what they wanted to be and never would; and they knew she had the power to divert, even steal their mates. Whichever the sex, there was frequently an undercurrent of hate. She was walking, talking, overwhelming sex. She aroused, she teased and she frustrated. That was her business. Often painful for the audience; sometimes painful for her.

She had developed the habit of making preemptive strikes; hurting others before they got the chance. She avoided thinking about it. But tucked far in the recesses of her mind was the awareness she could see anyone as her enemy, and that she herself could be the worst foe of all.

Feeling blue, Red went behind a ratty shower curtain at the end of the room. There, standing in a tin washtub, she hosed the layer of makeup from her body. The cold water raised goosebumps, and Red cursed Miss Fago’s cheapness. Her enormous tits rocked as she lifted her arms and legs. Water dribbled over her belly, her crotch. She was wearily aware that her body could be considered salacious; ‘delicious’; a walking obscenity. It was too tall, too excessive; swollen like a fertility goddess’s. And it was aging. Parts were growing heavier and beginning to sag and jiggle, the years making her a caricature of herself. Or had she always been one? The comic book ideal of a woman?

She always brought her own bath towels with her; they were thick and soft, the one touch of luxury in the entire routine. She put on her rough grey turtleneck sweater; her tweed skirt; her trench coat and beret.

She had seen Joe in the audience. Most likely, he was waiting in the alley to “convert” her again.

Chapter Seven: THE CALM

Sugar Red’s home was a small cottage in the back of a mid-town apartment house. The cottage was surrounded by three high walls of unpainted wood, one wall open to the backyard of the main house, another with a private entrance from the street. A contrast to the large, stolid, conventional red brick apartment house, her little dwelling was designed and furnished in extreme modern Swedish style. Inside, there was sleek wooden furniture. The color orange dominated throughout. The picture window in the bedroom offered an attractive, quieting view of her miniature jungle of green. Red suspected of peepers looking in, but she maintained denial to shield her peace of mind. She even relished the possibility. Eat cake, fellas.

It was about 11 am. Red woke up first. She stretched luxuriously and roughly ran her fingers through her wild mane of hair several times. Next to her in bed, “Mr. Browne”, a gentleman friend, a publishing “magnate”, continued to snooze. He was curled in a childish ball, but he even wore his baby blue pajamas with a touch of class. Red found him an attractive man; approaching sixty, with shiny silvery hair, eyebrows and moustache, a patrician air, and so cute without his false teeth. Mr. Browne was vain in his injured way, and always insisted on maintaining “dignity”, as if he was dreading a rebuke. He was really tough on himself in that regard. Down to having the most beautifully manicured pubic hair Red had ever seen. It was those little touches that made a girl feel special. Mr. Browne was about five feet, nine inches, so Red pretty much dwarfed him. She was well aware that she was the abnormal one, and feared they made a ludicrous looking pair, thus causing him embarrassment. But Browne was proud of this woman, and would present her to friends as if she was a stately monument.

Red worked off the covers with her legs. Her nightie was short and sheer, glazed the slightest suggestion of pink. Already full of life, she strode briskly across the room on her long, sturdy legs, and switched on the radio, releasing a blast of popular dance music, heavy on the brass. “Wake up” music. She stepped about the room in a semi dance, frankly moving her hips, holding up her arms as if she had a partner.

Mr. Brown squinted his eyes and realized it was time to get up, but sank his head even deeper into the pillow, turned on his side and croaked, “For God’s sake, Red!!”

Red extended her arms, clapped, and coiled her fingers, inviting Mr. B to join her in the dance. When he ignored her, Red laughed and leaped onto him in bed. She poked with her finger all over his body.

Then he had his way, tumbled over on her, and sat on her butt. I’m King of the Mountain! Red wiggled about, trying to unbalance him, making protests, while he stayed on top of her magnificent backside, casually examining his nails and saying, “I’m sorry. What? I DIDN’T HEAR-R-R YOU!!” Finally, she pushed him off. He fell on the mattress and guffawed. Red heaved with a smile, “Y-you brute!! You cad, you!!”

“Well, that’s what you get when you cross a big man like me, woman! ‘Tho there!”

Then Mr. Browne exclaimed, “Good Heavens, child! MUST you keep it so cold in here?” and squirmed halfway back under the blankets.

Red looked sideways at Browne and stated, “I keep telling you, I’ve got to keep it this way. It’s my metabolism or something.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll try to remember that”, Mr. Browne said, scratching his silver hair. “Great Hat, I must get back to the office. Where’s the soap this time?”

“In the soap dish in the shower.”

“Make that a habit, will you?” he chuckled, going into the bathroom.

Mr. Browne was fun. Handsome in his ‘silver fox’ way. A big spender with a pretty dick. Red’s ideal variety of man. She ran behind him and shared the shower.

Mr. Browne bent before Red’s hall mirror, straightening his necktie. Red lay out of his sight, on her bed in a robe, her pores breathing after the hot water, her legs drawn up.

“When do we get together again?” she asked.

“Next week, Wednesday.”

Red pouted.

“Control yourself, Kitten”, Browne sighed, “There’s the job; and the wife.”

“Well, OK.” sighed Red, “I guess you’ll have to share it with her, too.”

“You needn’t remind me”, Browne said gravely. He laid a stack of bills on the dresser. The two of them lazily exited the bedroom, their arms around each others’ waists. Red unlocked the fence. They shared an elegant kiss behind the door, he opened it a fraction and walked out into the busy street. She locked the door behind him.

Mr. Browne, Mr. Browne, Mr. Browne. Of all her current beaus, he was her favorite. Red loved to love, but could not easily do it. She was much too weary of the bullshit. Men were fine to have, but they were rarely people. Her affection for Browne was genuine. His being married actually bothered her, when that sort of thing normally made no difference. Browne was different.

Red returned to her bedroom. She counted the bills he had left her. Impressed, she buried them in her purse, dressed and strutted out, aware and proud of the gawping of men. She went to the bank. After the shows, there would be another night with another man. But it would be nothing like the one she had just enjoyed.

In the late afternoon. Wheezy hoisted weights in the room in the room of the suite set off as his gym. He only drove himself to perspire as little as possible; perspiring gave him a sloppy, piggish feeling. It made him conscious that peoples’ image of him was one of a chubby little weasel. In fact, under his bloated clown’s costume was brawn and beef; Wheezy was stubby but now of considerable strength. He thrust his meaty little arms back and forth, knocking his elbows together, throwing out his chest. It was too bad that people had to think of comics as the extremes of fat or thin. He turned to the punching bag, assailing it in a businesslike manner. He felt pride. Things were going well. The whole group was in top form last night, he reflected. Red was fantastic, just so. The Twins were “cute” and perverse. Memories of Mona evoked affection and a smirk. Paul he kept in the back of his mind.

Wifey he didn’t want to think about at all. Fortunately she was off on one of her money wasting sprees. He gave the bag a huge wallop.

Paul banged his alarm clock off. He sat on the edge of his bed. Tangled up my pants sleeping in them again, he observed with irritation. Now he’d have to get them pressed again. At least he hadn’t pissed in them as a result of the before-bed binge. Paul kneaded hard at his forehead. It was harder and harder to get completely awake these days. Just the awareness that it was another day was not pleasant. Mama was out. Paul reluctantly went through the tedium of frying up some ground beef and simply coating it in ketchup. He couldn’t even work up the enthusiasm to get out two slices of bread.

Paul had barely a memory of the work he had done last night. He did remember that the show was received well, but had no sensation of participation. The experience was a whirlwind in his mind. Paul had been performing the same skits…classics…for twenty-five years now, and he was on automatic the moment he hit the stage.

He was ceasing to care even about the quality of his performance. Just about the proper level of his voice. He was barely conscious when the time came to whale away at Gibson. Paul was just going through the motions. If he heard the laughs, he assumed he was doing his work. He had no time to calculate his number of whacks.

The daily paper was on the table. The sight of it made Paul sick; he dared not open it. People’s behavior intensely disturbed him. How, in this supposed high point of civilization, could they be so diseased? When science made a leap, mankind just found a degenerate use for the miracle. Knowing what was going on in the world just made Paul sadder. Of course, he didn’t make these feelings too public. The next thing you’d know, he’d get branded a malcontent, maybe a Commie. Just be a straight man, that’s all. Do your job, care as little as possible, come home. Don’t let anyone know you, or they could use it against you.

Paul grimaced. He smelled, so he showered. Showtime wasn’t for another five hours yet…so he took a drink.

Chapter Eight: THE SOILED DOVE

Mona’s niece called.

Mona had risen at ten. Her home was like the way she ran the club: crisp, efficient, economical. It was a West Village walkup; a loft barely and unprettily furnished. Just a few exotic basics: five or six prints by Picasso and Matisse pinned to the plaster walls, which were cracked and bulging from old water damage; wooden chairs and chest of drawers, littered with sketches for costumes and backdrops that would never be made; canvases with half hearted dabs of paint, and a brass cot identical to the one in her office. One could never say the earnings from her club had her living “high on the hog”. Breaking up the mundanity were the mounted corpses of animals; small ones on the tables and the few large, dust covered heads hanging from the walls.

In the center of the scarred, brown-painted, hardwood floor was a large work bench. Mona was bent over it, her back to the limpid light of the sun, burning off tensions with her hobby: taxidermy.

Silently wielding her blade, she carved a slit up a moose’s belly, studious in her avoidance of the piercing of organs. Only her fingers moved as she adroitly pulled the skin back with the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. In the beginning, she had been acutely conscious of her actions. There had been a lust to tear into the flesh. These carcasses had been the ready targets of her frustrations. Now there was the coldness of a disciplined practitioner. There were still smirks, grimaces, and lickings of lips, but they were ones of high concentration. Instead of being her motivations, the aggravations of life were secondary. Every stroke of the blade was an expression of her expertise, bringing pride, a taut satisfaction and a break from the rest of the world. Here she found a relief much needed. She was deeply immersed when her phone rang.

“Hello…”

“Aunt Mona? This is Babs. Look, I’ve got to see you, dear. I’m in trouble.”

Mona groaned inwardly. “Alright, what is it this time?”

Babs was on the verge of screaming, but was controlling it. “NO, I mean I’m ‘In Trouble’!! I’m having Manny’s baby! You see??”

Mona was not moved. She knew Babs might end up like this. Heaven knows, she had been working on it long and often enough. What surprised Mona was that it was she Babs had come to.

“Can I come?” Babs pleaded.

“Yes! I mean, no… I have to be at the club, anyway, so I’ll leave home sooner. Meet me there.”

A stagehand let Mona know a relative was waiting in her office. On entering, she found Babs hunched in a chair, looking tragic, her weak chin atremble. Through her split-ended brown bangs, Babs’ eyes were wider and baggier than she had ever seen them.

Babs looked up, jumped, and ran into Mona’s arms, which had not been open. Mona had never been close to her niece, emotionally or physically. She had the sinking feeling that she was being manipulated.

Disentangling herself from the embrace, she said, “Alright, what’s happened?”

“Oh, Mona…I’m going to have Manny’s baby.”

Mona was inclined to ask her how she knew it was Manny’s, but she checked herself. Babs had brought Manny to the club on a couple of occasions. He appeared to be an illiterate who knew just what to say. He had even propositioned Mona while Babs was in the toilet. Mona had turned him down.

“Have you told him about it?” Mona asked.

“Oh, who cares? Manny’s not going to help me bring up this kid; he’s not a proper father. He’s a jerk. No; I’ll bring my kid up alone if I have to.”

“Yeah, on what money?”

“That’s why I came to you. I hear lots of strippers dance until the point where their bellies swell. It makes their titties bigger, anyhow.”

Mona almost laughed at that one. “Here you go again. Did I say I wanted you as one of our girls? We’ve got a full evening. And you’re no dancer. You’re a brat. You don’t have…and never will have what it takes.”

“You’re not gonna turn me out just like that, are you? Mom and Dad will kill me.”

Babs had real fright in her eyes, and Mona knew she had good reason. The Flannerys were not exactly a kindly old couple.

“Well, I don’t know what to do. Personally, I don’t think you should have this baby of yours.”

“No, I want her!” Babs’ pupils shrank almost to pinpoints. “No!!”

Babs was not big on abortion; her friends had told her too many horror stories. Besides, she was enamored of the idea of wearing the badge of “Mother”. The knowledge or the money it took to raise a kid didn’t matter. She’d raise it on love. That’s what lions did, wasn’t it? Babs’ ignorance made Mona sick.

“So can I stay at your apartment ‘til they can send me off to the country or wherever the county sends unmarried moms to have kids?”

Babs was amazing. She had gotten her sense of reality from Monogram Pictures.

“Babs, look, we’ve got to think about this. At least I do.” Mona waved at the cot in the corner. “You can sleep there for a couple of nights. I’ve been juggling a lot of things here, and you’re…just one more problem.” Mona’s voice cracked resentfully at that last part.

Panicked by the uncertainty, Babs’ eyes widened again. “But I can’t just wait!!” She roughly ran her fingers through her stringy hair, pacing around the space. “Ohh…I can’t just wait!!”

Mona knew; besides being too immature to have a baby, Babs was too young to wait. Moving no closer, almost bored, she said, “Look, Babs. Everything will be ALRIGHT. Making moves without plans is no good. You can assist the girls while you’re staying. You know them, anyway.”

Babs conceded, glumly. She had some ideas of her own.

“I’ll think of something for you to start with. But I’ve got things to take care of myself right now. Go say hello to The Desby Twins and Sugar Red. Re-introduce yourself.”

“Okay, Aunt Mona. Thanks.” Mona hoped that Babs wouldn’t move in for a kiss or hug. She was relieved when Babs simply shuffled out the door. Stupid slut.

The Desby Twins’ dressing room was a cramped space; almost a closet, filled beyond capacity with their dressing table and a crowded clothesline dangling across its length. Nevertheless, they were creating a fire hazard. In defiance of a large, clear “no cooking” placard hanging on one wall, they were heating a can of Vienna sausages on a hot plate. When a knock came at the door, the two girls stood side by side in an effort to hide their contraband. When they saw that it was Babs, the sisters relaxed and greeted her like a returned friend, and, though there was little enough food, invited Babs to share it with them. Between mouthfuls of Vienna sausages, they told her how much they looked forward to working with her.

Babs, already so world weary, was amazed at how fresh faced the Twins still were after dancing in a burlesque club for more than a year. They were so chipper, they were almost funny. Babs enjoyed their company.

In their dressing room, St. Clair and Gibson were running through the bit.

Wheezy raised an objection. “No good, St. Clair. You stepped on my line again. The funny one. What’s with you anyway? You drunk again?”

That injured Paul. “ Wheezy, I’m just having a little trouble getting into it. I just haven’t been feeling good, and…well, the least you can do is understand that a little.”

“Understand. Look, brother, I don’t owe you anything. This isn’t a comradeship, it’s comedy. The fucking business of comedy, get it? Funny stuff! Leave your crap at the door, straighten your ass out and do your job. That’s all that’s required of you!”

Paul was going through the bit again just as badly when Babs knocked at the door.

Paul brightened, desperate to look at a friendly face. It was tragic. “Babs! Why, you’ve gotten so big! And cuter than a bag of dog biscuits. My God, I’m so glad to see you again!”

Wheezy looked around Paul, irritated by the interruption. Then he noticed Babs was shaping up into a lovely piece of ass. He skillfully worked himself between the two of them, giving her the effusive welcome comedians were supposed to give. Then he said over his shoulder. “Oh, Paul. I think I left part of the revised text out front. Go look for it, won’t you?”

Paul took on the expression of someone waking out of a sleep. “Revised text??” I didn’t know about…” Then he noticed the fitful gesture Wheezy made behind his back.

“Oh…yeah. I’ll go look for it right now. ‘Bye for now, Babs, I’ll see you later.” He walked out and closed the door with a firm click. Wheezy was up and running.

“Now, Babs…It’s been a few months. Tell me the good word. What’s been up?” With a gallant flourish, he offered her a shabby looking chair. He himself remained standing, one hand leaning on a table, getting a decent aerial view of her boobies. They stuck out enough to hide her lap, he sagely observed. “And call me ‘Uncle’ Wheezy. That is, if you’d care to.”

Babs kept her head down demurely, but couldn’t help a wise gesture with her eyebrows. They were sizing each other up. Well, well, she thought, I should have known to go straight to.

“oh! Sure, Uncle Wheezy. Well, I just wanted to say hello. Aunt Mona’s going to let me dawdle here a while to assist the dancers. I…I’m in a little trouble at this point.”

Wheezy was eyeing Babs’s calves up and down. Too bad she ain’t wearing stockings, he thought. Not bad at all. She looks like she’s been around the block, too. All the easier for me. I won’t have to play as many games. She had aroused his sense of drool.

“Trouble, kid? Well, we can put our heads together about that. Meet me after the show. We’ll have a bite.”

With Sugar Red, things were tougher. Babs knocked on the door, expecting hostility. Red was imperious. She greeted Babs unenergetically, and asked what she was doing there “again”.

“Oh, Aunt Mona’s letting me hang around a while to help the performers backstage.”

Red looked calculating. “Oh. Well, you can hang those dresses in the closet over there. Arrange my cosmetics more conveniently over there. Oh, and sweep over there.”

Babs’ spirits were not high after leaving Red’s dressing room.

Whatever went on backstage, things were like a well oiled machine up front. Mona was careful with the compliments, though. If there was a good streak going, she didn’t want to make the performers aware of it. Self consciousness could spoil everything. Just let it ride, whatever it was.

Swaggering backstage after their act, Wheezy ignored Paul and went straight to the team’s dressing room. He was mentally debating where to take Babs for a bite and a prelude to a conquest. It had to be some place that was discreet; somewhere they wouldn’t make a fuss over her age. Even Wheezy was wondering about that. He had already decided that he wasn’t going for any heavy lovemaking that night. Young as Babs was, Mona might not take that well. He had to bide his time, at least a couple of days.

Wheezy opened the dressing room door. Babs was now quite the little lady. She had done up her hair and had changed into a green dress that displayed her form with class and perfection.

Wheezy was methodically pushing the door behind him. “My, my, Babs; you do look nice. All grown up. I never imagined…”

Paul suddenly entered, whacking Wheezy in the butt with the door and hiding him behind it. Paul was confused, and was proceeding to ask what had happened. Then he noticed Babs. His face broke into a sad, paternal smile. Time was certainly racing by. “Oh, Babs!! Our little girl!”

Wheezy emerged from behind the door, exasperated. Deciding he couldn’t deal properly with St. Clair while his date was there to see it, he forced a show of teeth and said, “That’s right, Paul; you get acquainted with little Babs while I get out of this costume.” He went behind the screen.

The silence was awkward. Babs wasn’t overly thrilled with Uncle Paul. She was in fact repelled by him. He tended to dodder like a sad old drunk trying too hard to keep up appearances. He had an air about him that was so…decrepit. Babs stroked her crossed arms, looking impatiently about the room; her eyes repeatedly turned to the screen. When was Uncle Wheezy going to come out?

Paul tried sheepishly to hold a conversation with her. He was disappointed that Babs didn’t seem to care whether he tried playing Father Confessor or not. Just as events were about to reach a climax of dullness, Uncle Wheezy emerged from behind the screen, almost cakewalking, in a loud checkered suit, vest and bow tie, topped by a fedora with a tall feather poking from its huge brim. His present ensemble was funnier than his stage costume. Paul stifled a snicker and turned to his mirror. Wheezy glanced at him in askance, and guided Babs from the chair by the elbow.

“Well, see you tomorrow night, old fellow. Come, Babsy! We’ve got some stepping to do.”

Paul kept his hand over his mouth, his face turned to the mirror. As the couple left the room, Wheezy looked with annoyance over his shoulder. What was wrong with that character? Drunk again??

Wheezy escorted Babs to a bar and grill a few blocks away. It was his habit to get the femme a little liquored up. Good politics.

Even after two a.m., the place was full of smoke and alive with people. A record of an accordion trio played unobtrusively under the babbling. A few men turned to give Babs leers of admiration. Wheezy was pleased. He was right behind her, continuing his prideful prancing, stepping high like a Kentucky Minstrel. With his hand on her spine, he guided Babs to his favorite back booth. There were no street lamps near the window. It was nice and dark. “Cozy”, Wheezy called it. Once they sat down, he gave her a comforting smile.

“Now, what’s this ‘trouble’?”, he purred, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Babs. He was surprised when she took it. He lit it for her, and then worked on his own.

“I’m pregnant, Uncle Wheezy. I’m staying with Aunt Mona until she figures out what to do.”

Wheezy lost half his smile. He didn’t move his head, but he raised his eyes to Babs, and his brows sadly wrinkled. Jesus, these kids.

Realizing she had given him a shock, Babs followed with a demure simper. “I’m ashamed to tell you, Uncle Wheezy, but I’m so frightened.”

Wheezy breathed out a stream of smoke. “I’d be too, kiddo. What do YOU want to do?”

The waiter walked up. “I’ll have a scotch, pal. And you, Babsy?”

“Gin.”

Wheezy raised his eyes at her again.

The waiter having left: “I want to have the baby, Uncle Wheezy.”

“That’s commendable, kid, but on what money?”

That was the first thing everyone was always concerned with; not the simple beauty of having a child. Like a lion.

“Well, I had hopes that Aunt Mona might hire me as a dancer. But she nixed that early.”

“What?” Wheezy was taken aback, then regained his sang froid. He knew long ago that Babs was not particularly savvy. “I suppose you think it’s glamorous, eh kid? Well, it can be a stranger existence than you think. You’ve got a choice in life. Sure you don’t want to look for a job as a secretary or flippin’ burgers?”

“BLAH!”

“I hear ya, Babsy. But a stripper, I dunno.”

“Well, I’ve done it at parties. My friends say I’m good. I can get sexy.”

Wheezy restrained a chuckle.

The waiter returned with the drinks. Babs downed hers as soon as it came. Wheezy’s eyes widened. “Christ, kid, you can gulp it down!!”

With a steely eyed smirk, Babs mashed her cigarette in the tray. “That’s not all I can gulp down, Uncle Wheezy. Watch.”

To Wheezy’s astonishment. Babs sank beneath the tablecloth. Expertly, she undid his fly, opened his shorts and gave him the best blow job he’d had in months. The waiter approached, but seeing Babs’ seat empty and Wheezy’s expression and movements, he left. A four year old kid could tell…

Babs rose from beneath the table with a sly, satisfied smile. Wheezy’s head was thrown back.

“Oh…oh, kid, I…Wipe your mouth. Look, let me throw my influence around. I’ll talk to Mona about at least letting you try out. Now, I ain’t making any guarantees.”

“Oh, Uncle Wheezy!” Babs fawned.

When she returned through the club’s rear door, it was after closing time. All the lights were off, except the bulb burning in Mona’s office. Mona was looking over her papers.

“Where have YOU been? I had to hang around to let you in.”

“I…was hungry.”

Chapter Nine: HOME IS WHERE THE BELT IS

Mona had lied to Babs.

The next morning, Mona exited the train. She found herself in a dusty, ugly little suburbia. The buildings in the town square were cute; they recalled 18^th century Pennsylvania. But the area was brown with dust blowing through the air. Mona had to wave her hardest; a so-called “taxi” maneuvered out of the dust towards her. It wasn’t really a taxi in the proper, checkered cab sense. It was an old station wagon with an old sheet of tin reading “TAXI” bolted to the roof. Mona told him the address before entering. The driver was silent and drove forward into the blinding dust. He seemed to know his way through it by heart.

Mona soon realized that it wasn’t a real taxi at all. The car went in different directions, stopping at stores to pick up more passengers. It was more of a shuttle. Mona was always disappointed. Every time it seemed as if the car might be reaching a residential district, it turned around to grab more customers. The car became full of passengers, all with their own packages and suitcases. One man held a paper bag containing some kind of sour smelling food that no one else in the small dark space seemed offended by. Instead of directing their eyes into space as subway passengers did, these folks were always snatching appraising peeks at each other, then making a great show of not caring at all. Other people, however, stared right at you for long periods as though they were unconscious. Oh well, new places, new sensations, Mona thought with a rueful smile.

The “taxi” went through what seemed like hours of passing through hills and valleys dropping passengers off. Then the car stopped again.

“This is it. This is where you want to go.” Possibly the first words the driver had uttered for the entire trip.

Mona paid him. The dust was less extreme here. She could see directly in front of her now; only the clouds in the distance were brown. But a lighter shade. White gravel flew around too.

She stood in front of an untidy little house. On the roof was propped a crudely lettered sign reading “GOOD DEAL BUTCHER SHOPPE”. Some of the letters had been painted backwards. The building was of gray wood with tan shingles. A few shingles were blown away even as she was standing there. In a large window hung slabs of aging meat attracting insects. It’s a God forsaken meat market in the middle of nowhere, Mona thought. It’s depressing. She entered. It seemed as if a thin sheet of dust covered everything; meats, shelves, probably even the people. At the other end of the room, Pa Flannery quietly chipped away at a side of meat with a cleaver almost as big as he was. He was skinny, in his early forties. His eyes were completely obscured by the thick lenses of his glasses, and his eager, darting movements made him seem not unlike a mole scraping away at the earth. He sported the beat up straw hat butchers usually wore only in advertisements, and his apron was spotted with caked blood. But his teeth were an immaculate ivory white. They didn’t match the rest of him.

Mona called him. “Pa Flannery?”

He looked up and flashed his gleaming teeth as if proud of his purchase. “Yes, yes?? And what may I do for you, young woman? I’ve got a nice Virginia ham in the window. Ripe with goodness.”

Mona concealed her wince. “No, Pa Flannery. I’m Mona Fago, Babs’ aunt.”

Pa’s face turned quizzical. He cupped a hand to his ear. “Excuse me?”

“Babs!”

“EXCUSE ME??”

“BABS; YOUR DAUGHTER!!”

“Oh!! Uh, pardon me”, he said, then called through a closed trap door behind the counter. “RACHEL!!”

“WHAT, REUBEN??”

“WE’VE GOT A VISITOR HERE WHO DOESN’T SPEAK ENGLISH. YOU SEE IF YOU CAN DECIPHER HER NATIVE TONGUE!”

Mona didn’t understand this at all.

Footsteps sounded coming up the stairs. The door made a piercing creak. Ma Flannery lifted herself out. She was a handsome but shapeless woman about the same age as her husband, maybe a few inches taller. She had a slicked back page boy hair bob, as was popular in the twenties. Only it had turned to silver. She was holding an old chicken leg, picking something off it with a pair of tweezers. Mona couldn’t understand why they were behaving like deaf people twice their age.

“Now what is it, Reuben?” Ma sighed, faced with yet another task.

“I said this woman speaks in some foreign tongue, and I can’t understand her.”

Hopeful, Mona repeated in a normal voice to Ma Flannery: “I’m here to talk with you about your daughter, Babs, Ma.”

Ma Flannery knitted her brows, held her ear just like Pa. “Excuse me?”

“YOUR DAUGHTER, BABS!!”

“I’m sorry, young woman. Reuben, whom is she referring to?”

Pa helplessly gestured. “I don’t know. Just gibberish, I guess.” He turned to Mona and impatiently waved his hand. “You crazy. You understand? YOU CRAZY. You go home now. Shooshooshooshoo…”

“MA FLANNERY, PA FLANNERY; YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M SAYING VERY WELL. I’m Mona Fago.”

“Oh?” said Pa, as if finally finding an answer to this mind boggling mystery. “Oh, yes!! You’re the slut!’

Mona jerked her head back.

Ma Flannery inhaled, pointed a satisfied finger at her and smiled loftily, nodding her head, as if in sudden recognition. “Yes! YOU’RE the harlot peddling smut in the city. Well, whatever you’re peddling about this…daughter, we don’t want it. Feel free to store it in your bunghole, or whatever the sophisticates say out there. Now if you don’t mind, Reuben, I’ll be getting back to work.”

“Feel free, Rachel. That’s what I’ll be doing.”

They were about to peacefully turn back to what they had been doing. Mona tried to cut through the nonsense: “REUBEN AND RACHEL FLANNERY, YOUR DAUGHTER IS WITH CHILD!!”

Pa said absently, lifting his meat axe, “With? She’s with Manny, that’s who she’s with. And they can pay the piper together.” Chop!

So they had expected it.

“Just a minute.” Ma said. “What do they plan to do about this…this fruit of their loins?”

Mona folded her hands before her, answering with satisfaction, “Babs wants to have the baby, Mrs. Flannery.” There! That oughta get them!

Pa spoke, grinning evilly. “Then I say abort!”

Mona was flummoxed. “Just a minute. What would you have said if I had told you that Babs didn’t want the baby?”

Ma retorted with a ferocious glare, “Then I’d say she should have it and suffer as we have! Whatever she ‘wants’, she should get the opposite. Contrarywise!!”

“She should suffer vengeance for her misdoings, right Ma?”, spoke Pa.

“Just so, Hubby”, huffed his wife.

Pa slung his arm over Ma’s shoulder and jammed his other hand in his apron, in imitation of Napoleon. Ma put a finger under her chin and simpered. Their heads tilted to each others’. The couple froze, motionless, a grotesque family portrait. The chug of a train passed in the distance.

Mona broke the silence. “Ma and Pa, why do you hate your daughter so much?”

Ma answered, “Because she’s proven herself unworthy of us.”

“Yes”, said Pa, turning back to his meat axe. “She’s proven herself to be gutter trash.” Chop!

“What have you done to help her out? She needs guidance, and from the way she talks, she needs to be treated like a human being. Maybe even loved.”

Pa said, “Fancy that. So it figures she’d go to you first. What do they say? Like slut to slut.”

Ma, hands folded under her bosom, gave Mona a lofty nod. Proudly displaying her outrage, she worked up her blood pressure, huffed, jerked back her shoulders, shook her bosom and swayed back and forth in a hooch dance of indignation.

Mona pleaded, “She didn’t come to you first because she’s scared to death of you. She said you’d kill her.”

Pa lifted his meat axe and gave the meat a loud whack. He grinned into space. “Yes! And rightly! She should be killed for living under my roof!”

Ma nodded, “That’s right, Reuben. Retribution is YOUR’N! After all, it’s your house. Whatever happens to her, you deserve it!”

Pa looked up at Mona. “But of course, I exaggerate when I say I’d kill her like THIS…” Chop! “But she deserves at least a taste of the whip!” Chop!

“Yes! The good old fashioned woodshed policy! And bread and water, right, Reuben?”

“That’s right, Rachel! We’ll starve her back to health!” Chop!

Mona was flabbergasted. These small people have got big, strapping Babs cringing under their lash!

Mona said, “It’s impossible, then. You’re putting Babs in an impossible situation.”

Pa grinned, dentures shining brilliantly in the noonday sun. “Good! Maybe she’ll commit suicide!”

“That’s just right, Reuben! Bury her with a stake of holly through her heart and decrease the surplus population!” Chop!

Mona sighed. These people were more impossible than she could ever have imagined. She picked up her bag and headed for the door.

“Oh, Mona!” Pa called.

Mona turned around.

Ma had her hand around Pa’s neck, tears streaming down her cheeks. Pa had lost all his squirrelishness and actually looked fragile. His swollen, reddened eyes were at last visible through his thick lenses, washed transparent by his tears. “But you know that deep down…I mean REALLY deep down…we really love her, don’t you?”

Mona, irritated, exhausted, and not looking forward to her return trip, said, “Yeah? I’ll keep it in mind.”

Chapter Ten: PILLOW TRAP

Wheezy let the word spread backstage. Babs was ‘in trouble’, needed a job, and really wanted a gig to tide her over, ‘til the baby started to show. The Desby Twins’ were immediately damp and sympathetic. The stagehands exchanged looks, but shrugged in acceptance of the idea. The whole thing made Paul nervous, but he didn’t challenge the notion of letting Babs try out.

Of course, the one person Wheezy did not approach was Sugar Red. She’d deduce the blooming Venus was seeking her throne, and come on like a ball of fire, maybe physically attacking her. It was best to wear Mona down first.

Sure enough, the rest of the staff approached Mona to speak in Babs’s behalf. Mona was shocked to hear it from Paul.

“Paul! YOU…?”

He gestured weakly. “Well, let her try, Miss Fago. If she bombs, that’s the end of it, isn’t it?”

“Do you really feel this way, Paul? It’s not just Wheezy bullying you?”

Paul took on an injured expression. I suppose that’s what everybody thinks about me, he thought. Some sweet day, I’ll do something about that.

“Of course not, Miss Fago. I can think for myself. And that’s my opinion.”

Mona considered the matter. Babs shared a lot of haystacks. Where a man was breathing, there she’d be. But she was no adult. To deal with being a stripper, a woman had to be motivated or beaten into submission. Babs was just stupid. Besides, she had no experience and probably no ability. Dancing at kid’s parties…probably slumber parties! Mona snorted out loud in sublime contempt. She considered the possibility of foisting Babs off on another club owner. Or of using her own connections to place Babs as a chorus girl at one of the handful of theatres that still employed them. But there was no question; Babs had decent knockers and legs, but she wasn’t tall, attractive or skilled enough to do much of anything. Mona worried even more about throwing her in with strangers, more so for Mona’s own peace of mind than any consideration of Babs’ safety. Out in the real world, things would no doubt get worse for the baby with a baby. It was better to have her niece around within watching distance.

Wheezy Gibson employed his own methods of persuasion. He became very conscientious about doing his best work in Mona’s bed. Ploying her with sex. Afterward, uniquely, Mona didn’t spring up to switch to another task; she was content to linger there, purring like a kitten, absently rolling her pelvis in happy memory, her cunt slippery and wet. Her arm rested over her forehead, her hair free and strewn over the pillows. Up on his elbows, gnawing his cigar, Wheezy resumed his nagging. “Come on, Mona, give the kid a break!!”
Barely getting a response except for an appreciative murmur, Wheezy cunningly raised his hand to his mouth, generously licked his fingers and ran them up Mona’s slit, provoking a loud, delicious slurp.
Mona flung her head back and shuddered as the comedian’s hand slid up and down, making her cunt gurgle and smack. Her pupils obscured, she croaked in a delirium, “Oh, God, Wheezy. Do you want to kill me? You do…you do want to kill me…” Her tears flowed, but she was almost laughing. “You want to kill me.”
Wheezy had rolled his small body on top of her, once more wrenching and pumping his way into her heart. Belly to belly once again, it took all the energy Mona had just to fling her legs around his waist. And after that, it was just plain sex.
Wheezy’s methods were working. Mona gave the matter more serious thought.

She had an idea.

“A SINGER?? But, Aunt Mona…”

Mona was back to being her curt manager self. “If you want a tryout, you’ll have to try that. I’ve got enough dancers. Besides, it isn’t as if you’ve got to be good. Just good enough to duet with Paul on some of his cornball intros.”

Babs was beyond disappointment; the whole thing seemed impossible. And awful. Singing tripe like “Parisian Honeymoon” alongside that old drunk! Some leading man. Babs’s dreams were dashed. When she was alone in Mona’s office, she’d spin a record of the song anyway, but would gag on the lyrics. This was tripe. It was garbage!! She didn’t want to do it! But then, she thought, that might be just the thing to get her out of this.

A few days later. hours before the club would open for business, the stage was visible only from the weak sunlight. Mona was cheap with electricity during the day. Upon it, Paul paced and occasionally strained his eyes at his watch. The pianist waited numbly on the orchestra’s side of the stage, hat pulled over his forehead, cigarette dangling from his lip, thumbing through an architecture magazine. Concluding that America was losing its focus, he tossed the magazine on the floor and dabbed away at some jazz concepts on the keyboard. In the murk, Mona shared a table with Wheezy. The Desby Twins were huddled in the total darkness of the rear of the house to lend Babs their own lukewarm support; also out of plain curiosity.

Mona was in a brittle humor; her ashtray brimmed over. The comedian was anxious. He felt that his judgment and intelligence in the eyes of his coworkers were depending on Babs’ performance.

Paul peered at his watch for the fifth time. “Look, Miss Fago. If Babs doesn’t want to, she doesn’t want to, that’s all. Why are we…”

Wheezy shot out of his chair, taking command, behaving like a stage director out of patience. “Look, Egghead, the kid’s a little late, that’s all.”

“She’ll come”, Mona said gravely, not moving.

The pianist’s absent noodling continued as Babs entered the club. At first, she was in silhouette; the sun at her back. Her arm swinging entrance suggested arrogance. And as her facial expression became apparent, there could be no doubt whatsoever. Wheezy’s eyes moved with her as she approached the stage. Please, Christ, let this work.

Paul dutifully held her hand to assist her on the low platform. Without acknowledgement, Babs removed her coat and hung it on a rack standing on the stage. She was in the same sleeveless, loose fitting dark blue frock she had worn when she first arrived at the club in distress. She stood with a hand on a hip, looking at Aunt Mona with a total lack of respect.

Uneasy, Wheezy shot Mona a look pleading for her approval. Mona didn’t return it. She just continued staring in the direction of the stage. “Here at last?” she said, her voice cool, her eyelids heavy. She turned her head to draw on her cigarette. “Well, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Paul was fragile, solicitous, eager to make the girl feel at home. He had an alcoholic’s trembling air of politeness. “Good to see you again, Babs. You alright, my dear? Good, good. Here’s the music. Oh, yes; you don’t read music, is that right? But Miss Fago gave you that record, so you do know the song, don’t you?”

Babs retained her sullen expression, sighed, and barely looked at Paul.

“Good, good, my dear. Now, don’t you worry; if you have any trouble, I’ll work on it with you. You’ll be fine.”

He took his place behind her, folding his arms very lightly around her waist.

Unemotional, Mona called out, “Scurvy!”, and the pianist sat up, pushed back the brim of his hat, and, drastically changing gears from his own improvisations, rendered the florid introduction to that grand song, “Parisian Honeymoon”.

Paul set into his moves, rocking back and forth in a valiant stab at continental sophistication. The “night” was theirs. Babs made no effort at all; she looked bored, standing in place and allowing herself to be moved about. Paul crooned the simple lyrics with stiff gusto. All about the Eiffel Tower, gendarmes on the boulevards, easels and the rest. The song was predictable and easily followed. Babs sang her half, but in a sulky murmur. Paul had a few false teeth and rye breath, and this close, she could see his nose hairs. Resentment of the song filled her head until she felt her ears turning red.

Babs’ truculence was plain; Wheezy’s hopes plummeted. Mona simply sat back in her chair, legs crossed, cigarette dangling from two fingers.

There came the part in which Paul sang his lyric, and Babs was obliged to follow it up with a sprightly “Oui! OUI!!” Summoning all her bile, she delivered it as a hateful shriek. At the same time, Mona shot up in her chair and Wheezy sank, fetus-like, into his.

Paul was nonplussed. He didn’t even notice something was wrong. He kept at it like a trouper, singing his part just as lustily as ever. The Desby Twins made their way unobtrusively out the side door.

“Alright, Babs; knock it off!!” Mona snarled, standing up. Wheezy looked up at her, tears welling; why, he wasn’t sure. Babs stopped and stepped forward, leaving Paul singing and waltzing alone in his own little world.

“That wasn’t funny. You’ve wasted everyone’s time and made a fool of yourself.” Mona said seriously.

“Well, I told you I wanted to be a stripper!” Babs protested. “You watch this!” And right there on the spot, she eagerly unzipped. Blindly, Paul maneuvered around the stage, lost in the throes of “Parisian Honeymoon”, his arms held as if he still had a partner. Wheezy bawled, “Okay, Paul! You can stop, you can stop.” Paul, lost in his bliss, waltzed out of sight.

Both Wheezy and the pianist sat up on seeing Babs down to a gold bra and bottom, her breasts waggling with a life of their own. Mona just sat there as before, legs crossed. She moved her right foot, tapping the chair before her with an unsettling rhythm in the momentary silence.

Encountering the pianist for the first time, Babs demanded, “Strike up a ‘jungle beat’, Scurvy.” Uncertain, the pianist looked at Mona in askance. She nodded sternly. Only then, he proceeded with a slow, ominous rhythm. Babs raised her arms, clicked her fingers and ground her hips, slowly and repeatedly. That was her only move. Wheezy’s hard on jolted into second gear. His eyes wild, he turned to Mona, plaintively nodding. Mona scowled and barked, “Okay, Babs. That’s all. Get your clothes on.” Then she rose and exited.

“Oh, Uncle Wheezy, what do you think? Do you think I’ve got a chance?” She hopped off the platform into his arms, grinding her hips into his crotch.

Wheezy gazed distractedly at the door. “Yeah, well, baby, we’ll see. Keep the faith.” He absently moved her away and left the room for Mona’s office.

When he got there, Mona was at her desk, throwing papers about. He asked, “What’re you up to, Melody Face?”

She didn’t look up. “I’m hoping I can find the phone number of Babs’ parents. As far as I’m concerned, they can do what they want with her.”

“Aw, look. You can’t do that. Your own niece! Think of the reception she’ll get.”

Mona continued searching in frustration. “You saw her up on that stage! She’s a hopeless little whore. She’s better off where someone can keep an eye on her.”

“Okay!” Wheezy allowed. “But she’s got a good body, you gotta give her that. A damn cute little body.”

I know where your interests lie, you little buffoon, Mona thought resentfully.

Wheezy continued. “Look, the band always plays a few minutes before showtime. Why not let her provide a little visual accompaniment? Soft lights, seeing that little torso writhing around endlessly…Get ‘em all warmed up, ah?”

“That’s mighty sweet bullshit you’re peddling, Wheezy, but I’m not buying. If you think I’ve got money to spare for frills like that, you’re wrong.”

Wheezy furrowed his brows. Then he blurted out, “Okay, Mona; if you’re willing to kick in with half her salary, I’ll make up the difference.”

Mona sneered. “No, Wheezy.”

“Alright, I’ll pay it all”, Wheezy sighed.

Mona put down her papers. She was incredulous. “And why on earth are you willing to do that?” Then her eyes turned to the ceiling in disgust. “Oh, don’t tell me.” She resumed her search.

“I’ll tell you!” Wheezy stammered, rummaging for words. “Because I don’t want to see her come to a bad end, that’s why! The way she describes those folks of hers, she’ll get dragged down completely. They’ll abuse her, humiliate her, maybe even make her wed some joker she doesn’t love in order to make her ‘an honest woman’. Think of her, not only despised by her folks, but slaving, scrubbing away for some inbred maniac! She’ll have an ego the size of a chickpea, Mona! Better to be a self respecting little whore than one in subjugation.”

“Yeah, plus you’ve been fucking her.”

Wheezy’s palms shot up defensively. “Not once, Mona. I never laid hands on the girl. Look here, I, too, grew up in a hopeless household. Sure, I schemed and punched and kicked my way out. But it must be twice as knotty for a girl. ‘Specially a stupid one.”

Mona intently set her eyes on him. “Alright, Wheezy. But you just treat her right. And don’t carry your ‘affair’ with her on too long. I don’t want that baby inside her getting hurt. And, also, her pay will be just above zero. This club doesn’t need any hootchy kootchy Muzak, and you know it.”

“Right, Mona; I won’t forget this.” Wheezy leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek; Mona didn’t look at him; she just leaned and craned her jaw to accept it. As Wheezy left the office, Mona wished she could devote more time to simply designing costumes. Life could be so distracting.

Babs sat on a bench in the hall, back in her street clothes. She stared down at wringing hands, her eyes burning with frustration. She knew it wouldn’t work; she knew it!! Now what was there to do?? Grim, deadly notions were entering her mind when Wheezy approached her.

Like a theatrical agent in a movie, Wheezy extended his arms, thrust out his belly, and gloated, ”It’s a-OK, Kitten; we got the job.”

Babs flung herself into Wheezy’s arms. “Oh, Uncle Wheezy, you did it!!”

Wheezy patted her side. “With the greatest of ease, kid; you were a lead pipe cinch. Now after the shows are over, we’re goin’ out to celebrate, you hear?” Then he sidled up and whispered into her ear, “And no half ass blow jobs, either. Honey, I’m gonna treat you like a QUEEN!”

“Ooh, Uncle Wheezy!” Babs coquettishly giggled, coy and a bit sickening. As they parted, Wheezy took an entire buttock between two of his fingers and pinched it hard. Babs spewed a naughty giggle, sounding not unlike a she-goat.

Red was at her mirror, brushing her hair when Babs entered her dressing room, beaming. Red didn’t notice her smile, as she didn’t turn to give her a look. “Oh, Babs. Empty that waste basket”, she drawled majestically.

“Oh, I’ll empty that waste basket”, Babs grinned, and kicked it across the room, letting its contents scatter.

Red inhaled noisily, like the ripping of a sheet of paper. Her eyes turned red and ugly. She scraped her stool aside and towered over Babs. “Now you’ve done it, you little slut…!” she hissed.

“You listen, Grandma! I’M a stripper now, and someday I’ll be the headliner. And YOU can go back to posing for the bondage postcards, or wherever it was you came from!”

Babs turned and slammed the door, letting it creak back open behind her. Sugar Red stood frozen with mouth agape. So it had happened. Everything she feared the minute she saw that juvenile delinquent enter her room was true. It had happened to her. Now she had to fear a usurper of her throne. Fruit on the very verge of ripening; just the kind men liked. Sugar Red’s eyeballs stayed frozen as the rest of her body convulsed with increasing violence.

Just then Paul unconsciously entered the room. He was waltzing around like a zombie, eyes full of emptiness, lisping “Parisian Honeymoon” under his breath. It would have been just as well if he hadn’t. With her great strength, Red hoisted him by his lapels and flung him to the side of the room, where he crashed into the dressing table and sent objects flying. Red’s mouth was frothing; drunk with fury, she lunged out the door to place Babs six feet under. She flailed her head and fists as she looked about the empty hall, then thought, Her aunt!! She’s probably in that office, the two of them gloating over their victory!! Those bitches! I’ll tie them together and rip them apart!!

She kicked open Mona’s door. Papers flew. Mona shot out of her chair. “WHAT THE FUCK…?”

“That little slattern!! Where is she? I’m going to rip her heart out!” Then she whirled to Mona. “And then I’ll start on yours, cunt! Replacing me with that…that NIECE of yours behind my back!! I’m the STAR here! THE STAR!!! And you…you…” Red withdrew into quivers and tears. Realizing she was unable to alter a thing, she was a wounded tigress. She turned limp and dropped in a chair. It spun around a few times. Her limbs dragged the floor, splayed in all directions; her robe was open and rumpled; her flaming red hair was flung over her face.

Sad, Mona thought, as she rose, walked to the office door and peered into the hall. The Desby Twins and the stagehands were craning their necks just a yard or two from the door. On seeing the expressionless Miss Fago, they became very demonstrative about minding their own business. Shaking her head, Mona shut the door and returned to face Red.

“Now, Red?”

“Mmm-mmn?” Red kept her eyes to the floor and mumbled.

“Red, Babs is NOT here to replace you. You are not replaceable. You hear that? You are NOT replaceable.”

“Mm-mm-uh.” Red shifted in the chair like an infant, drawing comfort just lying there and hearing approval.

Mona slowly and clearly explained that Babs was “in trouble” and needed a way station. And that Babs was just there to play out a little charade, one of an idiocy that Babs herself was too lamebrained to detect. Babs was a simpleton from the hinterlands, Mona insisted, and would soon be forced to slink back to her godforsaken wilderness, her tail between her legs, like a whipped dog! And she reiterated the fact that Red WAS the star of the show, and the longer Red stayed, the better Mona would like it.

The one factor that Mona avoided was Wheezy’s role in it all. There was no point in creating static with that.

Red exited Mona’s office congenial to everyone in her wake, and even let Babs alone. She had it confirmed to her face by the boss herself. She wasn’t used up. She WAS the Star. And no one could take that from her.

Returning to her dressing room, she found Paul lying on the floor, thrashing about helplessly in the middle of her cosmetics. He was bleary eyed and mumbling. Red lifted him, flung his arm around her shoulders and guided him to her couch. She stood over him. “Oh, Paul; I’m so sorry for what I did to you.” Then she turned, got down on her knees, and started cleaning up the mess Babs had created. That’s how gratified she was.

Paul fumbled about slightly on the couch, and asked, staring at the ceiling, “Why, Red?? Why? I work so hard…”

Red turned and covered Paul’s hand with both of her own.

As a switch, Wheezy found himself overpowered that night. With an electric abandon, Babs made him squirm. She made him sweat. She had a whore’s talents, and she knew it.

And she laughed at him as she hovered above, watching him twist.

Paul began spending more time in Red’s dressing room. All he knew was that she supplied him with the warmth he so badly needed. When he came into her room, quaking slightly, unable to deal with man’s inhumanity, Red was there to smile, put her arm around his shoulder and hold him to her neck. He would nestle there, cushioned by her flame red hair in all its fragrance. They would just sit on the couch, rocking slightly back and forth. Paul’s eyes would well up with tears. At last he had a place and a person to soothe him. No one ever cared to do that before.

She was so close, but he dared not touch her in any way signaling sexual desire. Then she, too, might break his heart. The closest he got was helping her with her hair and costume, and even rubbing lotion into her legs. There was no particular need for this, but Red liked the way it felt, and Paul enjoyed doing it. He would worry about the roughness of his hands, working the cream into her thighs, occasionally giving them adoring squeezes. Red would sit, legs outstretched, demurely applying lipstick or polishing her nails. She would hum to herself. Paul liked that. When done, Paul still kneeling, Red would touch him on his cheek, and they would bend to each other. Puckering lips, they’d kiss each other lightly. No words were spoken.

Returning to his dressing room, he’d think about the solace Red brought him. And how much he yearned to bury his head between her legs and never come up for air, but dared not try. But she was there for him. And he’d ‘celebrate’ with a drink.

Chapter Eleven: THE HELLION

When Mona referred to Babs as “Muzak”, she wasn’t being cute. Babs wasn’t meant to be noticed. She was “ambient grinding”.

Babs was clueless. She was “star struck”, eager and earnest about her first step to becoming the next Gypsy Rose Lee. Sugar Red pitied “the poor kid” but anticipated her rude awakening with relish. The Desby Twins were encouraging to Babs’ face and silent about their embarrassment for her. Behind the curtain, Babs asked them to each give her a prayer. The twins crossed their fingers for her, smiling with half their hearts.

Out front, everything was under control. The customers were happy over their drinks.

The house lights dimmed somewhat. Piano and drums subtly introduced a slow, steady beat. The patrons barely looked up from their swizzle sticks. A lukewarm spotlight hit Babs’ torso, and she put her all into writhing it.

Minutes passed. Nothing was changing. Thrilled at first, Babs was in a nauseous daze. For one thing, the light was blinding her. She couldn’t make out the audience her nudity was supposed to enrapture. For another, the room was full of the drone of conversation! Not the rapturous applause when that Sugar Red hauled her aged kiester around the stage! Didn’t anyone even care?? Babs’s ‘inner brat’ was rising.

Then she felt a minor impact on her belly. She cast her eyes down to see that she had been hit by a cube of margarine, smeared and dribbling down her navel. She was in shock. This wasn’t supposed to happen; it just wasn’t!

She bellowed to the audience that she couldn’t see. “ALRIGHT, WHO DID THAT??” The musicians stopped. Babs jumped off the platform onto the club floor. People were shocked, confused. Some gasped, others snickered nervously. Babs had broken the magic wall between the body fantasy and drab reality. They were alienated.

Her nostrils flared in the absolute silence. She was her guttersnipe self, the one who’d draw blood and ask questions later. She snatched a liquor bottle from the bar and smashed it on the surface. It wasn’t clean as in the films. The liquor and broken glass splattered messily; she covered her eyes, and didn’t realize her fist was cut. She waved the jagged remainder of the bottle at the patrons. “You’re going to tell me who threw that at me, or I’ll just take a stab in the dark!” The bartender expertly maneuvered behind her. Before he could lunge, Babs' rage dissolved into regret. He backed off when she hurled the bottle’s remains on the floor, shrieked, “Oh…shit!!” and sprinted backstage.

A stagehand swung to grab her and missed. She bolted past Paul, who was stagnated in his bewilderment. He had just come off a jag; just well oiled enough to put in an evening’s work, and this orgy of crazy didn’t seem quite real.

Wheezy, in costume, simply walked into her path. When she collided with him, he seized her wrists. “It’s alright, folks, I’ve got her!,” he hooted as she struggled. “I’ll take care of her! Don’t worry about it!”

After all he had done for the little tart! The plans, the risks, his money!! She had blown it all sky high, onstage no less, and had humiliated him doing it. Hopeless, blubbering little tramp. He slapped her. When she still wouldn’t shut up, he did it again. Babs froze. She hacked up a ball of phlegm and propelled it smack in his eye. He assailed her with both hands. Miss Fago flung him away. Wheezy screamed at her. Miss Fago screamed back. The troupe all screamed at each other.

Police sirens screamed outside the theatre. While chaos reigned, Babs swiped a coat draped over a chair and disappeared.

“Nobody move!”

The patrons…the ones who hadn’t managed to get away…were petrified. Their evening in the Village had descended into madness.

The staff was soon in handcuffs: Paul, trembling; Wheezy Gibson, casting truculent sneers; The Desby Twins, shedding bitter tears of shame while Mona was at her most stoic; the stagehands, bartender and waiter; the few remaining employees; and Sugar Red, star of the evening, towering above the crowd, winking at the cops, trying to wrangle a “deal”.

The club was a Babel of noise; customers boasting of their own ignorance, and the staff divulging what they could, which wasn’t much. The girl the police were seeking had vanished, Miss Fago explained, and she was as puzzled as they were. The cops’ general response to everything was “MM-hmm; yeah, right.”

The affair was taken out into the street, night transformed into day by the flashing camera bulbs. Gawkers stupidly craned their necks, and patrons driven out of the club were noisy and surly. Red had the affair rationalized as welcome publicity, and favored the shutterbugs with an animal show of teeth. Hello, boys. Have some of my heavenly cheesecake. This enough titty for ya?

Separated by sex, staff members were pushed into the Black Marias. The males were treated roughly, compliant or not, which utterly baffled Paul. He was in a drunken haze; unable to control the situation, he was beginning to panic.

Although Wheezy’s wrists were already sturdily restrained, a pair of cops, pictures of brawn, clutched the feisty little clown on both sides. He responded, “Oh it takes two big bad mans to overpower po’ widda me? My good’un, ain’t I a bad’un?”

The officers exchanged wise glances over his head, and practically threw him into the darkness of the wagon. Wheezy landed, unseen to them, with a thud. Well, that was a snap.

The strippers were cloaked with blankets and treated with a sneering false gallantry. “Let me help you, ma’am”, fawned one cop, smearing a huge paw over a Desby Twin’s breast as he lifted her by the arm. Sugar Red flirted with the officers, whispering obscene invitations and floridly inviting their caresses. Tall as a skyscraper, built like a brick shithouse, and a load of laughs. Miss Fago stared straight ahead. She had been involved in police raids before, and knew that the easiest way to end the ordeal was to go through it expressing nothing.

The wagons went on their way. Red sat on the far end, three policemen rolling all over her huge body in spasms of delight. Mona wearily tried to ignore them, and offered some strained phrases of comfort to the whimpering Desbys.

In another wagon, five men were silent, squeezed together facing each other, while a cop sat on the end, ostentatiously pounding his palm with a truncheon.

It was all a blur for poor Paul. His brain was still addled. Why was all this happening? It wasn’t his fault. It had nothing to do with him. It seemed all important for him to find out. It would be the only way he’d know what to say or do.

Unsteadily, timidly, Paul asked, “Pardon me, Officer; but why must we go to jail?” The cop snorted and merrily laughed at him.

“Best not to say anything, St. Clair”, muttered Wheezy. The cop lost his grin and flashed a rheumy eye upon him.

Strip searches followed, and all were segregated into male and female cells already jammed with unfortunates. Some women were sleeping, others cursed at the police through the bars, still more were cursing into midair. The Desbys quaked, casting their wide eyes about them. Sugar Red soared above everyone else in the cell. Her posture now at its worst, she looked like an intoxicated clown in her smeared rouge and lipstick. One could not say she was beautiful in her wrath. She flung her fists in the air and raged unintelligibly. A common cell. How dare those filthy coppers not repay the liberties they had taken in the wagon?

“Stay CALM!!” Miss Fago commanded. Somehow, this worked. As one, all the women in the cell squatted on the floor, leaned against their defeated sisters and dozed.

By the fourth hour, everyone else in the cell was asleep, but Mona herself was having difficulty keeping calm. She was confounded. Babs, who was to blame, had sailed off who knew where, leaving aunt and employees to take the flogging. How on God’s Earth could she have done this?? Mona observed Sugar Red across the cell. She and another inmate were squatted back to back. Her head had fallen on her shoulder. She was lightly snoring, a drool dangling from her lip. It’s likely she’s experienced this routine before, Mona thought. To be arrested and held for a few hours was a common experience for those in burlesque, if only because the cops got their kicks doing it. It took a dare to turn to the other side to see what was up with the Desby girls.

They were huddled together in fetal positions, their faces hidden by their bedraggled hair. Their heads were nestled in the plump, obliging buttock of a total stranger. Well, at least they look warm, thought Mona. What next? What effect will this have on the Candl Club? Will patrons be afraid to come? Questions gnawed at her. She not as much went to sleep as passed out.

Wheezy’s poor attitude did not make him a favorite among the enforcement officers. Already repelled by his size, they wanted to take him down a few more pegs. Show biz bastard in his checkered pants. But Wheezy was a master of brinksmanship. The cops would take two steps forward, he’d take one step back, thus saving himself a beating.

The bartender and stagehands remained wordless and pouting, chins buried in their chests. The cops pretty much left them alone.

Paul seemed to be just coming to. Who’d have thought a man could get into so much

trouble just minding his own business? He kept asking questions of the police outside. By now, they had taken to blandly parroting his words.

Crouched in the cell, with tears in his eyes, Paul turned and babbled to his partner. “What happened, Wheezy? You men know I’d never do anything against the law!!”

“I know it, Paul. Quiet down, Paul. You’re a decent fellow.” Wheezy put his arm around Paul’s shoulder; Paul dropped his head into Wheezy’s neck and fell asleep.

Anything to keep this poor inebriate quiet, Wheezy thought.

Babs walked near the waterfront with only a man’s coat covering her near nudity. She had nowhere to go. At the nightclub, she was a fugitive. She wouldn’t be welcomed at Aunt Mona’s apartment, to say the least. And, though she considered returning home, she dared not. In her quest of a solution, recollections of movies and radio programs passed in review. What would those girls do, nowhere to go, misunderstood by everyone and out on the run?

She stopped before a low dive. The window cast a light on the sidewalk. “The Hole in The Wall”. Even its name reeked obscenity. There was no music coming from inside, just coarse, uncultivated voices. Her eyes big, Babs loitered in the darkness.

Minutes passed. A middle aged tough came out of the door. Babs appraised him. He wore a second hand brown suit and an open collar, exposing a smidgen of chest hair. No hat. Average height, with a bullet head and a bull neck. He appeared an agreeable sort. Not by any means the worst guy to take a snooze with. Too bad Babs had to do what she was about to do; something criminal.

She hissed to attract his attention. The tough wheeled around as if he was anticipating an attack until Babs moved into the light. She gazed up at him with sad, shimmering eyes. The tough’s eyes were bright; but hardly interested. With a dull expression, Babs opened the coat and delivered the same repetitious grind she had performed at the club.

This was the closest the tough had stood to a burlesque dancer without footlights barring his way. He glanced about for any hint of funny business. He relaxed a bit. He reached out and artlessly ran his hands down Babs’s breasts and belly. Babs suggested going to “his place”. The tough said there was no reason; there was a room in the back of the bar for things like that!!

Before Babs could divvy up her thoughts, the tough dragged her by the arm into the bar and kept hustling her across the room. He invited his drinking buddies to come along! Here was a real hot piece of meat. Even the barkeep shut the entrance for the night.

Babs was confused. She had intended to roll the tough for his dough while he was fast asleep, or to find a knife in his kitchen and stab him. Now her plans were foiled. Nothing was going right!!

The barroom was just one brown hallway. The tough drew away a beaded curtain that obscured the room in the very back. Babs saw the black iron bed that dominated it. There was a dresser drawer, an oval shaped woolen rug, and, over the bed…the smuttiest, most obscene oil painting Babs had ever seen. Old, dark, bluntly rendered, picturing the most unspeakable acts; a tableau harrowing in its filth. She had to restrain herself from vomiting. Was this a portent of events to come?

The tough turned gallant and demanded his pals pay the lady in advance. That’s the way it’s done. Bills piled up on the dresser. Babs gazed at the money, but the tough turned her around, summoning his friends to “get a good look”. He pulled her coat away, exposing her scanty costume and quivering flesh. The men, six of them, made awestruck sounds and noises of approval.

“Boy, Lucky, you sure can pick ‘em!!”

“Yeah, but…she looks awful young!”

Glancing at the pyramid of bills on the dresser, Babs drawled, “Don’t worry, gents…I’m old enough!”

Lucky the tough crowed, “Awright, boys, you heard the lady; SHE’S OLD ENOUGH!!!”

Silence.

Then his friends started snatching for her, but Lucky waved them off, saying, “I found her. First she’s mine.” The rest of the crowd jammed their hands in their pockets, mumbling and kicking up dirt on the floor like the East Side Kids.

“Well, you’re lucky I’m letting you watch!” Then he extended a whiskey bottle to Babs. “A little pre-coital drink, m’lady?”

Babs was suddenly quite thirsty. She grabbed the bottle by its neck and took four long gulps. The men stared, wide eyed, and made noises of astonished approval. Giggling, Babs laid back, opened her legs and let whatever was coming come.

And, boy, she got it. Every size, every speed, every rhythm.

The men were plundering all the treasures and pleasures of her wicked body. Every orifice, every cavity was engorged. And it seemed new ones were being discovered constantly.

“More alcohol, m’lady?”

They poured booze into her mouth even as she was flat on her back.

Babs was an intellectual blank; a passionless receptacle. There to be used. She was conscious only of a sly tingling feeling and position shifts as she was tumbled, thrown from man to man. Born for men. Gazing at the ceiling, it struck Babs that the group’s depravities were far outdoing those depicted in the repulsive painting hanging above.

She jolted into consciousness. The mattress was soaked; the room was empty.

“My money!! Where’s..”

Then she saw the pile of bills on the dresser, apparently untouched. And there was over forty dollars. Babs grinned. She must have done her job well. But her costume was gone. Taken by Lucky to sniff at, she supposed. To the victor go the spoils. Then she noticed that she had been left a surprise, hanging from a hook: a worn, shiny black dress, and an incongruously new set of black undies, including garter belt and stockings. Babs dressed, draped on her stolen coat and stumbled out of the room, still weaving from the liquor’s effects.

Only the barkeep was present, softly strumming a guitar and humming. He was really good; his voice, deep and masculine. He was round, but not bulgy, and wore a beard that suggested a red haired Santa Claus.

He looked up as Babs crossed the room. “Hey, Girlie? If you need a place to flop, there’s an acceptable hotel down a couple of blocks.” Babs stared blankly at him. Then he said, “And if you need a job, I can always use a hostess.”

Babs’ eyes brightened. “You mean a B-girl??”

The barkeep nodded, a little ashamed. “You hustle drinks for the bar, and what you do in the back…well, the house takes forty percent.”

“Is THAT all!!” Babs said, excited and thrilled. “Will there be DRUGS??”

The barkeep brightened. “Yes, MA’AM! All the heroin your little heart can stand!” He grinned. “You know, babe? I like the cut of your jib! What’s your name?”

“Babs”, she said proudly. “Everyone calls me Babs.”

“And I’m Claude.” He extended a beefy hand across the bar. “I think we’re gonna work together very well, baby!”

“Same here, Claude.” And then in an earnest whisper: “…baby!”, giving his hand a hearty shake.

Later, she nuzzled on the cot in her tiny, cell-like hotel room. It was surrounded by four walls of misery gray, and illuminated by a bulb dangling from a wire hanging from the middle of the ceiling.

Well, this is it!!, she thought. At last, I have it made!!

Chapter Twelve: RELEASED

The sun in her eyes told Mona it was early morning. The cells had just gotten more jammed. The inmates could barely move. Cranky murmurs filled the cell. The hours passed as slowly as ever.

About 10 AM, Mona and the girls were called out with several others. Mona’s group was led into a bare, windowless office. A pale, heavy man in his shirtsleeves, with minimal hair on his head but jungles on his forearms, sat at his desk. Like a shielding wall, Mona stood right in front of the others.

The man said, “Well, ladies; after further investigation, we’ve found that the person who caused the ruckus has fled the scene.”

“FLED THE SCENE??!” Sugar Red shouted. “We told you that in the beginning!! What the hell do you think..”

“Red, be quiet”, Mona said.

The man bolted out of his chair and pointed at Red. “Young woman, you’ll have to SHUT UP”, he said testily. He sat down again. “Sign some papers, pay some fines, and you may go.”

Just the fact that they were leaving filled the bleary eyed Desby girls with joy. Mona was satisfied. She had waded through it with confidence, and the matter was done. Sugar Red said nothing, but rocked from heel to toe, furious.

Mona looked at her. “Red, say nothing.” she quietly insisted. Facing the man, she asked, “What about the men, sir? Are they ok to leave, too?”

“Well, most of your performers and staff are”, he said, “but this St. Clair has to stay a while. He’s almost diseased with liquor.”

Mona was alarmed. “What have you done with him??”

The man waved a palm at her. “He’s alright, he’s alright. He’s under sedation.”

The Twins were devastated; Sugar Red was seemingly less so.

After having paid the fines and dealt with her own documents, Mona walked into the hall outside of the jail and met her crew. It was a quiet, unhappy reunion. “So Paul’s in the looney bin?” asked the bartender.

“That’s the way it is”, growled Sugar Red. “I’ll tell you, if I could, I’d castrate those cops with a rake. “ The bartender winced sensitively, but understood where she was coming from.

Wheezy had his hands jammed in his pockets, lost in his thoughts, staring into space.

“I’ll have to phone his mother”, Mona said to the group. “We’ll have to let her know in any case.”

Wheezy looked up at her, incredulous. “Paul lives with his mother??”

Mona barely looked at him. “Yes. Come on, let’s get some breakfast.” Wheezy idled, pulling at his chin. Imagine. A forty-eight year old entertainer and he’s still living with his mother? I knew Paul was chickenshit…but this…

The crowd dispersed. Wheezy, Mona and Red returned to the club by taxi.

The lights in the place were still burning, to Mona’s dismay. The glass was still splintered on the floor, of course. Mona went into her office and found Paul’s home number in the clutter. Wheezy sat on the side of her desk, feet propped on an open drawer, as she dialed.

“Hello, Mrs. St. Clair?”

“Oh…is that Mona? I read in the paper that there was an incident at your club.” Then she got urgent. “How’s Paul? Is he alright?”

Mona choked, becoming almost defensive. “Yes, he’s alright, Mrs. St. Clair”, she said, looking up at Wheezy, “But…I have to tell you…he’s in jail. He got into trouble with some of the cops.”

After a period of silence, Mrs. St. Clair asked resignedly which jail it was so she could call on him. Mona told her, then said, “Well, goodbye, Mrs. St. Clair…”

Just then, Wheezy motioned to Mona and said in a whisper, “Let me have the phone.”

Wheezy took the receiver, and beamed as if he were making a grand gesture. “Mrs. St. Clair? I’m Wheezy Gibson, your son’s partner. I just want to tell you your son’s been a ball to work with, and we’ll all be wishing him a speedy recovery. Alright? Well, goodbye, Mrs. St. Clair. And God bless.”

As he grandly hung up the receiver. Mona regarded him with disgust. “Wheezy, must you be show business twenty-four hours a day??”

“What? Why, Mona, whatever do you mean?” He really didn’t understand.

Mona put her head in her hands. “Never mind”, she sighed.

Chapter Thirteen: A CARNAL BARGAIN

Red stood behind the curtain in her dressing room, hosing off her body makeup. She smoldered with rage at the cops and Mona’s idiot niece. All that time, all that hell. But she was too exhausted for it to take hold. That the club would definitely not open that night filled her with liquid relief. What she wanted most of all was to go home and to bed…alone, for a change.

Realizing that she might not be returning to work for a while, she decided to gather her precious towels to take home. She pulled back the curtain. To her dismay, Wheezy was lying on the couch before her. He smoked a cigar, had a tranquil expression, and a huge exposed erection. “You were expecting maybe the Fee Jee Mermaid?”

Red sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Alright, Wheezy, what is this??”

“Come on, Red, it’s not as if you’ve never seen it before.”

"Get outta here with your crappy sexuality!!" she told him. But in truth, Red was attracted. Though Wheezy was a crummy human being, just laying her eyes upon his lovely penis again made Red want it so badly, she could taste it. She had to restrain herself. She didn't want him to catch her smacking her lips!

Wheezy got up from the couch and ambled towards Sugar Red, his cock, frank and veiny, bobbing before him. “Oh, come on, Red. For the moment, I’m bereft of feminine company. Then I thought of you and this came up.” Wheezy grinned smugly at his stupid little joke and shrugged. “I figured we might pick up where we left off.”

Though groggy with lust, Sugar Red was offended. She rubbed her forehead. “So you think you can just come back, and get it? Pig.”

“Cunt.”

“Out.” Red jerked her thumb at the door.

Wheezy looked as self satisfied as ever. “Come on, baby. I’ll make it worth your while…”

Red eyed him resentfully. She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind, cocked her head and said something else. “This time you’ll pay through your nose, runt.”

“Of course, m’lady. Only the best for my whores.”

A stab of psychic pain. Red shut her eyes. “Well, I’ll see you tonight.”

Wheezy stepped forward, vaguely menacing. “Oh, no, babe. Papa wants a little action now to seal the bargain.”

Red returned his stern smile. “Then Papa pay now; that’s the way I bargain.”

Wheezy took on that derisive little smile, fished in his wallet, withdrew some bills and waved them in Red’s face. He snatched them away when Red reached. “I oughta make you bark”, he said. Red was ready to object, but Wheezy forced the money into her hand.

The small comedian lay on the couch on his side, smugly waiting as the big stripper lashed off her towel and plopped down on her belly. She buried her face in her folded arms. She was resigned, but determined to display that there was no passion on her part. Her only interest was bank interest. So there.

Wheezy nudged Red to roll on her side, her back to him. Her hands still covered her face. Wheezy wrapped his arms around her from behind, gently nuzzling his manhood between her buttocks. He breathed slowly, deeply into the hollow of her spine. Red was soon breathing with the same volume, the same rhythm. They were heaving in unison. Wheezy nudged her down on her stomach. He massaged the nape of her neck, firmly and with skill. Red’s taut muscles steadily gave way. A warm pleasure grew in her. Then Wheezy grasped the back of her neck and rocked her head from side to side, eliciting two loud, moist ‘cracks’ from deep within. Red melted. She felt Wheezy’s long cock travel against her spine and down the crack of her buttocks as his hands expertly moved over her body. He caressed one buttock in each hand, rotating them. He kneaded her legs; brushed his fingers along the soles of her feet. Red was breathing heavily. She could feel her heart. Oh, those heavenly hands…it was at times like these that she could have sworn she loved the guy.

Wheezy nudged her again, and she rolled on her back with pleasure, butterflies tickling the walls of her belly. She gave herself to his caresses.

Wheezy rolled her breasts with his palms. His fingers traced circles around her nipples. His hands drew them up and let them fall. One final, emphatic squeeze made Red croak, “Oh, Jesus…”

“Tell me how much you love it,” Wheezy said.

“Oh, Wheezy, I love it. I love it so much…”

With his hand, Wheezy guided his penis, sliding it up and down the surface of Red’s slit. Slowly, going up, he inserted a fraction of its tip, then withdrew and traced lazy circles with it. It was sweet sadism. Red shuddered. Her pupils rolled back into her head. Tender torture. Squirming, emitting the whimpers and glugs of a hungry, frustrated infant, she clutched in mid air in a fever of greed. She snatched his cock from his hand, opened her thighs wide, and rammed it in. Wheezy cackled knowingly, and pumped inside her.

Beads of perspiration broke out on her brow. His testicles pounded against her as if they were battering a wall. Her big, fleshy body twisted in pleasure. It was sex in slow motion and Red found it deeply fulfilling and romantic. She gagged and retched. Reduced to a lump of pure, throbbing sex, brain whirling, she lost all control.

Still pumping, Wheezy hissed in a whisper, “Take it while you can, you cumbersome slut…’cause soon, no man will want to give it to you. With your pendulous breasts. You’re stupid. A stupid, aging stripper.” Then he thrust even deeper inside her.

Red’s heart sank as her insides continued to pulsate, her hips continued to thrust. She was humiliated, addicted, enslaved to Wheezy’s money and his sex. And in a way, she thought, she had brought it on herself.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: UP FROM ALCOHOL

Mama walked into the apartment and Paul followed. Mama was about to suggest a cup of tea, but she saw Paul pass the kitchen and go into his bedroom.

Mama found him splayed, face down, on the bed. She pulled up a chair beside the bed, and sat down. Waiting. Paul didn’t even notice her; he lunged for the nightstand, pulled open a drawer and fumbled inside. Then he realized it wasn’t there.

“No, Paul; your bottle isn’t there. You’ve been drinking more and more, and we can’t let it go on like this. You’re sick.”

Paul groaned and lay on his face again.

“I need it; don’t you understand, I need it? I’m scared.”

“Paul. I’m always here for you. And the people at your club are pulling for you. I was surprised. They do care. Miss Mona said you’ve got a week off with pay!! Now you can relax and rest and get back to normal.”

Paul was alarmed. A week off? The first time I’ve missed a night in years!! Suppose things go perfectly fine? What if they find out they can do without me?? I’m just a straight man…

Paul sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Mama, I can’t do it!! What if they drop me??”

“I don’t think that will happen”, Mama said calmly, grasping him by the shoulder and slowly pushing him back onto the mattress. She had to change the subject. “Now; the first thing you’ll need is a healthy regimen. Tomorrow morning, you’ll come running with me in the park.”

“I don’t WANT to”, Paul muttered.

“Too bad”, answered Mama.

5 AM, it was “Come on, son! Time to begin your healthy regimen.”

In bed, Paul growled. Even twelve hours’ sleep wasn’t enough. He was still groggy, and felt an edginess that was almost physically painful. “No, Mama, no…”

“Yes, son, yes!! Come on!”

Paul felt that this was cruel. He also had an idea that he might as well try it. He himself would have chosen to stay in bed for a few months. He was in a rut, a sick one. Time to get out of it. One leg at a time, he boosted himself from the mattress. “Shit…”, he hissed. He scratched at various body parts, and though feeling a heavy head, changed his underwear and put on the tracking suit Mama had bought him months ago. She had hoped he would have used it, but it had sat in the closet until this morning. “Shit”, he repeated. It was becoming a mantra.

He shuffled into the living room. Over the radio played a Sousa march, or something. Mama was doing sit ups at a frantic rate.

“Aw, Mama!!”

“Okay, you don’t have to do it with me, Paul! Just watch this time…”

Paul sat and watched his mother speed through her routine; her “daily dozen”, she called it. Mama, you’re just naturally chipper, he thought. I’m not. Who does this sort of thing but boxers and “health nuts”, one of which you are? My personal Health Nut. Yeah, well, she’s trying to help.

Paul sleepily grinned, and almost dozed off…

Mama slapped his thigh. “Follow me, Junior! On to the park!” Mama practically sprinted down the stairs. Paul was always afraid of slipping on the smooth marble, and especially now when he was half asleep. He took a breath, gripped the staircase and methodically took one step at a time.

Mama kept jogging in place for a minute at the doorway, then called, “I’m leaving now, son! You’d better catch up!”

Why not just walk up and back to bed?, ruminated Paul. Finally stumbling out the door, he whispered “Jesus!” as he saw his mother nearly half the block ahead of him. This is it, he thought. If I don’t do it now, I won’t do it for the rest of my life.

And getting up a medium speed waddle, he followed her.

The air was frosty. Normal coloring seemed not to have awakened yet. The surroundings had the appearance of a black-and-white photograph from LIFE. White frost issued from his panting mouth. A forty-eight year old man, struggling to keep up with a woman in her sixties. It would have been funny if he hadn’t been involved.

Housewives were up, sweeping the pavement, carrying the garbage out. A stray urchin in suspenders caught up with Paul, and waddled along beside him, grinning up at him with a mouth not yet full of teeth. Paul returned with a weary simper. Then the kid looked ahead, saw Mama, and waving a hand and yelling, “Grandma! Grandma!!” sped off after her.

Paul kept going. A balding, aimless looking man in a bathrobe emerged from a basement apartment, and called out as Paul passed: “Wotcha doing, neighbor?
Passing him by, Paul yelled back: “Running!”

The man shouted: “WHY??”

Paul jogged on as if he didn’t hear him. Behind him, he heard again: “WHY??”

They think I’m weird, Paul thought. Hell, I think I’m weird.

Mama was jogging in place at the gate of the park.

“I’ve been cruel to you, Paul, but well done! I’ll go a little slower from here on.” And then she continued. Paul managed to stay behind her this time, but his calves ached. He guessed they were swelling, and thought with a level of accomplishment, Well, my legs are getting athletic, anyway. But just the thought of that seemed to overwhelm Paul. He collapsed on the first bench he came to.

Mama shouted over her shoulder that she’d see him back at the house.

Paul felt his calves. Yes, they had hardened, but were feeling strained, and he was feverishly panting. And sweating. It seemed as if he’d never stop. He leaned back on the bench. If this is fitness, he thought, maybe I’m just not up to it. Paul wiped his forehead. His eyes followed other types passing by; then he thought: The Candl Club’s been my entire life for ten years. This is the longest time it’s been off my mind. He was pleased with that, and decided that, just maybe, walking was enough for now.

Bright colors were spreading. Feeling more tolerant, Paul left the bench and had a brisk walk out of the park. It didn’t seem normal, and he didn’t know if he’d ever want to do it again, but it was not absolute torture. He smiled and nodded at a few strangers before exiting onto the street again. The sounds of traffic were growing louder. It was a time of day he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Well, it was a novelty. He had come used the night.

For one thing, what would he do all day? Paul passed in front of the liquor store. It would open in a few hours…

Paul continued down the street. No, he thought. Can’t take that crap for a while.

When he entered the apartment, he smelled vegetables and potatoes frying. “You walked the rest of the way? Well, good enough, son. Sit down and have your breakfast.”

To his surprise, Paul was not very hungry, but the food tasted good. Orange juice? Yecchhh. But oh well.

Mama held Paul across his shoulder. “Paul, I want you to know I’m very proud of you today. You tried it, and you did it. Thank you.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Paul had enjoyed a good rest over his seven free days, but had come to a brutal realization: his pastimes and friendships outside the business were long gone. His existence had become a cycle; rising in the mid afternoon, the two hour subway ride to the club; working; returning home at dawn and drinking himself to sleep. Performing was the only thing he read about, talked about; and the drinking had been the closest thing to a “hobby” he had enjoyed for a long, long time.

At first, he had nothing to do but sit at home and talk to Mama.

He was in the middle of a middle aged gripe when she interrupted him.

“Paul, haven’t you got anything else to do? Really, you’re getting underfoot.”

Paul got up from his chair. Underfoot, is it? Your own son! Mama could be insensitive, but this…

Bored and frustrated, Paul started opening his eyes in the full glare of sunlight in almost a full decade. Though being alone made it a depressing prospect, he walked out to take in the city that he had ignored for years. Snubbing the subway, he rode the buses into town, and did the things that tourists did. He took in a few museums; he haunted Chinatown and put his bagful of trinkets under the table when he stopped to eat. He wrinkled his nose when he visited the zoo, and noted that the endless varieties of stench were the closest he had been to “nature” in over a decade.

On top of the Empire State Building, Paul gazed at the vastness before him. All that city. And he realized that outside of home and mother, there was only one small speck of it he really cared about any more: The Candl Club. If he still had one passion left, it was performing. He couldn’t wait to return.

The club was not yet open for business that weekend. But inside the bar room, lit only by the afternoon’s sun, most of the crew were gathered at a table, chatting; getting reacquainted.

Paul came in from the street. He wore a shy smile. Faces turned to him with warm expressions. The Desby Twins gave him big hugs, showed sincere concern, hoped he was all right, and would stay that way. The bartender gave him a grotesque gap toothed grin and a hearty hand clasp; the stage hands were content to wave a friendly ‘hello’ from behind him. Wheezy gave a pompous quasi speech welcoming Paul back to the fold. Lots of nudges and jokey sentiments equaling ‘don’t you ever leave us again, you scamp’. Sugar Red’s demonstration was subdued. She gave Paul a small smile. This didn’t please Paul. But women like Miss Red were changeable, and her men were interchangeable.

Mona addressed them all. “This Monday, we’ll be back to it. I’m hoping that the business concerning my niece won’t hurt business too much. You all know your jobs; just stick to them. We’ll have a run through in an hour or so, just to make sure. See you then.”

Then she returned to her office.

The rest of the group returned to their departments, Wheezy to the team’s dressing room. Paul was following him when he heard Sugar Red call him. Paul walked to her door. “Something?” he asked in the doorway, blandly.

Red had her chair turned to face him. She was in her street clothes and was wearing very little makeup. Her expression was humorless. “Come in, Paul. Close the door.”

Paul did so and sat on the couch.

“Paul; what happened? At the bottom of it, what’s made you so sad?”

Paul held his hands on his lap. “Miss Red, as long as I’ve lived, I’ve been afraid of a loss of security. Oh, I’ve dealt with things. But that hasn’t made me brave; it just seems to have made me more cautious. Miss Red, I’m careful just walking down the stairs.”

“You’ve been doing all right, Paul”, Red interrupted.

Paul was grudging. “That’s very kind of you to say, Miss Red. Sometimes I agree, sometimes I don’t.”

“You’ve been managing. Ten years in the same club? That’s pretty goddam good.”

“It’s strange…somehow, it’s worked, I guess. I mean, I support my mother and everything”, Paul said, raising his eyes to hers and struggling to appear content. “But every time I make a gain, I worry more and more about losing it. I don’t know why. It seems I have this shadow of doom over me.”

“You just fear there’s one. That’s no excuse for killing yourself with booze”, Red said sharply.

Paul buried his face in his hands and broke down sobbing. Red stared at him in distress. She had asked him in to discuss what she had thought of as a simple matter. Her judgment had been weak.

“Paul…” she began; then stopped. Paul continued to weep.

Now Red wanted to do something, say the right thing, but very much feared doing harm. She was no psychiatrist. She was no expert in matters like this. She had suppressed her own fears to the point where doing so was first nature. She didn’t know what it meant to crumble under their weight. Finally, she offered him the only thing that she was confident might comfort him.

“Paul…would you like to lotion my legs again?”

He turned to her. What on earth was this woman talking about?

“Please, Paul. You’re so good at it. I need a massage.”

She reached for her jar of lotion and forced it into his hands. Then she started to disrobe.

Paul knew. So he did.

“Mmmmm. Rub it in good, Paul…don’t stop there. My titties. They need some, too.” She pulled at her top.

Paul did.

“Don’t stop there, Paul. Rub some on yourself…”

Wheezy bided his time in the team’s dressing room. Paul came in, looking relieved but furtive. He kept glancing at his waist, making sure his shirt was tucked in. Then Wheezy got up; with his friendliest, falsest smile, he handed Paul a few papers, and said, “Here, pal; I’ve made some notes over the last week. Little suggestions I think might improve the act. You look ‘em over, won’t you?”

“Oh…oh, sure, Wheezy!”

“’Scuse me , pal, I’ve got a date with a whore…I mean, horse!” And he left, shutting the door, which he didn’t usually do.

Wheezy frowned. Paul was a fool, a flaccid coward. Always Wheezy had held the upper hand in their working relationship. He was the real boss, even though he was only earning forty percent. But Wheezy planned to do something about that little matter. The tables would be turned; Paul would get nothing Wheezy could claim for himself. And, yes; that included Sugar Red. He owned her; that was all he could see. He had paid for her. He had won her. The King deserved the Queen. Any joker could just bide his time outside the castle wall.

He strolled straight into her dressing room without knocking and shut that door, too.

Red was at the dressing table. Her hand shot up to her cleavage in an ironic gesture of modesty. She wasn’t giving a show yet. “Wheezy, don’t you believe in…”

Wheezy hissed in a way that would not be heard outside the room. But it was as fearful as the loudest bellow. “I just let you have your little tete a tete with that loser because I feel sorry for him. Well, you’ve welcomed him back. Your hello was your goodbye, because as long as I’m paying for you, you’ll never touch anyone, get it?”

Red turned her naked back on Wheezy, a flagrant expanse of pearly skin. She blithely slashed on her lipstick. “You don’t own me, Wheezy. Besides, we’ve been screwing off and on for years.” She shrugged. “Why so possessive now?”

Wheezy snatched the lipstick away and ground the red stuff in his fist. “Because I am, that’s why! Anyhow, you put us on a play-for-pay business right from the very beginning this time in. So you don’t think I’m not gonna sit by and watch you fuck that moron for free, do you??”

Sugar Red rose to her feet. Seven furious feet of red headed diva. Hissing just like Wheezy in a muted yelling match: “You abbreviation of a male, I’ll give you back your junk anytime. Can’t you tell I had it off with Paul because I feel sorry for him, too? He needs it! I mean literally NEEDS IT. You just don’t want to understand, do you? You act like you’re comrades forever in public, but you’ve really got it in for him, don’t you? You malicious little…”

Wheezy gave her a fast, hard jab in the underbelly. Red fell back to her dressing table to keep balance. She clutched herself and whimpered.

“Let’s cease the size business, shall we?” Wheezy said, suddenly businesslike. “As I said, you’ve had your ball. Now you stay honest or I’ll have mine, get it??”

And he strode out of the room, careful not to slam the door.

Red was scared. She sank into her chair. Just half an hour before rehearsal, and she had to ‘get sexy’.

For Babs, these days were golden ones. It was a simple matter to shoot up in the back room; then she was ready for anything that came her way. In the barroom, she’d coax a man into buying her a drink. The drink would lead to a dance, and she’d press those hips and grind those grinds that Aunt Mona had once mocked. Then off to a private booth to become “better acquainted”. Babs brought many of her own talents into the picture, learned in the barns and back alleys of her hometown. With the greatest of ease, she’d tease and squeeze her mark into buying more drinks, stealthily pouring the contents of her glass into the sawdust that covered the floor. Between the whispers, the drinks, and the caresses, Babs would have her mark reduced to a state of blubbering idiocy.

Thus primed for the final play, it could be off to the back room:

“Now you can have my whole sexy body…to do whatever you want with.” And by the time they hit the mattress, he’d usually be too inebriated to manage an erection. But the bargain had been made. The money was hers. Sixty percent of it, anyway.

Or, more often, with the poor sap rendered helplessly blotto, she’d lift his wallet and summon a few of the boys to lose him in an alley. Babs would finger the wallet and squirm with satisfaction as she watched the drunk being dragged into the night.

As dawn approached, she would divvy up the loot with Claude the bartender, both proud of jobs well done. It was nothing but sex and drugs for her, and her sense of accomplishment grew. If it faltered, if she felt a single shred of regret, there was always more ‘h’. Claude never ran out of stock.

At the end of an evening, with the bar shut up and the sun about to rise, Babs sat at a table, smoking a cigarette. She dreamily reflected on the abundance of business that night. She was tired and full of pride. Meanwhile, Claude stood behind the bar, licking his huge thumb, counting the evening’s take. His lips, once severe, curled into a smile.

“Hey, Babe. Here’s this evening’s cut.” Claude said, extending a palm of bills over the counter. “We did pretty good tonight.”

Babs leafed through the money, her eyes glittering. “Pretty good?! This is the most I’ve earned in one night yet!”

Claude folded his arms on the counter. “As one rat to another, baby, you’re magic. The best thing that ever happened to the place. To me.”

“I’m fond of you too, Claude. Very fond.” She got up and stretched, jutting out her chest, preparing to return to the hotel.

“No…no, baby. Wait.” Claude said. Babs stood, her bust still thrust. Claude hauled his guitar out from behind the bar. “I’m feeling musical tonight.” He strummed a little intro, and began to sing. It was an old popular song that was new to Babs. “You’re Lucky to Me”, sung in his basso profundo; warm and rich. Babs seated herself again, elbow on the table, chin cradled in her hand. She was amazed that such ham fingers could strum so delicately, so accurately. She was absorbed in the music and gazing at the barkeep and lost in his song. It was all so perfect….

This golden period lasted only about a week. The police showed up, looking for the wench who had threatened customers at the Candl Club with a broken bottle. Fortunately, Babs was alone in the back room at the time, slipping on stockings. Claude poked his head through the curtains.

“Quick, Girly!” Claude swiftly moved inside, putting a small bag on the floor. He dragged the iron bed a little away from the wall. Then he reached for the obscene painting, which Babs barely noticed by now, and took it down. Paul clicked open the door of a round wall safe, very well concealed by the matching paint. Inside it was a nook; long, narrow and dark. He threw in his bag. Then he moved about the room, gathering Babs’ meager belongings, tossing them in after it.

“Oh! So that’s why you call this place ‘The Hole In The Wall’!” Babs snorted and burst out giggling. She was a little high, and giddy with affection.

“That’s right, that’s right. Now, let’s move!!”

Urgent, Claude lifted the girl in his arms and guided her feet first into the opening.

“Wait ‘til I come to get you. No questions!” Claude instructed her, wagging a beefy finger in her face. Then he seemed to remember something. “Oh…” He fumbled in a pocket of his apron, and fished out a handkerchief containing a mystery object. He handed it to her. “This is to give you an easier time of it. Remember, no noise, nothing.”

The last thing Babs saw from inside the black circle was Claude reaching out of her view and shutting the door in her face.

Any womanly evidence gone, he hoped, he replaced the obscene painting. He wiped his hands and maneuvered back behind the bar.

The patrons of the bar were experts at keeping their mouths shut. Two of the cops sauntered over to Claude.

“What about you, Mister? You seen a little brown wren around?”

“Huh? Nossir, I don’t remember any. It’s just us men here at The Hole in The Wall; at least three quarters of the time.”

Meanwhile, two other officers took measured steps to the back room. Suddenly, one of them lurched forward, parting the curtains with his truncheon. He saw the dirty “artwork” on the wall, and turned his head, almost puking. Eyes closed, he slowly shook his head in dismay. It was obviously the work of a hopelessly diseased mind. “No one here, Chief. I’d avoid looking at the painting on the wall. A toxin on the eyes.”

The Chief wrinkled his nose at it, disgusted. Turning to the barkeep, he said sternly, “Alright, Claude. But I’ve got both eyes on you, see? You’re lucky I don’t arrest you for hanging that atrocity in a public place.”

Claude was earnest and compliant. “Oh, yes, Officer. I know. No pranks at The Hole in The Wall. Not a one. Am I right. boys?” The “boys” nodded and voiced grunts of agreement. An occasional half a cliché issued from an individual’s lips. One of them raised his glass to the officers in a silent toast.

Unhappy, the cops stalked from the premises. Claude knew a few would be hanging about on the street for at least two hours. He let four pass.

Babs remained lying on her stomach in the terrible darkness of the tiny compartment. She was desperate to go and look outside…just one little peek. But she had learned that Claude knew his way around. She trusted his judgment and stayed, confining herself to shorter, more silent breaths. She unfolded the handkerchief Claude had handed her. She felt the object’s shape; she daren’t hope for it, but there it was. A hypo! She injected. Suddenly, an extreme rush of relief coursed through her. It was the best “h” she’d ever shot into her vein. Babs marveled at the bartender’s infinite thoughtfulness. What a wonderful friend.

She was unaware of how long she remained in that nook in highly colored bliss.

The door opened.

“Oh, Claude, I…”

“I’m here, baby. Claude is here. You’re rescued at last.” Once he had helped Babs out, she threw herself flat against him, almost coiling herself around his expansive body. She was high; as stoned as hell, out of her mind. Claude was lost for words. He laughed. “Alright, Baby. Alright…”

“Oh, Claude. Oh, dance with me forever.” She buried her face in his huge chest, and began to hum the tune of his serenade. They waltzed around the room together. “I thought of you, Claude. All the time I did business, I was fucking you.” Babs was ready to lead Claude to her mattress, as smoothly as she would one of her marks.

But Claude detained her. “We’ve got to make some fast decisions, Girlie.”

At home, Mona Fago was sewing up a pelican, restoring it to its former lifelike glory. She was freshened, and actually looked forward to returning to the club that night.

Now reopened, trade did not seem to be impaired. It could be that a little notoriety had bolstered business, Mona observed, shaking her head at humanity’s little peccadilloes. The Desbys were overjoyed to be back at work; Sugar Red was doing her job professionally, if looking fatigued; Paul, if anything, was rejuvenated; and Wheezy, was, well, Wheezy. His onstage presence was hardening. He was still playing the country bumpkin, but there was a new coarseness, even hostility. The illusion of camaraderie the team once put over was crumbling. No one in the audience would be shocked now to learn the two men no longer cared for each other. But the crowds still paid to get in, and still laughed. That was all there was to be concerned about.

Mona was delighted not to have heard from Babs, and hoped that she and that damn baby were in the river somewhere. The phone rang. Mona threw her needle away

“Hello, Aunt Mona? I’m calling to tell you I’m leaving.” Then Babs waited for a reaction. Getting none, she continued: “Me and a guy are going to Jamaica.”

This evoked a response from Mona. “What? Babs, what’s happened?”

“I can’t explain. Things are hot now, and I’ve got to hurry. But don’t worry, it’s fine. This guy says we’ll do well over there. Oh, Aunt Mona! I’ve finally found my calling.”

Mona suspected the worst, and asked, “Well, what about your baby?”

“Oh, that’s OK. My guy says the place is crawling with old women willing to babysit her cheap over there.” Mona thought there was a twinge of uneasiness in Babs’s voice about that.

“Well, good bye, Aunt Mona. And, listen, PLEASE don’t breathe a word about this to my folks. I’ll write and tell you when you can. Well…like I said, good bye. Whatever they say in the Jamaican tongues.” And CLICK! Babs was off to new adventures.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: SWEET MISERY OF LOVE

Wheezy tortured Red. Whenever he had a chance, he’d lounge around in Red’s dressing room, staring at her while driving his palm into his fist; or even snapping his belt. Red had to beg off from her gentleman friends. She told them she was sorry; things had become more stressful at the club, whatever. Wheezy had made himself the whole picture, and he continued to present gifts; luxuries and cash. His generosity was astounding and even made Red sick. She did not appreciate it. It was all Wheezy making up for his own guilt, and unable to break the pattern. There was always a slap or a kick to come soon after. Red was being worn down. She had resisted being trapped under his thumb. It didn’t make sense, she being subservient to a burlesque comic. She’d insult him, tell him to get out of her life once and for all, trying to preserve her dignity. But she quickly learned that it would only make him meaner.

Red felt trapped in her situation. She felt less and less competent. She became a machine on stage. Her pretenses of being an “artist” were being crushed. Red’s sense of ego, always on a fragile base to begin with, was being toppled. She was just a slut.

The time Wheezy didn’t owe to Wifey was spent at Red’s home. Sometimes he’d take her out on the town to shrill night clubs and casinos to show off “what he had”. He installed a new set of weights in the house, and would work out a few times a week. This was all the pair did aside from fucking or just laying around the house. Paul would lie on the bed, sloppy and shirtless, watching Red’s television, eating snacks. And he’d spend the rest of the time making sure Red was as miserable as he was.

If Red was caught in a spontaneous dance around the room, Wheezy would crack something like, “What are you, DANCING? Hang it up, baby. You’re not in dance school any more. You’re a STRIPPER and nothing else.” He’d invariably switch the radio to some sports broadcast, and let Red suck on it. Red’s playing her own jazz records was out. Keeping her house ice cold? Forget it. Wheezy would turn the heat up extra high and watch her squirm. Even if Red went out to water the plants, there would be interrogations and putdowns.

“You’ll do as I tell you! Do you understand?? YOU’LL DO AS I TELL YOU!!”

He started inviting his unwholesome friends over to loaf. Men managing to make their tailored suits look second hand; minor league mobsters; third tier hoodlums. They’d show each other their guns and discuss their virtues. Or they’d play poker, Wheezy looking proud as Red emptied ashtrays. Sometimes he’d slap her on the butt, and didn’t protest when his friends began doing it too. What’s a stripper’s ass between friends? Once in a while, Wheezy would turn to her and say, “And listen, slut. Keep your mouth shut.” And the guys around the table would nudge one another, harshly cackling over his crude doggerel.

One night of this, Red revolted; she hurled a tray of beers at the group. Oh, they just couldn’t believe it, and, open mouthed, crosseyed with confusion, looked to Wheezy for protection and justice. Why did she do that, Wheezy? We just don’t understand. Wheezy knew what he had to do. He pulled Red into the bedroom and beat the living daylights out of her, making sure the blows were loud enough to be heard by “the guys”.

Red remained on the floor, gasping and weeping. Wheezy returned to the kitchen to finish his hand. Red zoned out. What else was there to do? She just closed her eyes and checked out of Planet Earth.

It seemed seconds later that Wheezy shook her out of whatever release she found. O.K., Cleopatra. Showtime! And Wheezy performed, abrasively, and Sugar Red performed, on automatic.

After they got back to Red’s, Wheezy hit the pillow and was snoring immediately. It was a dark night, but the room was flooded with moonlight coming in through the picture window. Red felt so tense with anger, she imagined hearing her blood like carbonated water within her head.

What have I got to lose? Nothing.

Suddenly, she relaxed. She walked into the kitchen and, as silently as she could, picked her way through the silverware until she came upon the biggest, sharpest steak knife she owned. She took care pulling it out, not allowing the steak knife to clang or drag against any of the other utensils. She left the drawer open behind her. She couldn’t waste any time on that. Red slithered down the hall, holding the knife in one fist, guiding herself along the wall with the other hand. Only the chirping of the crickets in her little garden could be heard. She walked into the bedroom. She approached the bed, raising the knife slowly as she approached. There was just a split second for her to see the bed was empty before Wheezy’s arms wound around her from behind. He grabbed the wrist with the weapon and squeezed and twisted it. But Red had been pushed over the edge. With her other hand, she raked her nails down Wheezy’s face; down his eyes.

Wheezy yelped, jerking his hands to his face. Released, Red lunged into Wheezy with the knife. She raked it against his stomach. This time he squealed like a pig, and doubled back into the wall, knocking the lamp and clock from the night stand. “You BITCH!!” Hunched before him, Red’s teeth gnashed. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes were blank white with rims of red. Now, gripping his wound, it was Wheezy who was trembling. He could only whisper, “no…don’t…” before Red sprang at him again. They hit the wall and tumbled over each other, the fight now confined to that tiny corner of the bedroom. Red got confused in the darkness. Her eyes flashed around as she tried to get oriented. And sure enough, Wheezy’s fist connected full in her face.

Once again, Red lay huddled on the floor as Wheezy rose to his feet. He was about to give the stripper a good kick in the stomach when he remembered…and saw his stomach wound. He sprang to the bedroom, soaked the wound with a warm washcloth, and applied every substance in the medicine cabinet, grimacing under the sting of the medicines far more than pain from his wound. He tied one of Red’s monogrammed towels around his midsection. Then he staggered into the bedroom and fell on the mattress. Again, he snored almost immediately.

Daylight came and woke Red with a start. She raised herself from the floor into a kneeling position, and saw Wheezy lying on his stomach, snoring loudly.

Jeez, I didn’t kill him, she thought.

Red was comforted, if only by the fact that she had less chance to be sent to prison. But how much less? She tugged Wheezy onto his back, and carefully untied the towel from around his midsection. Thank God, it appeared to be a surface wound, the blood congealed.

Red plodded into the kitchen and sat at the table. All the mess, the bottles and glasses and poker chips, lay scattered in a puddle of beer on the floor. Now what would happen? Another fight with Wheezy, a knock down drag out for all eternity? Red was only annoyed by the thought of it. Just more of the same; more of the shit her life had turned into. She pouted and sulked as a dull eyed Wheezy entered the room in his bathrobe. Leaning against the doorjamb and clutching his midsection, he said, “Listen, baby; I think it’s best that we don’t mention last night to anyone. O.K.?”

“O.K.”. agreed Red.

But somehow they did not part. They still had dull witted sex, and Wheezy would still punch Red on occasion. There was no sign that anything would change.

Red avoided Paul. Even when he greeted her, she gave him only a quick ‘hello’ before retreating into her dressing room, a bathroom or even a closet.

It hurt Paul, but he reasoned there was an explanation. Even if it was Wheezy, Paul thought, well, I don’t own her. She’s a burlesque Queen, maybe one of the best. And used to having her desires met. She could do as she pleased, no matter what any lummox expected from her. There was no question about her sticking to one man; she didn’t owe that to anyone. Paul felt himself fortunate. She was in his life; sometimes. And he was grateful just for that.

When Paul arrived backstage, Wheezy was already in the dressing room. The partners faced in opposite directions, each at his own mirror.

Wheezy said, “Did you ever think about getting married, Paul?”

“I ain’t got nobody, nobody cares for me.”

“Not even one of the females here?”

“Who, the Desbys? Nice girls. Never even crossed my mind.”

“No? Mmm. Nor Sugar Red?”

Paul peered at Wheezy from of the corner of his eye. “Me? Nah. No…she could get a lot better than me.”

“You’re very modest, Paul. But she could be easier than you think. Maybe even a tramp.”

Paul shut his lips tight.

Wheezy continued, “My advice is, move out of your mama’s house, St. Clair. Find yourself a wife. Somebody yours and yours alone.”

Momentary silence. Paul did not like Wheezy talking about his home life, or even mentioning his mother.

Wheezy repeated reflectively, “Yes. Yours and yours alone. You know…what I’d do if some jerk was messing around with someone who was mine and mine alone?”

Paul smirked. “What, you think some guy’s been slipping it to Wifey?”

Wheezy whirled around. “NO, I DO NOT THINK SOME GUY’S BEEN SLIPPING IT…”

Wheezy regained his composure and kept staring holes into Paul’s back. His eyes were up beneath heavy brows. He hissed, “If I thought anyone was slipping it to my one and only, I’d kill him, that’s all. I’d have no compunction about hollowing him out. Even if he was someone VERY CLOSE TO ME.”

“Yeah. Well, if I were you, Wheezy, I’d treat my one and only very well. A lot better than I’ve been seeing you treating the ladies. Too much abuse and they’ll walk out on you. With or without compunction.”

Wheezy rose from the bench, clenched his fists and hovered over Paul. “Don’t you tell me how to conduct my interpersonal relationships. Just take the hint. Move out of yer momma’s house, and find a woman of yer own. Stay out of trouble.” Then he hurled himself out the dressing room, slamming the door.

Paul remained sitting. Wheezy had never brought up his mother before, and Paul didn’t like the way he had just then. He got up, and went into the hall to look for Wheezy. He saw no one, but from behind the closed door of Sugar Red’s room, he heard Wheezy shrieking accusingly. Red returned with some angry shouts. Then a scuffle began. Paul ran to the door, but Miss Fago pushed him aside. She closed the door behind her. There were some muffled murmurs. Then Mona strolled out, looking, at worst, irritated. A few seconds later, Wheezy cast a furious sideways glance at Paul as he stalked out and back to their dressing room. Inside her room, Red sat in front of her mirror, head down on her table, shaking. Paul was poised to go in, when he heard Mona call him. So he obeyed.

Mona was at her desk, her eyes down to the papers she held before her, and said in a friendly voice, “You know, the saddest thing about my job…any producer’s job…is that you start out with creative aspirations, but pretty soon, you end up just managing; papers and people. No time for anything else.”

Her voice turned a bit firmer. She looked up, into Paul’s eyes. “Leave them alone Paul. I know that you’ve been feeling a little gallant lately, but they’re adults. Theoretically.”

Paul just stood there.

Mona put her papers down on the desk. “If Red wants a man who beats her, let her go ahead and get beaten.” She circled her finger over her head. “I don’t understand what the magical power Wheezy holds over these women is, but he’s got it.”

Mona knew very well indeed. She had a yen for it herself. Her gaze moved down to inspect Paul’s groin.

Paul spoke. “But how can I just stand by, and…”

“It’s an order, Paul.” Mona had turned frosty.

No more words. Paul walked out.

Mona straightened her collar and hid behind her work again.

Wheezy sulked at his dressing table.

Paul came back in. They were finishing their makeup when Wheezy growled, “You and Mona were getting kind of cozy in there. What are you doing, lover boy? Adding her ladyship to your string of conquests?”

Oh boy, he’s asking for it, thought Paul. But what was there to do?

He said to Wheezy, “It’s something I’d consider.”

Wheezy snorted derisively, finished, and left, slamming the door.

Paul had written Red off, but two evenings later, backstage while the Twins were performing, she tapped him on the shoulder. “Listen, Paul. I want you to come to my house tomorrow afternoon.”

Paul gave her a curious look.

“Just come. One o’clock”, she said, keeping an eye out. Wheezy’ll be out. PLEASE, Paul.” Then she walked past the standing lights and prop walls into the darkness.

The next afternoon, Paul walked down the street toward Red’s gate. Before him, he carried a card with her street number on the back. He had been here for parties a number of times. He reached the dull, unpainted wooden fence with the false gold numerals nailed to the door. He moved to press the bell, but noticed the door was open by a crack. He nudged his way in, and walked slowly through the deep greenery of the garden. It was nice here. A tranquil contrast to the real city around it. Then he heard the whisper of a picture window drawn open. Sugar Red was in a white pants suit with a flaring collar and a black belt and pumps, topped with all that flaming red hair.

Why did you bring me here, woman? Paul wondered. Why are you torturing me?

Sugar Red bent to him, slipped her arms around him and kissed him. Then she gazed into his eyes, awaiting a response.

Paul response was an irritated one. “It’s been a long time, Red. I can’t say my heart was broken, because I didn’t expect our little thing to last, anyway. That would have been stupid. What can you want from me now?”

“Paul, I wanted to see you to let you know I haven’t been ignoring you; or wanting to, anyway. It’s Wheezy. He won’t let me see anyone. Getting out of the house without him is almost impossible. Today he said he was going to the racetrack. But I have a suspicion he’s out cavorting…” Red looked down, aggravated. She shook her head. She took Paul’s hand. “Come into the house.”

The place was as Paul remembered it, except for the signs of Wheezy’s presence: the fitness magazines that scattered the floor; the odd half empty can of beer or cigar butt; the barbells projecting clumsily from the bedroom door. Clearly there was a man here, and it didn’t look like he was Cary Grant. The esoteric touch was a pair of encyclopedia volumes on the floor in a corner.

“Sit down”, Red invited, dropping on the edge of a couch.

Paul did not share the couch with her. With emphasis, he pulled up its accompanying chair, and sat on it, saying, “It’s not like Wheezy. It was always ok with him if his ladies had sex lives of their own. Just as he always has.”

Sugar Red inhaled before speaking. “It’s because it’s you, Paul. You’re ‘partners’, but he wants everyone around him to suffer. He can’t stand seeing you, well, have me, too.”

To Paul, that was such a small part of what went on between them. Sugar Red had given him support; actually took the time to listen to him. That’s what made him open up to her sexually. He hadn’t even fantasized about her. Over the years, he had worked with scores of dancers. When he was twenty five, he had married a comedienne who drank more than he did; they had intended to help each other. She died within two years. After grieving, Paul continued his job, and, while more guarded than before, he continued to sleep with a variety of co-performers. In the steamy backstage world, flesh against flesh, it was bound to happen. But never had he dreamed that there was care exchanged. He didn’t even want to get involved; most of these women were insane. Sugar Red too, for all he might have known. For a long time, it had seemed that way to him. Normally, she was high strung and not very sociable. But that night, she had shown him a merciful side. She didn’t run away once learning that he was troubled. She had shown concern. She had stayed. That was what touched Paul so deeply and had filled him with joy. A vibrant woman who was not only gorgeous, but had a heart. Paul had only hoped that he could give her something in return.

But Paul wasn’t feeling generous at that moment. Something wasn’t right.

“So what keeps you from telling him to go fuck himself?” he asked, with detached curiosity.

Red looked at the floor and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Laziness, I guess. And fear.”

“Fear?”

“He beats me, Paul. We beat each other. I thought that belting him back would make him back off, but he actually seems to enjoy it! He’s either thriving on rage, or he’s being smarmy and throwing gifts at me. Oh, I’ve decided I’d had my fill plenty of times. But he’s threatening and I’m scared. I’m bigger than he is, but, God. I just don’t feel the confidence any more. When I feel like I’m getting up on my two feet, he puts me down and makes me feel ashamed and ridiculous. About me and my big, stupid body. And I buy it; I don’t know what it is; I don’t know why I’m giving him the power…

“He’s always reminding me that I’m just a goddamn stripper. Even if I snap my fingers to music, he’s said, ‘Save it for the act, slut.’ And laughs! He doesn’t want me to be happy or have any pride at all. And he’s got all this stuff here, and I feel trapped just by the clutter. It’s difficult for me just to get up from that goddamned television set. I mean it’s hard for me to move, Paul. I’m so depressed. He’s doing that on purpose, and it’s killing me anyway.” She banged a fist on the couch. “That’s the part that makes me hate myself. He’s doing it to me, I KNOW IT, and I can’t get up the energy to break away. Or the will, or whatever it takes.”

Paul didn’t know what to say. He felt absolutely incompetent. Is she begging me to take Wheezy on? Or to take her away from it all? What have I got to take her to? An apartment with my mother in it. Why the hell should Red have to leave her own home? How can I help? What am I going to do??

Just then, Red had flung herself into his arms.

“I don’t want to just leave you without saying goodbye.” She threw long, desperate kisses into his face. And clutched at his balls at the same time. When he might have been in ecstasy, a gorgeous stripper in heat hard against him, Paul was desolate. This is what it all adds up to for her, right? Her mind equates everything of value with this. And she assumes it’s all the same to me. I value, I fuck. I’m a man; I’m an animal.

Almost feeling obligated, he threw himself right back at her. Each tried to devour the other, competing to see who would finish first. Paul joined Red on the couch. They groped, rolled and ground on each other. Just then she held him back.

“No; no”, she heaved. “I want to do something to make you feel really good.”

Paul just laid on the couch in a dream. Red dashed into the bathroom and turned on the tub’s hot water on full blast. She came out and guided Paul into the bathroom. Paul’s feet sunk into the soft, white rug. Red had him sink into the water of the steaming tub. She ran her open, greedy palms over his chest and stomach. Humming as she did during Paul’s massages, Red lightly ran her hands up and down his erection. Fondling, stroking. She twined a lazy finger down its length, and drew back up with a firm fist. Then she climbed on top of him, her ass in his face. Paul was given almost no choice but to gnaw. The hot water rose, sank and splashed around their bodies. Red filled her cheeks with Paul’s dick, traveling up and down, pressuring its prominent veins with her tongue. Covering it with smooches. She was intent.

“Wait…” Red breathed. Slick from the water, the huge woman easily slid around so her breasts swung heavily above Paul’s head, barely within the reach of his lips. He strained his neck to suck them as they dangled in his face. In the meantime, Red ground her hips against his pelvis, and, inhaling, lifted them slightly to tuck in his cock. “Okay”, she whispered.

Then she plunged herself around Paul’s penis, smacking them both against the water.

They began slowly. With closed eyes and a tranquil smile, Red hummed as they lazily, gently pumped. Her buttocks, glistening, grinding, rose and plunged. The water suctioned and burped between them.

The couple’s urgency increased, their bodies smacking against one another’s, churning the water, raising froth, eliciting fat, slushing, popping sounds.

Red looked down at Paul with fondness and care. His eyes were closed, his features clenched. He was biting his lower lip. She stroked his brow, kissed his neck. “Paul, you’re such a sweet guy. I really do love to do this with you. Do you like doing it with me?” All Paul was capable of uttering were bleats and gurgles. I hope he’s feeling good, she thought. He’ll remember this. It was good to be helping Paul. It was good…

Paul gasped, his head on the verge of sinking beneath the steaming water. “I hope you don’t mind, Miss Red, but I’m going to come now…”

Just then, she shuddered. “Of course I don’t mind, Darling. I’m going to come, too. I’m going…to come…too.”

Together, they enjoyed a jet of pleasure. Again, their bodies slapped and twisted. They were both wringing every drop. Suddenly, with a sigh, Red sank heavily, and almost laughed when she saw she was submerging Paul. She realized to do so would be cruel and lifted him up so that they kneeled into each others’ bodies. Paul lay in her arms like a rag doll. She lowered her head and sucked away at his lips. Laughing, they resumed their kisses, caressing and rubbing their dripping bodies together.

“Well, I wish I could help”, Paul said just inside the gate.

“Thanks, Paul. I’ll keep tryin’.”

The door clicked shut. The street was getting busier. It was five pm. Offices were closing; people were leaving for home. The first show at The Candl Club would be in about three hours.

Paul was in dread. Not a nice time to be taking the subway. He walked down the stairs, difficult for him because he couldn’t get hold of a banister. Rows of travelers were moving in both directions, and those going up wouldn’t let anyone going down pass. So Paul had to walk in the middle of the stairs. He was uneasy but resigned himself to it. Gray, dirty platforms crowded with people, bumping into and smearing past each other, rumpled, crumpled, gray; looking forlorn or angry or a little lost. Aged tiles reeking of urine. The rumble and screech of an approaching train. Paul crammed his way in. Hard to find a place just to stand.

He was surprised by his dearth of emotion. He’d had her; he’d still be seeing her in the club, nude before him. They’d be cordial but distant. It would be as if nothing personal had ever taken place, or, in any case, nothing that mattered. It had been a mere interlude. It had to be one.

A bigger change would be the one between himself and Wheezy. Instead of hate, Paul felt repulsion. It would be hard working with him from then on. Paul didn’t feel like being in the same room with him.

Paul heard the orchestra go into its time filling “overture”. He trudged through the hall, signaling a glum hello to the stagehands and the Desby Twins. He stopped at the side of the curtain. Wheezy stood there too, which was unusual because he wasn’t due to come on for some time. Half of Wheezy’s face was hit by the stage lights. The other half glowered in the darkness. “Asshole. Stupid creep. Mother fucker.” This final taunt truly stuck in Paul’s craw. It seemed especially drawn out. Was that random or an actual reference about the mother Paul was living with?

Burning, Paul avoided looking at him. His expression switched to a weary grin as he started bouncing onto the stage. He could have sworn that he felt Wheezy’s foot attempting to give him a slight trip. But he was too engrossed in his stage self to give it a second thought. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. He flashed his grin, delivered his light humor and tasteful flatteries, and vocalized. However grim things may be behind the scenes, the show would go on as usual. The real world faded. In fact, Paul even felt in defiance of it. He had entered his own, fictitious, glorious, and he flashed an obscene finger at the world outside. I’m here, buddy. You can’t touch me now. Fuck you. All of you.

“…and now, dear people, I’d like you to meet our Dimpled Damsels of The Dance; those Scintillating Nymphs; The…Desby Twins!!” The music started, the Twins skipped forth past Paul as he returned behind the curtain.

“You’re a mother fucker, you know that?” Wheezy rasped devilishly. “A Mother Fucker!! MOTHER FUCKER!!!”

Oh, no, you’re not gonna blow it now! “Shut up and concentrate on your job!” Paul muttered.

“You can’t tell me how to run my show! I’M the boss here. You’re my trained seal, mother fucker!”

The Desby Twins pressed through between them, back to their dressing room.

Wheezy stalked out as the lights were maneuvered. When the spot flashed on, he was the country bumpkin once again, uttering the same jokes, making the same gestures. His delivery was more abrasive, but the crowd detected nothing. They roared as always. Paul entered, and their exchange carried on as usual. Timing, good as always. Thank goodness the wall between them was not visible.

Paul played his part, growing angrier while Wheezy grew more like a contented child, pleased and proud of getting away with his little prank. Then the punch line came; Wheezy revealed his trick; and Paul flung himself upon him. Instead of wrapping his fist on Wheezy’s collar, Paul wrapped it around his neck, throttling Wheezy, who sank to his knees.

The audience was bamboozled; they came ready for rousing slapstick, but it seemed like they might be paying witness to an assault. A few looked at each other in tragic confusion, then gave little titters, wondering whether they were supposed to laugh. Some were dismayed. This wasn’t funny; what the hell was going on?

The spotlight was still on them. Paul snarled. He brought his fist down into Wheezy’s head repeatedly. Women screamed and men shouted as the bartender and the stagehands dragged St. Clair & Gibson off the stage. This was real. The breakup of their favorite comedy team before their eyes! Lurid! Sensational! Could this be for publicity? A couple of heads scanned the ceiling in search of a Candid Camera.

Backstage, Paul was held from behind by a stagehand. He was bawling and hysterical, in terror over what he had done; just realizing it. The Desbys were in tears. Wheezy was flat on the floor. A stagehand stood over him and the bartender had his head in his lap, looking for signs of life.

Eyes flashing, Mona took each Desby by one shoulder and hissed to them, “Quick, you two! Signal the band to play twice as loud and you dance twice as fast!” In a panic, the girls did just that. Mona’s idea was to distract the crowd from the noise of the backstage turmoil.

The Desby Twins made a peculiar sight, in hysterics and blubbering, their arms and legs pistoning like machines. Since they had already stripped each other bare, they made motions as if they had their costumes, going through their curtsying and simpering at twice the speed as the orchestra played “Nola”, trying to catch up with them. This didn’t do much for the audience, who wondered if the entire club was going berserk. Some patrons, of course, were out the door, leaving their bills behind. Others stuck around out of pure morbid curiosity.

As the hyperkinetic music played on, a trickle of blood oozed from the corner of Wheezy’s mouth.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Paul was practically holding his head in the breast of the stagehand who restrained him.

“Paul…” Wheezy called weakly.

The bartender looked to the weeping straight man and said, “He’s calling for you.” Paul took heed, and knelt down, looking into Wheezy’s eyes. Feeling the greatest remorse, he trembled, gnawing at his lower lip.

Eyes closing, Wheezy repeated, “Paul…” and made a sudden lunge for him. “YOU SON OF A BITCH BASTARD! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU…” The bartender and stagehand pulled him back to the ground. Paul stood frozen a couple of yards away, perspiring.

After several seconds, Wheezy grinned lamely and panted, “It…it’s okay, boys; you can let me go.”

The bartender was suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” Then he screeched and made another desperate grab for Paul. Paul scrambled into the dressing room, and slammed the door.

Wheezy thrashed violently in the arms of the men. “What do we DO with him?” one called out, looking to Miss Fago for guidance.

“Take him to the heating area”, she directed. “Sit on him. Do anything!!” The stagehands and bartender hauled Wheezy, writhing and screaming, down the corridor. Mona called out, “But don’t hurt him!”

Red had been watching the episode from her door with grim, sloe eyed satisfaction.

“Do you think you can do your act tonight?”, Mona asked her urgently. “If you don’t, I’ll have to give them their money back.”

“CAN I??” Red inhaled, throwing off her robe and jutting her bust line forth. “Watch!!”

Red motioned behind the curtain to let the Desbys know they could finish their act. The music came to an exhausted coda as the twins limped off the stage with postures like rag dolls.

No lighting changes, nothing but a band intro as Sugar Red swaggered to the center of the stage, sneered at the crowd with a chummy disdain, and fiercely marched her first parade. It was almost a goosestep. She madly clawed at her clothes. She thrashed her red hair in a fury. Mona watched from backstage, her mouth almost gaping in awe. This girl is really something, Mona thought. A born stripper. After a series of lascivious, violent bumps, Sugar Red positively erupted into an atomic blast of titty shakes and belly rolls, bends and thrusts and convulsions. The crowd made the biggest sound she or Mona had ever heard. For the finish, Red did two cartwheels, making her delicious smacking sound as she hit the floor.

Panting, sweaty, Red struck a coy pose and called out, “That’s All!”, but it was hopeless. She couldn’t be heard. Mona Fago had to collect the money she could and show out the patrons herself.

When Mona returned backstage, she and the Desbys gave Red a great big hand. Red bowed her head and struck “glamour” poses. The Twins were hopping on their toes in excitement, and Mona even confessed to her, “Baby, I was beginning to think this club was cursed! I was ready to give the whole thing up. But you, Sugar Red, have changed my attitude.”

Red reacted almost modestly. “I’m glad, Mona, I’m glad.” They shook hands. Red walked back into her dressing room.

Slick and shiny with her sweat, Red, humming, sponged herself pretty much dry. But she was feeling wild and naughty. She wanted to act upon it. She opened the alleyway door. She saw Beautiful Joe standing, his back to her, holding his hands behind him, thumbs twiddling, waiting for another chance at “conversion”.

“Joe…” she called musically.

Joe turned around. “My girl, I witnessed you hurling your body around in that wicked dance with even greater abandon! What’s more, I witnessed that brawl on that very stage!! Perhaps it is not yet too late! Perhaps you will finally see that your way is the wrong way!! The right way, my child, is God’s way!! And I have come to tell you that…”

Red stepped out away from the door, Gleaming with perspiration, only a few sparkling baubles applied to her nipples and pubes.

Beautiful Joe drew back and gasped in honest horror. His shock was authentic. “My child!! Are you insane?? You dare come out into the city street and parade your nudity before me!! You tempt me with your evil ways!! You walketh my way with thy breasts and legs! Your deviance! Your accoutrements! Your baubles, bangles and beads! You slut! You heathen!!”

Even as he cursed her, Sugar Red slowly drifted his way, her breasts wobbling.

“Come on, Papa Joe”, she smiled, leaning forward and pulling him by the wrist. “No hand jive this time. I’m bidding you welcome to my world tonight.”

Joe was sincere when he pulled back. Her offstage nudity disoriented him completely. “Your tousled red hair… your gleaming red lips…you dare…”

Red slipped one hand around Joe’s waist and supported his arm with the other, for he had collapsed like a house of cards. She gazed down at him with a smile that was almost maternal. Red slung him over his shoulder. “Come on, Beautiful. You were born to share my couch.”

“Filth…” Joe muttered, his heart thumping wildly. “Filth and degradation…”

Meanwhile, affairs had calmed down in the heating room. Wheezy, the two stagehands and the bartender surrounded a card table smoking and playing cards. All four men calmly discussed the scores.

The bartender looked down. “You seem to be OK now, Wheezy.”

“Much better, thank you Otto”, Wheezy returned calmly. “I’ve decided that my career here is finished. I really don’t see how it can continue. I mean, I obviously can’t work with Paul after all this.”

“It’d be hard”, a stagehand agreed.

“I’m gonna see if I can go solo. I need to stretch out; find myself. Let’s not kid ourselves. Comics are on the way out in the flesh pits anyway. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but the end will come. And then St. Clair will be finished.”

“Can’t argue with that, Wheezy”, said the other stagehand.

“Sorry to see you go”, said the stagehand, “but I guess it’s all for the best.”

“Yes, yes…” Wheezy said reflectively.

“Can I let you up now? You gonna be OK?”

“I’m sure of it, fella. I’m just glad you were here to prevent me from doing something I would have regretted.”

Otto untied his ankles from the chair legs. “Sure, Wheezy. We all go there. Some of the times in this club, I’m tellin’ ya…PHEEW!” the bartender said as he arose.

“Yes, yes.” Wheezy repeated. “Well, so long, fellas. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe I won’t.”

“Sure thing”, the bartender said. “Godspeed.” Wheezy walked into the mens’ room.

After about twenty seconds, he stuck his head out the door to make sure the hall was empty. Then he headed for Sugar Red’s dressing room. Wheezy was still in his florid clown’s outfit. His face made a contrast, twisted in a humorless fury. Goddamit, if his own career at the Candl Club was over, so was hers. And he was going to tell her so, no arguments.

He opened the door to find Sugar Red on the couch on top of a man. “Dammit Wheezy, I told you to knock…” Red propped herself on her elbows, head over shoulder, wild hair half masking her face, revealing that the body under hers was Beautiful Joe’s. One arm dangling off the couch, in docile silence, he gave Wheezy a melancholic stare. Surely, Joe was on the pathway to purgatory.

Squeezing the doorknob, Wheezy said between clenched teeth, “You fucking this bum for free?” Then he screamed. “YOU FUCKING HIM FOR FREE??”

Red scowled. “You don’t own me, Wheezy.”

“Stow it. I’m the comic here, Red. As far as I’m concerned, I own you. Body and soul, you cumbersome slut.”

Red stayed on top of Joe, trying to protect him; trying to absorb him into her big nude body. Joe convulsed. Muffled by her flesh, he spluttered, “But, well, my good man, I…” while Red stayed concentrated on Wheezy. “Look, I’ll give your junk back, you bedstain! And your money! But somehow, I’ll be getting your barbells and crap out of MY house! You’re going out of my life, Wheezy! You’re gone!”

“Cow! I own you…I own you…” He pulled Red off the couch by the arm, slapping her. Recovering his breath, Joe lamely protested, “Now, children…now sir, you shall not strike this woman! Thou shalt have the Curse of Jesus upon thee…Let he who cast the first stone…”

He struggled to rise from the couch, suddenly dropping all godly pretension. “Mr. Gibson, please! I’m sorry for having hurt you. But, please, don’t take it out on Sugar Red. She’s a fine, giving lady.”

“You needn’t tell ME how “giving” she is!!” Wheezy clamped his hand over the full of Joe’s face, then shoved him back down on the couch. “YOU hurt ME?? Bless you and fuck you, old weasel!”

Wheezy pounded a meaty fist straight down into the shallowness of Joe’s stomach. “There’s the first stone for you, Fungus Face! There’s more where that came from.” Releasing Red, Wheezy grabbed the edge of the couch and flung it over, spilling Joe to the floor. Scrambling, whimpering, nude, the old man was unable to get back on his feet. He fumbled noisily on his knees and hands to the stage door exit. Wheezy kept up with just a slow walk. Shrieking unintelligibly, Red tried to pull him back, but Wheezy violently shoved her away. Joe, still on the floor, gasping, snatched his trousers from a chair, clutched the banister, succeeded in rising, and, his feet bare, clambered up the clattering staircase. Wheezy was hot after him. Before he got to the stairs, Red cracked a hand mirror over the back of his head. A powerful bust, and glass scattered everywhere. Seeing stars, Wheezy wheeled and exercised his wrath on the naked stripper. Not a new experience for Sugar Red. She was passive under the blows and kicks, satisfied she was detaining Wheezy from catching up with Beautiful Joe.

Joe hid behind the gate that surrounded the subway entrance, cramming himself into his pants. Giving his erection a final tuck, he mumbled to himself that the coast seemed to be clear, and he tiptoed quickly down the steps. The cashier was preoccupied with a novel. Joe knocked on the window of her booth to buy a token. She looked with a passing askance at this shirtless, tousled tramp, but gave him his token and change and went back to reading.

Joe nervously pushed his way through the turnstile. There were only a few passengers waiting for the train. They also looked at him for a few seconds, and just as quickly returned to their papers or staring out into space. Joe quickly stepped to the edge of the platform where the train would be coming in. Dared he hope he had made his escape? Joe stared at the entrance. Then he heard a scrambling of footsteps. Wheezy entered the station and his head swung in Joe’s direction.

He stalked slowly towards Joe, seeming to cherish every precious moment. Joe quaked in panic. He was veiled by a sheet of sweat. He prayed in tongues. He whispered, “no…no….” as the rumbling and rattling of the incoming train swelled from inside the tunnel. Wheezy started to run toward Joe. Thank God he was still so far away on the platform; the train screeched to a halt, the doors opened; Joe pushed his way through the exiting passengers. Then he was ready to enact his great plan. He prepared to dash out of the car, stranding Wheezy inside. But fellow passengers stood in the way. “Please…I must get out”, cried Joe. The passengers gave him a look of, “Well, what are you going to do about it, old man?”, and firmly remained. The doors slammed shut, trapping Joe in the car. A few people looked up at Joe with open disgust, then buried their heads back in their newspapers.

What was there to do? Joe hoped he could get away at the next exit, and he looked at the map of the train’s route. His heart sank. This was an express, and wouldn’t be stopping for quite a while. That would give Wheezy enough time to make his way through the cars to get to Joe. Joe drummed his forehead, silently and fervently asking God for guidance.

He looked through the door’s window at the end of his car. Wheezy was bulling his way through the next car, pushing other riders out of the way.

Then Joe had a notion. He pulled open the door of the end of his car, then slammed it shut, locking it. Wheezy pulled open the door of his own car at the same time, and then tugged at the door of Joe’s car. Finding it locked, he first banged his shoulder on the door. Finding this approach unsuccessful, he mildly tapped on the window, gesturing and mouthing the words for someone to kindly let him in. The passengers stayed frozen where they were, resolutely paying him no attention. Then Wheezy turned behind him, spotting a large, red faced conductor approaching. Beautiful Joe witnessed a little pantomime of Wheezy trying to urge the conductor to unlock the door, on the verge of grabbing his vest. The conductor shrugged, shook his head and apparently refused. Wheezy grew more frantic, blabbering to the conductor and gesturing violently; but the conductor waved him away and walked away in the other direction.

Joe practically did his little dance of religious ecstasy right there on the spot. But his good mood crumbled when he thought: This is all very well, but I can’t just stay here. He’ll change cars as soon as the train comes to a stop. And it would be stopping soon. Screw the people, Beautiful Joe decided. He just stayed rooted, watching Wheezy continue his tantrum. The train slowly screeched to a halt; Joe dashed to the other end of the car like a mad man, kicking people aside and tramping on their feet. Now people responded, and tumbled over each other to keep out of this nut’s way. Joe practically somersaulted through the exit. By this time, the platform had become more crowded, for this was the point of the underground tunnel that changed avenues. Joe peered over passengers’ heads, doing his best to locate Wheezy. He didn’t see him. Hopefully the comic had been trapped by the unmoving heathens inside the car. Joe did his best to lose himself in the crowd and get to the street. But the first staircase he ran up had a locked gate. Typical. Time to find another one. But on his way back down the stairs, Joe spotted Wheezy, a ferocious clown tearing through the crowd. Joe had no time to try finding an open exit. He had to try to lose himself in the mass of people passing through the tunnel. Joe walked as fast as he was able, avoiding people as one would maneuver through a maze. The tunnel was full of the noise of voices and the foul stench of a latrine, and, sure enough, Joe was approaching a deep stream of urine flowing across the pavement. Passengers avoided looking at it, while managing to step around or over it. Barely looking over his shoulder, Joe broke into a run past the puddle, the crowd dodging his path. He heard heels clacking behind him, then an oath and a wet thud. Joe kept running. As he had hoped, Wheezy had slipped and fallen in the mire. And surely no one would want to assist him.

Joe continued running the maze, dodging girders and people, finally, successfully, reaching the platform of the train going in the opposite direction, back to his own neighborhood. He had to shudder for only a few minutes, for the train soon arrived and carried him away.

This time he had a seat all to himself. He sat frozen and frightened, only his eyes darting from one end of the car to the other.

Wheezy, the small one, has grown strong. He might kill me. What can I do, pray for the mercy of God??

For the first time, Joe’s mind was clouded with doubt that the Lord would intervene. After all, Joe had reached this crisis due to his own weakness. But, as time passed and the train chugged, and Joe’s mind grew clear and serene, he wondered if God had indeed granted him mercy. Wheezy had been left far behind. Joe would have to steer clear of The Candl Club from then on. Just when he had hoped he had reached a point of understanding with at least one of its denizens, all of his good works had been shattered. But then, an absent smile came to his lips. He could begin again, in a theatre in the Bronx or Queens…

All was quiet as Joe walked up the steps of the subway’s exit. At last he could breathe easily, but the air was bittersweet. He remembered Sugar Red, the heathen. He’d probably never see her again.

Out of the ink black of the streets behind him flashed the headlights of an auto. It was a taxi. Slowly, it started to follow him. Joe realized Wheezy had arrived at the Coney Island station first. He increased the speed of his walk. The lights kept up with him. Joe ran.

He clambered up the steps of his building. There was no lock on the outer door. Desperate, he ran to the first door he could hide behind; the bordello’s on the first floor.

He rapped frantically on the door’s stained glass window. Big Tallulah’s outline could be seen approaching. She opened her door only a crack and peered through it.

“Joe!!” She opened her door fully.

“ Please…no time. Have mercy. Let me in, please!!”

Tallulah raised her brows, amazed there could be any doubt that she would. “Of course, Joe.”

Then she closed the door and locked it. “What in heaven…”

Joe seemed to come to a tortured realization. He kept looking back, and helplessly sputtered, “Dear God, Tallulah, I hope I haven’t led him here!! You see, I…”

The door started to rattle noisily. Wheezy was trying to open it. As if used to similar situations, Tallulah summoned one of the “girls” to hide Joe. The girl took him by the hand through an inner door. Tallulah opened the outer one and faced Wheezy. He was panting and in a frenzy. Putting on her best boudoir manner she asked him, “And what can I do for you, Big Boy?”

“Don’t ‘Big Boy’ me!!” shouted Wheezy, dodging around in an effort to see behind her. But she was too large. “Where is he, you bitch?”

He hasn’t endeared himself to me so far, Tallulah thought. Then Wheezy tried to push past her. She guarded the doorway with both arms. “Like wot ya see? What you don’t see is even better!” Then she delivered a midair smooch.

“NO I DON’T, YOU FAT CUNT!!” Wheezy screamed, and punched the big whore in the stomach. Tallulah doubled over, and Wheezy squeezed past her. Snarling, he stalked around in the front room. “I’ll find him if I have to tear your “house” apart! Come on, whore, where is he?? Well, alright!!” Wheezy barged into the bordello’s inner rooms.

He broke open a door’s lock. There, a gruesomely obese man laid on the floor in chains and a g-string. A quartet of cooing women fervently tickled him with huge ostrich plumes. Wheezy screamed “Perverts!!” and tried another door.

Inside that room were two women rendered immobile by plush, brightly colored teddy bear bodies, their faces protruding from openings. Just sitting there. One of the women turned a burning eye on Wheezy. “I’m wasting my time here”, he sneered.

Behind the next door, Wheezy found a sight that wasn’t so far out; an ‘Oriental’ room with a belly dancer surrounded by a score of harem girls lying in various states of abandon. He ran into the room and rammed himself in the middle of the group. The girls struck poses of coy outrage, lifting their hands to hide various body parts. “Don’t give me your shit!” He snatched off a girl’s veil, revealing the face of just another simpering slut. He tried another and another, becoming more aggressive and rough. Wheezy tore the next veil off and was stunned. A mouthful of bared teeth, foam dripping from them. “WHAT THE FUCK”, inhaled Wheezy. This dog woman crawled slowly at him on her hands and knees, growling as if on edge of madness. Her hair was swept over her forehead, throwing the upper part of her face into shadow, her eyes glinting in the darkness. Saliva dripped from her mouth.

Wheezy raised his shoulder in a feeble effort to protect himself. “Now you stay away, you weirdo…you…” With a fearsome snarl, the dog woman sprang at him. She was all over Wheezy, tearing off his collar, gnawing at his face, ripping his clothes to shreds. He had a hard time believing this was happening. More than once, he surrendered as if it were a dream. Then a bolt of pain would revive him. He screamed to the other harem girls, “Why don’t you do something to help me??” The girls, standing, gazed down at the spectacle in amusement, tittered like deranged birds, and settled back to watching the belly dancer, who returned to her craft; business as usual, in spite of the yelps of man and beast. Once in a while a girl, seated on the rug, tapped a neighbor’s shoulder. Their eyes would turn back to Wheezy and the dog woman; together the girls would whisper and giggle, their shoulders bobbing, then they’d ignore them again.

Wheezy rolled away from the dog woman, his hands covering his face. The beast continued for him. She had had her taste of blood; now she wanted some flesh. He tore out of the room, and craftily ran through not the first door, but the third one ahead.

He slammed it shut and threw his weight on it. After a few seconds, he tiptoed forth, keeping an eye over his shoulder. He tripped over some sort of stick and pitched forward, plunging into a pool of bile. He wallowed about, wiping the thick substance from his eyes. Wheezy had tripped on a low fence circling a mud bog in which men, women and pigs rolled about together contentedly. They were all issuing small snorts. Wheezy felt the urge to lash out amongst this disgusting group and give them a good beating, but he recalled the danger he was presently in. He lowered himself in the mire and joined the others, his nose bobbing above the surface.

The door creaked. The dog woman pushed it open with her nose, and crawled around the pig sty, sniffing each butt suspiciously.

Shit, this bitch has already had her taste of me, Wheezy thought. I hope she doesn’t recognize the odor of my ass. He held his position. The dog woman moved forward, walking on the flesh protruding from the pool of mud, finally stopping, sitting on Wheezy’s rear end and panting in a normal every day fashion, her head continuing to inspect the room, here to there.

Wheezy decided his time had come. He suddenly kneeled up and slugged the dog woman across the room. The dog woman skittered and tumbled in a heap. The startled pigs jumped from the sty and ran about the room and hallway in noisy chaos. Wheezy dodged around, the little bastards above, below, and beneath his feet. He tripped on a pig, circled and hit another hall door, knocking it open. A white blizzard of live poultry exploded from out the room, honking, crowing. In the midst of this cacophony ran a fellow in his twenties, nude, covered with many freckles and sporting an immense erection, singing “Chicks and geese and ducks better scurry…”

When the chaos subsided, Wheezy looked up to see the dog woman approaching; a tornado of legs and teeth.

Wheezy plunged through a door, and almost walked straight into a buzzing circular saw. Goggle eyed, he looked up and, in a room lined with Victorian wallpaper, saw a woman gagged and bound to a plank on a belt. Above her stood a bony man, nude except for his top hat, mask and very false handlebar moustache. The man looked up at Wheezy and declared, “Ah-HAH! The hero arrives in the nick of time!”, springing forward to apply his whip. Just then, the dog woman lunged into the room. Howling, she pushed Wheezy reeling into the bony villain; the two men and the dog woman scrambled on the floor. The bony man laid cowering; Wheezy managed to run out the door; the dog woman clattered after him; paused, turned, bit the gag off the woman’s mouth and went off again. The woman exploded in an ever loudening scream: “HEEEEEELLLLLPPP!!!”

Wheezy sought refuge in another room. This time, the lights were off. He was able to make out a blonde’s pumping buttocks gleaming like twin moons out of the darkness. “You like me, ah?” she crooned in the moonlight. Wheezy flipped on the switch. The penis belonged to Beautiful Joe, looking barely conscious, as if it were all too much for him; he didn’t want to play any more. He cast his eyes at Wheezy and plaintively shrugged. Wheezy shoved the girl aside, pulled Joe up by the hair, and sent him slamming into a wall. Then Wheezy picked up a wooden chair and smashed it into pieces on Joe’s prone body.

The door blasted open. In desperation, one of the prostitutes had phoned the police. One, then eight of the officers dog piled on Wheezy. Another examined Joe’s body, then ran up the hall to phone the hospital.

Another, apparently the head of the group, scanned the room, and said, “Why is the old man naked? What kind of a joint is this??” He halted, and then asked, “Say, who runs this outfit?”

Fat Tallulah entered the room, placed her fists on her hips, and announced, “I do, Officer.”

The policeman turned, recognizing her. She was one of the district’s big madames who paid off the force on schedule. Even the Chief and his friends indulged in an occasional night of frolic here. This sent him a-tremble. Recovering, he told his men that all was alright; they wanted no more business here.

Two of the cops hoisted Wheezy from the floor; a line of them stood behind, forming a backdrop of black.

Four of the group sat at a table in a restaurant, before Wheezy’s hearing:

“He was a horrible piece of work”, Sugar Red sobbed. “Human scum. He physically abused every entertainer in the club…well, maybe not the Desby girls…but, me and poor Paul. He stepped on us, walked on us. He was the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever seen; he’d act like he was big friends to us in public, but in reality, he was so downright mean…He was physically and mentally abusive to just about everyone who blundered into his path. He practically enslaved me. And Beautiful Joe; he had problems, but he was a warm, kindly person. And defenseless! Only a coward through and through would have attacked him. Wheezy Gibson was just an outright beast! What do they call that type? La Bete Humain?”

Paul St. Clair: “Oh, yes; he was violent. I know part of that may have been the abuse he had to take in the sketch. And that was me. I’m so sorry. But whenever I tried to soft pedal it, he’d tell me he wanted it harder. He was that dedicated to his job. Oh, he was a pro. I’ve got to give him that. But, even outside of the job, he seemed to thrive in a violent atmosphere. Seeing what he was doing to Miss Red…oh, it made me weep. I tried to help, but I was warned to stay out of it. Oh, God, I wish I had done something no matter what anyone had said. He was strong. You wouldn’t think it from a fellow of his size, but the man could pulverize an elephant. He worked on his strength. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I could have done. And that’s why his choosing Beautiful Joe to attack distresses me so. I mean, I wasn’t friends with the fellow, but we had some interesting exchanges. A highly religious man; oh, definitely that. Wouldn’t raise a fist to a fly. The fact that Wheezy didn’t pick on a man who had a chance; well, he’s earned my lifelong contempt. A great performer, but a small human being.”

Mona Fago: “Crazy. An absolute maniac. Sociopath deluxe. I managed to work with it. As Paul said, a consummate professional. He’s a born comedian. Never meant to do anything else. But a temper. You wouldn’t believe how many times I had to calm him down and drag him away from killing someone. It was sad. Really sad. I really do think he’s crazed. Beautiful Joe was a delightful old man. He was a fixture at The Candl Club. He came every time he could afford it. He was a proselytizer, but even that was kind of likeable. Can you imagine a man so naïve he’d try to turn the staff of a burlesque club to God? An unrealistic, loving guy. No kindness in Wheezy at all, not at all.”

The bartender: “Mean man.”

In a few hours, Wheezy Gibson was judged guilty of aggravated assault. Before the judge, Wheezy said nothing. He just gravely looked about. He had expected to feel satisfaction and a theatrical sense of justice, even as he was being dragged out of the courtroom. It wasn’t happening. He was humiliated and frustrated. Dammit, is there nowhere my anger can go?

His sentencing was blandly announced: two to twenty years in prison.

The staff returned to the club in a desolate mood. They were feeling communal. The stagehands walked around checking things, just out of want of something to do. The bartender sat at a table out front for a while. He stared a minute at the table that was Joe’s favorite spot, stretched and went home. The Desby Twins leaned on each other as they walked through the dark halls, not crying, but pouting like disappointed children. Sugar Red shed silent, bitter tears at the injustice. Already she was mourning Joe.

Mona sat on a bench in the hall, her head in her hands. Why even try to live?? It was all so pointless. Paul approached her. He weaved about. He had obviously had a ‘snootful’. ”I’m sorry. Miss Fago. I really am. I…I’m…”

Mona kept her eyes to the floor and shook her palm at him. “Okay, Paul. Thanks. Now go in your dressing room and sleep it off.”

Paul staggered off. “’Sleep it off’? As though…well…”

Mona sat in the welcome silence. Then she heard Sugar Red’s voice. “Oh, Miss Fago. I’m so sad.” Uninvited, she joined Mona on the bench. She fingered a sheet of folded paper. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

Mona looked sideways at her and said, “No.”

Red unfolded the paper. “I wrote this over the last couple of days. I want you to hear it. It’s titled ‘The Journey of Beautiful Joe’.”

Mona gazed at her, incredulous.

“Slight in build but long in power,

Beautiful Joe, our man of the hour

He wasn’t a loser, he was a winner

Because he fought to save we poor sinners.”

“Red, the man isn’t dead”, Mona interrupted. But she continued:

“They said he was odd, they thought he was weird

As he strode forth with his prickly gray beard

Shouting, crooning, spreading the Word

With a wide open heart, but he rarely was heard.”

Tears welled in Red’s eyes.

“Away from his path, he no one could shove,

As he roamed the streets with his message of love,

‘Til one tragic night, he was dealt a cruel blow,

Ending the journey of Beautiful Joe.”

Red did not look to Mona for a response. She folded the paper up again, and creased it hard. She held it in her lap, held her head down, and shed honest tears.

“He was so good.” Her voice became sharper. “He did not deserve this!!”

Mona looked up at Red’s face. “No”, she said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: HATE TRAVELS FAST

Days before Wheezy had been sentenced, he had worked out a schedule in his head; how he was going to make his time behind bars tolerable. The first thing he had planned was to establish himself as the ‘clown of the cell block’. To endear himself to the inmates and the security by regaling them with quips and stories; by appealing to their prurient interests with randy recollections of the strippers he had balled in burlesque. He would use his genius to lighten everyone’s routines. If a guard was getting a little overbearing, Wheezy would hand him a line that would deflate the situation, sending the guard and the prisoners rolling on the concrete. Wheezy saw the warden jumping at the chance to have him do comedy stand ups in the mess hall on occasion, employing his natural gift of laughter to turn the hardened criminals into butter. By benefitting the entire prison, he could do the time “standing on his head”.

Upon entering the system, Wheezy found he had no say about anything. He had, of course, already been stripped of his sartorial splendor. Next was the elimination of any remnant of his individuality. He was pointed, prodded and pushed from office to office; building to building. One full day, into the evening, of standing in line; health testing, paperwork, or for seemingly no reason but the sadistic pleasure of whoever called the shots. At first, Wheezy was certain his sense of wit would hold its cache. Inspired, he’d pop a quip to whoever was alongside him, sharing his trademark ‘bumpkin’ grin. In response, he was met with stares that were masterpieces of annoyance, repulsion, anger, or hate.

He was ushered into a medical area, and a doctor pulled a linen screen behind the two of them.

“Drop your pants and get on the cot”, the thin doctor said without emotion. He held his back to the comic as he noisily stretched on a fresh pair of rubber gloves.

It was all bad enough; Wheezy was anxious not to draw out the process. He lay on his stomach with only the vaguest suspicion of what was to take place. As the doctor let the gloves snap on his wrists, the comedian made a bawdy, desperate joke. The doctor didn’t even look him in the face.

“Yep, well, roll over.” Then Wheezy received the most brutal anal probe he had ever experienced.

As Wheezy weakly rolled off the table, he worked up a half smile and said, “Looking for contraband, eh?” The doctor had his back to him again as he washed his hands in a basin. “Back in line.”

Wheezy was so exhausted and his ego so battered that he had become as demoralized as the others. He never was taken in to hear the warden’s personal welcome to the establishment as he had expected, even hoped for. His eyes glassy, he was guided to his cell, the door slamming coldly behind him. A stark gray cube with two cots. Wheezy was dismayed to find the toilet was open inside the cell, meaning he’d have to shit in front of his cell mate. Wheezy had been almost pathological about shitting privately. He couldn’t even talk to a person through the bathroom door. His greatest comfort was denied him.

His cell mate was present, lying on his own cot with his face to the wall and his legs drawn up in a fetal position.

“Rough life, eh, partner?” Wheezy rasped as he eased down on his own cot.

His cell mate startled him by exploding in a fevered rant of a different language.

As the man raved on, Wheezy bowed his head. Great, I haven’t even anyone to tell me about the place. Or just to talk to. A white hot dread gripped him. Years stretched before him; this cell his home; no more women, no more show biz. Oh, god…Mona…Sugar Red…even the guys…even Paul. Wheezy was ready to explode. He gasped, threw his head back…then turned to his wall just like his new ‘partner’, who was continuing his verbal calisthenics.

Wheezy found himself suddenly abandoned by the staff. He stalked the halls for days. There was only an infinite variety of stale grays and the watery yellow shining through the barred windows. He uttered not one word. He knew one wrong move, one wrong phrase, could lead straight to the trouble he wanted to avoid. Wheezy was suppressing his brutality, hoping it would never surface again during his lifetime. It was what had put him in here. Wheezy wanted to stay on his best behavior and waste as little time behind bars as possible.

He feared his size was working against him. A few inmates turned to their fellows and gestured at him, snorting; flashing the same mocking leers Wheezy had faced in the neighborhood of his youth. He was no longer inspired to concoct any snappy comebacks. When a chore was demanded, he threw himself into it and completed it with impressive speed. Not that it improved matters.

Most of the inmates chose to idle in the yard during the recreation breaks. Wheezy shuffled about, stranded in the crowd. Finally, he tried initiating a conversation with a fellow crouched on a stoop. “What happened, fella? What was your job out in the world?” he asked.

The other guy kept his face buried between his knees.

“I see.” Wheezy said. He supported himself by a hand on the wall. “You know, I was doing comedy in a club. Man, you wouldn’t believe the strippers…”

The other guy squinted up at him, quizzically. Then he muttered with contempt, “show biz…”, and turned his head away. Wheezy felt the rejection. He almost gladly returned to his cell to face the wall.

Inmates started talking to him, or rather, at him. Walking down a hall, Wheezy saw another inmate approaching from the opposite direction. Wheezy lifted his head as they passed each other, nodded ‘hello’, and continued on, his mind buried in his own business. From behind, he heard the inmate mutter “Show biz…” The comedian felt a sense of dread. He was an outsider and not being allowed to forget it.

Pretty soon, it seemed like the entire building was calling from behind, “Hey, Show Biz!” “Show Biz! You gonna dance for us, Mister Show Biz?” At first, Wheezy tried to make light of it. He told himself the inmates were just intimidated by his colorful background, jealous and trying to be funny, which these mental washouts just didn’t know how to do. What they wouldn’t give to wrap one arm around one of the women he had fucked on a regular basis!! But after more days and further taunts came the fury. He wanted to bust heads, even to kill. He knew he could. But he didn’t want to let the assholes make him erupt in a foolish move. He was new; he needed guidance on properly handling the situation without incident. Surely the staff didn’t want trouble to occur either. One morning, he approached a guard sitting in the hall.

Wheezy tried hard to demonstrate the proper respect. They had him over a barrel. This was no time to be flippant.

“Ah…excuse me, sir?”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Well, I’ve been having a problem. You know; bad feelings between me and some of the other inmates. I wanted some advice about properly conducting myself in this kind of situation.”

“Bad feelings? What did you do?”

“It’s nothing that I did, sir. Well, except my profession. I mean, I’m not asking for help. It’s just that I’m having a hard time, and I just wanted to know what I…”

“What did you do on the outside, soldier?”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter…I…” The guard didn’t appear to like being contradicted. Wheezy came out with it. “I was a comedian, sir.” He quickly added, “In burlesque”, hoping that would add a touch of manliness.

The guard actually seemed to be getting angry. “Well, if you knew you wouldn’t fit in here, why did you come?”

Wheezy was irritated. “It wasn’t as if I had a choice, sir.”

“Whaddya mean? What are you, pleading innocence? Begging for mercy? It’s a little late, isn’t it?”

“No, sir. I…”

“Look, you had a choice. Whether to break the law or not. You chose to break it. Live with it. You don’t have a choice now.” He started to look away.

Wheezy was angry. “Look; all I was tryin’ to do here was stay out of trouble.”

“Oh, get out of my face, little man. Use your own judgment. Go back to your cell.”

What choice was there now? Wheezy swallowed hard and walked away.

Now the others were calling, “You running to mama, Show Biz?” And chicken clucks. Wheezy supposed that in some twisted burst of cellblock camaraderie, the guard just flat out told his charges about the discussion; body warmth between foes. Now Wheezy was an appealing little cocktail of stoolie and faggot.

Disgusted, apprehensive, Wheezy avoided all human contact. Any idle time he had was spent lifting weights in the exercise yard. He was intense about it, challenging his strength more and more. It was all he had left, and it was all that mattered. It was if he had gone blind and deaf.

One afternoon, Wheezy was lifting a sixty pound barbell and felt a finger curl up his butt crack. Not one thought crossed his mind as he hurled the barbell straight at the face of the guy behind him. What the consequences of that were, Wheezy never found out, for suddenly countless inmates took advantage of the opportunity to “get” Mister Show Biz and flattened him to the ground, flashing their sharpened forks and spoons. Wheezy felt strange, jellyish sensations; scrapes to his face and piercings of his body. A couple of guards charged up and got in a few kicks to his face in a bid to endear themselves to the prisoners. It was a mad, ugly whirl; no time for all this action and pain too. Wheezy hoisted himself and threw his fists in a rush of ecstasy, his knuckles smashing into one lump of flesh after another. Oh, he was holding his own; he felt fewer and fewer fists lodging at him.

Then meaty paws seized him from every direction. His wrists were held behind him; handcuffs snapped. Without even a chance for his feet to touch the ground, he was hauled back into the building. It was all a blur; he saw only a haze of sunlight, with inmates, bars and walls thrown into black shadow as he was swept into the medic’s office, and his wounds roughly treated. This was awkward with Wheezy’s hands in cuffs, but there was no attempt at being gentle with his limbs. Brushes scrubbed directly into the openings of wounds. The stings of iodine. ‘Fixed up’, he was hauled through a courtyard and shoved into a solitary cell, his wrists still bound. It was a space dark and unreal. He crawled on his knees to the bare cot and collapsed.

Agitated, befuddled, eyes wide open, Wheezy asked himself where he was. How did it all get this way? …Good Lord, he knew perfectly well. He had attacked a fucking old man. Thrown him into a wall and hit him with a chair. A fucking senile, defenseless old man. Jesus, Wheezy would have torn off his own flesh if he could have. But the metal cuffs bit into his wrists. They had been ingeniously fastened to invoke pain. Realizations flooded Wheezy’s mind, and he convulsed pointlessly on the cot. Eventually, sweating heavily, panting, he gave up. He laid on his side, in the same fetal position he had been assuming since his arrival.

At least a few hours later, a guard brought in a tray. Wheezy was still facing the wall. The guard was silent; he placed the tray on the bed before Wheezy’s face and shut the door behind him. Food had arrived in the form of a watery broth.

“Hey, I’m cuffed! Hey, what am I supposed to do with this??” Wheezy called out.

“Suck it!” the guard shouted, his voice echoing as his heels clunked back up the hall.

Indeed, on the plastic tray was an unwrapped straw. Wheezy had to contort his mouth to work the straw between his lips. As advised, he sucked up his dinner.

It seemed at least a day later that a medic made a grudging appearance to look his wounds over. He revealed a sharp face and a red goatee. From his skeletal build, Wheezy could tell it was the same doctor who had given him the violent anal probe. In an effort to impress the medic with his contempt, Wheezy twisted his face in a steely snarl of hate. The doctor ignored it, performed his cursory inspection, and rose to leave. Wheezy screamed at him, “You Bastard!!” The door clanked shut. “YOU BASTARD!!!”

In the hall, the doctor coolly said to a guard in the hall, “You hear that? He called me a bastard?” The guard made a mental note that “Wheezy” Gibson was a danger to himself and others.

As was the prison’s intent, days nor hours existed for Wheezy Gibson in solitary. Just time, the end of which he’d never be told. On his cot, without a blanket, Wheezy tried not to allow any thoughts about “show biz” to enter his mind. He thought of the intricate curves of wood grains in trees, of textures of stones, shapes of clouds, anything that had no meaning to his old lifestyle at all. He recalled his favorite classical pieces and “played” them over in his head. He remembered the Renaissance paintings he had such respect for, and “examined” them in his mind, brushstroke by brushstroke. He wasn’t happier. But he wasn’t wasting time, either. There was nothing else to do.

When Wheezy was let out of solitary, he encountered noticeably less antagonism. Apparently, his fierceness in battle and ability to withstand isolation had made a positive impression. Some inmates even made gestures of friendliness. Isolating himself at the mealtime bench, he’d hear a click on the tabletop. Wheezy would look up to see that an extra ration of sugar had been placed before him. Someone was aware of his sweet tooth. His eyes moved further, straight into the eyes of an inmate, grinning conspiratorially. Then the big lout’s face cracked into a blunt wink!

Occasionally, when he was working out in the yard, he’d hear remarks from passing guards, ostensibly speaking with each other, but loudly enough to make themselves an aural spectacle:

“You know, Gibson has really been coming along with those weights!”

“Oh, yes; he’s looking better than ever before! Jeez, I’d hate to meet that lad in a dark alley!”

The fact that Wheezy remained stony and withheld a response or even an expression garnered further awe in the eyes of those around him in this little, walled world. He was a tough character; a cool customer.

Wheezy’s soul puckered. He was being flattered transparently; simultaneously worshipped and patronized. Nobody in this establishment was for him, no matter how supportive they’d labor to appear. Talk about theatre. This place was show biz on parade; one and all playing their roles very well for their own benefit. Inmates; officers; they were all on the make or the take. There were no ‘good guys’. There was no one to trust enough to confide in. If you uttered one sincere thought, even a prison official would remember it as a chink in your armor, open for everyone to toy with, poke at, and use as they chose. Morality, supposedly the point of this punishment? There was none. It was not a wonder so few really turned “honest” when or if they were released. Anger and amorality were instilled forever. The only real incentive to traveling “the right road” was the craven fear of returning. Only terror; nothing positive, because there was no justice; only a charade.

Wheezy’s anger, forever with him, was baked in a hard shell deep, deep inside his body. It was a tightness near his heart. Living was a torture faced every day. Humans ceased to exist. No more jokes, no more humor. He discovered the smallish library of the unit, stocked with old, warped books from donations and junkheaps; a room that had never crossed his mind before. He played the few battered classical records they had, buried himself in the same art books time and again, and returned to his old pastime: reading the encyclopedia from A to Z. Given this opportunity, he might even finish it. Chores, reading and weights; they comprised his entire existence.

The months passed. Wheezy had at first received occasional letters from old acquaintances, but had never given great attention to answering them, and they had eventually ceased to come in. That was A-OK; he didn’t want to know what he was missing. One morning, Wheezy was handed an envelope. It was the first contact he’d had with the outside in months. He struggled to remain casual as he read the sender’s address. “Joe Thornton”? No idea; he ripped the envelope open. The letter was poorly and painfully typed. Crossed out words and tortured erasures were almost worn through the sheet of paper. Wheezy nearly passed out on learning that the letter was from Beautiful Joe.

“HelloWheezy,

I thought you’d like to be told that I am all right. I thought it might lighten your head while you are in prison. I know that you were mad at me for sharing bed with Sugsr red, and that I was not hurt as much ass they had thought. Maybe you’ll get out of prison sooner since I an alright. The Candle Club is still runnind, I mssyou. I wish no ill will, I thought that I am alright now would make you better. You have survived a hard life but God is a mistry and we cannot know. and keep yYour Faith in our Lord God above all else for He will Save you and prevebt uncontrollable anger from seizing your Heart and making you into a Devil minion. Have Faith and you to will be saved.

Best Wishes doing yr life in prison, beautigul Joe.”

The relevance of “show biz” withered. Suddenly nothing mattered to Wheezy but the fact that he had committed the assault in the first place. How could he have done it?

Wheezy must have been making some pretty loud noise. First his present cellmate was alarmed, then a guard banged the cell door. “Whaddya, Wheezy, making noises or something? Stop it, it isn’t funny.”

The cellmate said helpfully, “He’s not playing. It’s something in that letter he got.”

The guard belched, “Yeah, well, keep it to yourself. We’re running a prison here, not a nursery. Hey, that was pretty good, hah, Wheezy? I gotta try that one out on my old lady when I GO HOME TONIGHT.” Turning grim again, the guard walked away.

The cellmate told Wheezy not to let it throw him. Wheezy shut up.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: ONE LAST CARESS

Meanwhile, another day at the seashore was ending. Beautiful Joe walked the boardwalk back to his building. Once inside, he didn’t go upstairs. He knocked on Big Tallulah’s door. She came out, hugged him and pulled him inside.

“Well, Woman, how have things been today?”

“Oh, hoppin’, hoppin’ Business has been quick and smooth today, Sweets.”

Joe sank into the red velvet living room couch. A few of the girls strolled through the room in lingerie and housecoats. All colors and sizes, hair swept up or hanging in disarray, all greeting him.

Joe squeezed Tallulah close to his side. He remembered the day not long after he returned from the hospital; she had come up to his apartment with some food. Joe said he was at last “feeling his age”. He had asked her if she could use a “man around the house”. Tallulah had readily accepted the proposal. She had been happy about the whole thing. So the entire “stable” helped Joe to move his minimal belongings downstairs into Tallulah’s.

Tallulah encouraged him to forget his own proposals of keeping the place clean and chores done. A woman came by twice a week to take care of those things. She was attractive, too.

The girls had gathered around the pair on the couch. One sat on his lap. Joe closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Girls”, he said, “let us bow our heads in prayer.” They did, and so did Big Tallulah.

“God, we doth thank Thou for the blessings Thou hath given us. We hath all suffered blows and heartbreak through our lives, but through You, the sun hath broken through the clouds and its light hath shown us The Proper Path. Thank Thou for giving us such happy lives. Thank Thou for giving us Love. Thank Thee for giving us a home we can all return to.

In the Name of Our Lord Jesus Christ who cometh from Bethlehem, Amen.”

As one, the women sighed “Amen.” One added in a wee voice, “God bless us, every one.”

The dog woman trotted in, Joe’s pipe and slippers in her mouth. Joe took them with a smile that made his eyes crinkle.

“And that includes you, Angel”, he said, patting her head.

CHAPTER TWENTY: REDEMPTION OF A SORT

Two and one years passed, and Wheezy was released from prison. By then, Wifey had divorced him and had taken most of the possessions. Not feeling obliged to keep up the rental on the suite, she had sold the books, the paintings and statues, generously leaving his share of the proceeds in their old joint account. Wheezy had been set free without a home to go to; just a list of cheap hotels he had been thrown on his way out. He never did meet the warden.

Wheezy rented a room on 50^th and 8^th. It was very small, not unlike his cells in stir had been. The filthy sinks and showers were shared by all the floor’s tenants. As far as Wheezy knew, or cared to know, he had no friends or contacts left. Flipping through a newspaper, Sugar Red’s grin gleamed up at him in a photo that must have been taken at least ten years prior. It was a little advertisement, bordered by drawings of twinkling stars and music notes, for the Candl Club, still in operation; the old gang was still together. Paul St. Clair was working as a single, singing his cornball melodies.

Of course, there was not even a hope of returning.

For weeks, Wheezy stayed buried in his cot under a blanket worn thin by many people, and spent days without eating, having no desire to.

Then he got up. Nothing to do but call around and see if there was any work at any of the theatres or clubs. He dreaded it; he was a jailbird. Would anyone want to associate with him?

He had to make his inquiries on public phones in the streets, as the one in the lobby of the hotel was kept busy by other equally desperate guests. Coins always had to be at his ready to make his stops at the phone booths.

Much to his surprise, Wheezy learned that he had not been totally forgotten. He had gained some dubious notoriety as a fashionably “mad genius”. Old contacts invited him to some of the clubs and theatres. Wheezy was embarrassed by his own clothing, so shabby it almost resembled his old stage costuming, but he’d go.

One late afternoon, Wheezy visited a cavernous theatre, dark in the natural light before business. Silent except for the echoes of midtown traffic. The theatre had been built in The Gilded Age as a glorious opera house. Minor legends had trod that stage. Having survived generations of dirt and degeneration, the structure was now the cheapest kind of burlesque house. The architecture of the days of splendor still stood, but caked with a baroque decay and wasted on the wrong people.

Wheezy stood at the entrance. He gawped at the ceilings as he walked slowly, reverently down the aisle, as if he was in a cathedral. The colors of black, maroon, and old rust, once gold. He was elated. Such places were his genuine homes. The darkness was a cloak of unpredictable promise. The coats of dust were magic, showering on the fascinating squalor. Under carpeting once lush, now thin and ratty, crude reinforcements and patches of repairs were felt, blatantly and wonderfully, through the soles of his shoes. The abysmal glory enveloped him like a mother. He had been away so long. A desperation to return to the womb throbbed within him.

On the other end of the theatre, third row center, sat Gene Grimes, owner and manager, with a face creased by hard work and worry yet still handsome. He turned from his clipboard as Wheezy approached.

“WHEEZY! Wheezy fucking Gibson!!” he rasped. “Glad to see you, pal!!” He enthusiastically grabbed and shook hands, his own spongy with calluses. Then the manager leaned back and splayed his fingers in front of Wheezy’s slimmed physique and mangy attire. “Hey, man! You’re looking elegant. Prison life’s agreed with you, you li’l lug!” He nudged a fist across Wheezy’s cheek.

Wheezy grimaced more inwardly than outwardly. His brows knitted, but he held his grin.

Grimes tossed his clipboard on the seat next to him, invoking a whirl of dust. “Let’s sit down and talk over old times, pal.”

And they did. That’s all they did. At least, Grimes did. Wheezy mostly listened while the other man reeled off the memories and gossip about people they had worked with. It evoked nothing in Wheezy but gnawings of jealousy and regrets of his crucial mistakes and lost years.

“But enough”, Grimes drawled. “Tell me about yourself. What’s up?”

Wheezy bravely managed his depression. He tried to seem casual, as if he was taking everything lightly and he had no concerns whatsoever. Then he broke down. Pleading filled his eyes. He brought up the elephant in the room; that he badly needed a job. Not a canny thing to do, but Wheezy had convinced himself that if Grimes waxed so nostalgic for the good times, he’d want to pick up where they had left off.

From Grimes, there was only a tug of the collar, a shrug of the shoulders.

Wheezy had been gone too long. There just wasn’t much work. Old style burlesque had reached death’s depot. “Sex” films were being run between shows. The old comics, into their seventies, had kept their grip on the remaining scraps and guarded them like dogs. No young blood was coming in or wanted. The remaining comics would drop dead, and that would be the end of that. From there, only the stripping would be left. Grimes stood up and Wheezy’s heart plummeted. More good wishes, more spongy handclasps and glib vows to keep both ears “to the ground”. Grimes seemed detached from his own words. And Wheezy was sent walking back into the cruel sunlight.

These might have been misty eyed reunions for the impresarios, but they left Wheezy miserable…and furious that he had been called down to begin with. To him it meant wasted travel fare and time when he could barely afford either. Couldn’t they tell? He had to keep himself from assaulting these jugheads.

The dead of winter approached. Wheezy’s prison order shoes were crumbling in the snow. He couldn’t easily afford new ones. One evening, soaked through with water, they were just about destroyed. He was prepared to return to his room shoeless. Then, on an empty street, he saw, half covered by the falling snow, a pair of heavy, mangy workboots standing, abandoned, at the side of a building. As he sat on a snowy stoop, pulling them on, he thought that this could have been a sign to keep at it.

Wheezy walked through the hotel lobby after another frustrating day. He had started up the stairs when the clerk hoarsely summoned him to the grilled window and handed him a sliver of note paper carrying a phone message. Looking across the room, Wheezy saw the usual distressed hooker holding the phone in the lobby captive. Anxious, he sprinted back into the street and into a phone booth. Palms sweating, he dialed the number. The receiver was picked up; after a second of the scraping of moving furniture, a voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello; is this…” Wheezy squinted to decipher the handwriting. “…Steve Apnea? I’m Wheezy Gibson. You had left me a phone message?” Stay calm and cool, Wheezy. Allow not one inkling of desperation.

“Oh! Yeah…yeah. Grimes over at the Naught-Ee-Vue told me that you’re available.”

“Well, yes; I’m open to listening to any proposals.” Wheezy said airily.

Wheezy thought he heard a minor snort through the receiver. Apnea continued. “Listen, there’s some guy at The Brass Bedspread who wants to talk to you. Yeah, I know; cute name. Yeah, it is what it sounds like; a West Village hangout. A coffee bar. I can’t tell you what’s going on; whether it means a paying gig or not. You’ll find out how those ‘existentialists’ operate. But the big kid knows your name and wants to meet up with you. I caught a distinct whiff of hero worship, fella.”

As Wheezy hung up, the sun was setting and the sky had turned orange. He was tired; he wrestled with the idea of waiting until tomorrow. But, no. Hero worship was the most promising thing he had experienced in a long time. Wheezy was willing to consider anything; even an amateur gig that bore bare resemblance to the life he had missed for over two and a half years. Maybe there’d be free coffee, anyway. He put another coin in the slot. He wanted to respond before the guy could change his existential mind.

Wheezy entered the coffee bar. He had to climb down a flight of stairs; the Candl all over again. But there the resemblance ended. It was a large, dimly lit space, with walls of raw, unpainted stucco. These walls were covered with profound graffiti and with canvases of the modern school Wheezy so resented. Each the grand finales of a slacker’s tantrums. Mobiles and wine bottles dangled from the ceiling. Checkered tablecloths covered tables that had been grabbed raggle-taggle from any source whatsoever. So had the chairs. Nothing matched. There was a bar with a huge coffee machine against a wall. Near the far corner, a pool table. The air was pure weed and incense.

Here was not the wounded elegance of the theatres. This was squalor flaunted; thrown in one’s face as a challenge. A big ‘fuck you’ to the outsiders. Wheezy was alienated. He who thought he had seen and done everything, now in an environment where shabbiness was a virtue. It’s a changed world, he thought. I’m not sure I belong in it any more.

Danny Rembrandt parted the beaded curtains over a clumsily arched doorway. He was fat and cuddly in his black turtleneck sweater and hound’s-tooth sportscoat. His scalp was cueball clean. He had muttonchops, though, and wore a thick black handlebar under his blunt nose. His calloused toes jutted from his sandals. He smoked a pipe.

Wheezy made his snap judgment. Rembrandt was apparently in his mid thirties, less than ten years younger than himself. His dress was casual, but he seemed earthly enough to do business with. Wheezy feared he’d have to translate English to some jive talking water rat. Rembrandt pumped his hand with great sincerity, as if energy was being transferred.

“Mr. Gibson. I’m pleased to meet with you. My uncle’s told me about your bits. He was a regular guest down at your Candl Club.”

’His uncle’? Wheezy thought. Good Lord, has he hauled me here so I can spin him tales about ‘the good old days’? Wheezy’s hopes sank to his soles. He sat down on a schoolroom chair and folded his fingers at his knees. “Well…what can I do for you… Rembrandt?”

Rembrandt straddled a highchair, leaned down to the comedian and looked into his eyes. He spoke clearly and earnestly. “I’d like you to do a night here at the café. I think it would really be an event.” Then he sat back in his chair. “The fact is, I’d be honored.”

“A solo?” Wheezy was surprised. His eyes scanned the room once again. This didn’t seem like a place for baggy pants antics. Half suspecting a put on, he said: “Well, I think I can come up with a few routines they’ll…”

Rembrandt’s demeanor grew strained and a little uncomfortable. “Well, I wanna tell you, Wheezy…” Rembrandt paused and rubbed the back of his neck, “…we don’t want no ‘routines’.”

Wheezy was quizzical and impatient and frustrated. Also irritated that this whelp had started addressing by his nickname so quickly. In these few minutes, he had come to regard Rembrandt as a youth in spite of the closeness of their ages. Wheezy had suffered the ravages of life, everything anyone might imagine, while Rembrandt was a shut in, an underachiever protected and coddled within a chintzy little West Village womb.

In an effort to wake him up, the comedian leaned forward and hissed between clenched teeth,“Well, what DO you want from me, kid?”

“We’d like you to talk about your years in prison, But, you know, with your sensibilities. Your comedy.”

Wheezy wasn’t certain what was being asked of him, but he took offense. He spread open palms. “What…is funny…about prison? Let me tell you, there’s nothing funny about surviving prison. You don’t even know what it means. What, you think I want to remember those years gone to waste?” The regret welled up within him. “You call that comedy? I mean, you must be sick in the head!! What the hell are you, a bunch of sadists who wanna get their ‘kicks’ by poking an old man and seeing which way he runs?” Wheezy was feeling more aged by the minute, and he wanted to get away. He began to rise while spluttering, “SICK!!”

“Wait, Mr. Gibson!! That’s what I mean!!”

Doubtful, Wheezy stayed standing.

Rembrandt grew intense. He pulled his pipe out from between his perfect white teeth and pointed it up at Wheezy’s face. “You, sir, are a legend of comedy. My old man said you think funny. The fops remember you. But their progeny, our audience; we know you’ve seen the other side. Not only have you been embraced by the Establishment culture as a source of amusement, but you are an outlaw as a man. You’ve lived in both camps. You’ve seen the high life of the schmucks and experienced the lows of the oppressed. You know the hypocrisy and the exploitation, understand? Both sides. Take that to the stage. Make the people know it. But, you know, cool. Get your beefs out in your natural comedy. The squares probably won’t know what they’re hearing. But blast it right at their brick brains anyway, and talk to those of us who CAN dig it. Maybe we can ALL benefit.” Rembrandt halted and inhaled as if the idea was occurring to him all over again. “OH. It would be SO heavy.”

Wheezy thought, hang a suit on this guy, and he’s just a plain old promoter.

“Never heard of anything like THAT before. I’ve never aired my dirty laundry on a stage; I’ve never heard of anybody sane wanting to do it. Or anybody who was insane wanting to.” Wheezy was somewhat touched, however. This was the first time anyone had taken him seriously since his release. Staying friendly, he shook his head. “I…I don’t know, Rembrandt. I don’t think I’m part of the brave new world you’ve got here.”

“Share the world you’ve got, Boss. That’s all there is to it.”

The beatnik had called him “Boss”. Respect. Wheezy was more receptive. He sat in thought.

Rembrandt said, “We’ve got a little cash. If the night goes well, you’ll get more. A cut of the take..” Pause. “Well, you needn’t make a decision now. Now that I’ve put the bug in your brain, let it crawl around a while. I’ll be here. Coffee or anything?”

“Tea.”

Walking back to his hotel, Wheezy realized he had pretty much made up his mind. He’d try the blasted idea. He was aware that his former peers would lick their lips seeing his first loop in a downward spiral. Reduced to playing a café that was strictly Amateur Night at the Zoo; licking his wounded pride with a bunch of self-styled misfits. The enemies Wheezy had made would revel in it. He’d be the laughing stock of burlesque, which in itself would be hitting the rock bottom of life. But he’d do it. He had already been cut off from his old existence, whether he liked it or not. Nothing would ever be the same again.

He holed up in his hotel, sometimes in his room, other times out in the lobby, fumbling with pencils and the cheapest note pad. Out of stone, it seemed, he’d carve out ideas for a monologue. And slap his head as punishment after reading them. One thing he feared was being self pitying. Once people thought of you in that way, they’d never respect you. Wheezy had used humor to mask anything real; he had hidden behind a song and dance. That was the pride of being a professional. Maintaining the masquerade. Never, never let anyone know you, on stage or off. Now he was expected to jump on a podium to spill his guts. In the old clubs, he would have been stoned for that. Wheezy would go on carving, trying to be serious; glumly, jokelessly.

Rembrandt was not enthused the first time around. Wheezy was still in hiding, he complained. He wasn’t getting down to the nitty gritty. He was trying to turn a monologue into a burlesque routine, and it ended up being neither.

“It’s fish nor fowl, Boss.”

Wheezy would go back, think and try again. It was painful, but he came to examine himself. What was the irony in his experiences? What hurt me? What did I do to cause it? His thoughts were scraped from the bottom of his being. Without realizing it, he was psychoanalyzing himself. There came grief. There came guilt. His vision of his situation and what had brought him there began to clear. With the new awareness came the ability to face the issues, and in facing them, he came to see what could be ‘heavy’ or humorous about them. There came a bitter sense of freedom. A psychic surrender. He was like a machine with new oil flushing its gears; his thinking loosened. He stopped editing himself and stopped caring about what ‘the people’ wanted. Between himself and the guidance of Rembrandt and a few hanger outers at the café, he actually started to ‘dig’ what he was coming up with, and enthused about debuting it, even if he wasn’t quite sure himself what it was. He felt young himself; a kid starting anew, not the jaded pro keeping it stale. He actually looked forward to shocking people with truth rather than assuring them that everything was all right.

In a few weeks, Wheezy’s rehearsals had the Bedspread crowd listening intently or slapping their knees. Was it a “hip” crowd’s fascination with a fossil? Were they mocking him? Of course, he revealed his uncertainty to no one. He was always cautious, superstitious even, about planting the seed of doubt.

New sights and new experiences. For the first times since he entered in show business, Wheezy had been taken to make new friends. Most buildings were absolutely poverty stricken; cavernous and dirty. Most of the apartments in them were rented by youngsters blind to the squalor. They were living outside of the constraints of their ancestral homes for the first time; spreading their wings and just gliding, not preoccupied with ’getting somewhere’. Other people were of Wheezy’s own age and even older, settled into the life with a sigh and a shrug; such was the life of the artist. Quite a few seemed content, but there were a few who were ‘players’, who seemed to be taking advantage of a current vogue. Just biding their time until they found a situation to exploit to their own ends.

Wheezy cynically observed the ‘artist types’ (not necessarily artists, he thought) splashing black paint on huge sheets of paper, soaking themselves as well. It wasn’t calligraphy; what the hell was it? He was flabbergasted that such types were just as attached to the Old Masters as he was.

Looking at a bookshelf, Wheezy said, “What? You like Tintoretto too?”

“Sure, man. He’s a master; any reason I shouldn’t like him?”

“No…but why do you do the kind of work you do?”

“It all adds up together, man. We live in an Art World.”

Wheezy felt ill equipped to argue.

Wheezy was among a lot of jazz musicians, most of them friendly, mellow, detached. Not too different from the ones at The Candl Club. Maybe higher. But unlike the band men at the clubs who had no choice but to play “pretty for the people”, these ‘beats’ were going their own way and paying the price; namely, poverty.

Weirdest of all were the poets with their alienated, injured personalities and their blank verse. It all began as noise and nonsense to Wheezy, but he became able to just sit there in his boredom and drink in the words. Maybe he was just hypnotized, but certain word combinations were clever and even made a weird kind of sense. Or perhaps he was growing just as crazy as these people.

Wheezy sat on the sidelines of one of the daft parties that were nightly events. He played a willing wallflower; a role permitted only the elders. He remained on a ratty sofa, watching the parade of fallacies pass. He looked like a Buddha at peace in the swarm.

Then a bedraggled youngster, a frequenter of the Brass Bedspread, approached on his knees. On his head, he carried a cushion balancing a tray of cocaine paraphernalia.

“Come; partake, O Master.”

Wheezy sipped his drink. He had shunned that stuff all his life. Cocaine was for stragglers and lowlifes. He motioned a “no, thank you.” Then he heard a voice ask with icy reverence, “Why do you refuse him, Sir Gibson?”

Wheezy looked up. Perched above him on the back of the sofa was a pale skinned girl with long black hair and bangs. An oversized striped shirt, black Capris almost worn through, and filthy bare feet.

“What’s it to you?” Wheezy asked her.

“This is his honorific. You will hurt him, O Master. He’ll cry for days. He will beat his chest with stones.”

“How does that concern me? I don’t use that shit. It’s for you people.”

“No offense meant, O Master”, the girl declaimed. She pointed to his glass of liquor, clicking her fingernail against it. “What is this but cocaine, sanctioned by world industry?”

Then Wheezy heard weird sounds and looked down again. The long haired, bearded youth still had the paraphernalia balanced on his head, but now he was quivering and issuing sobs, threatening to upset its balance. Wheezy rescued the tray, and held it on his lap, examining its goods. Suddenly he found himself surrounded by faces jammed up close with imploring grins and wide, eager eyes moving from his face to the tray and back again. One face winked.

Hop heads. They must recruit. Fuck it. It was all new to him. He took a half hearted snort. The inside of his head felt as if it had been freshly scrubbed by a cleansing powder and toothbrush. Scum particles remained, burning. It was no miracle. Maybe he didn’t do it right. But his old acrobatic spirit wanted to give the schmucks a shock.

Screaming like a maniac, Wheezy burst a path through the crowded room. The musicians stopped. Beatniks scattered. Wheezy slammed into a wall and did not stop; he ran halfway up it. Twisting as he fell to the floor, he slammed on his belly. Eyes around him widened.

Wheezy stayed stretched out on the floor, propped on his shoulder and running in circles. Partygoers gazed, almost in fear. Rising into a crouch, he did three high somersaults, landed, danced a fevered buck-and-wing, then turned, ran and smashed into another wall. Slowly, he slumped to the floor on his back.

There was complete silence. Then the girl with the filthy feet burst out of the crowd, took down his trousers and turned into a suction pump. The room buzzed with dazzled whispers. Christ had come down from the cross, and He was Wheezy Gibson!!

Wheezy was in a land of ‘show biz’ without linear jokes, without glamour, without sex appeal. It was as if all the old ideals were rejected as bourgeois by these youngsters. Their own martyr’s vision of honesty was their theatre. Wheezy was an outsider within this world, but welcomed as a unique voice because he had assaulted an old man and went to prison for two and a half years. Crazy.

There was an impressive turnout that first night. The guests were veiled by the heavy clouds of cigarette smoke. It seemed that a third of them were the ‘beat’ kids, another third Candl Club audience types, and the last third, old pros from burlesque. The elders looked bemused by the exotic surroundings and people, and, Wheezy guessed, were mystified that he would fall in with them. The Establishment crowd wryly pointed thumbs at the “weirdos”. Some were adjusting their glasses, studying the abstracts and appraising their value. Others, in apprehension, sampled the strange varieties of coffee and winked at the odor of pot. At any rate, they worked hard at keeping themselves culturally apart from the regulars of their surroundings: a jaded looking living skeleton, engulfed in an oversized woolen sweater, strumming a huge guitar; young men and women at a pool table, cigarettes dangling; glum looking coffee drinkers absently nodding their heads to the music or intent over cheap paperbacks.

Rembrandt approached the platform. The music and conversation died down, as if he was an important presence among the regulars.

“Reduce. Down with the decibels, people, please. The house is haunted by a kindred spirit. He’s had it rough. You elders know him for his baggy pants and pies and jibes. You youngsters have gotten hip because he found himself ripped out of the establishment and propelled into an unwilling odyssey behind penitentiary walls. Well, he’s out from behind the bars…(a few supportive whoops and applause from the audience)… and is ready to hit you with a few bricks tonight. Sit down and raise up your cuppa to…Mister…Wheezy Gibson!!”

Applause. Wheezy tripped up to the stage as in days of old, missing the big fanfare that once hailed his entrance. Now there was only an outburst from a bongo and a flute. His impulse was to put on the old mask and deliver a sure fire killer. He thought the matter over. And he began with one. The crowd did not laugh, because this isn’t what they were hoping for. They wanted to be freaked out. Wheezy, a bit abashed, explained to them that this was the old him, and that for him, to believe it was no longer possible. After all he’d seen, he said, rambling through some tales of spectacle and cruelty that had people shaking their heads in dismay. Wheezy captured some ironies of the parallels of the concepts of Law and Order in our world, and the same perverted code within those walls. He spun ironic tales about the peculiar types he’d shared the walls with; the violent encounters and the cool ones, with a parade of imitations, gestures and slang. He compared them to the types he had spent his life with in burlesque and dropped a few names remembered by the old timers with chuckles and nods. He reflected on the contrast between his stage life and his backstage self. He faced his own acts of violence that led to him being put there. Turning intense as silence reigned, Wheezy did his best to describe the tension and sicknesses in his own mind and heart, and how even when he’d committed a near murder, no release had come. His situation only became sicker. Set free, he was a nonentity. Had he achieved an inner peace? Certainly not. Not yet, anyway. After he had been released, he was more conscious than ever of how fucked up everything is. He paused and kneaded his forehead. But that consciousness, he said, that was the gift. It’s a hell of a lot easier to be up against your hate if you are conscious of where it’s coming from. And that education was not thanks to our fine, fine, super fine penal system, or by seeing some divine vision shining through the bars of his lonely cell, but from translating it into the comedy…well, the performance he had given tonight. Maybe there was hope for his old soul; Good Night.

There was a surprising, respectful applause. The most reverential Wheezy Gibson had ever received. His burlesque peers were divided; some were disgusted, seeing him as disgraced, licking his wounds with a bunch of likeminded rejects. To others, more open to being confused, Wheezy had certainly strayed off the terrain of the solid citizen, but they had to give him credit for admitting he had lost his mind. The older civilians nodded to each other and exchanged musings. They had, from a safe distance, been exposed to an underground of the disenfranchised and its perception of those who razed the wounds, thank God we’re not them, thank you very much. The youngsters had their alienation confirmed… by an Establishment icon who had spurned its material gains!

Wheezy was not used to making people “think”. He was proud of making Shriners lose their upper plates. Nevertheless, Rembrandt gave him a percentage of the ‘take’, which was miniscule, and invited him to return as soon as he wanted to.

Because he was so depressed by the hotel he was living in, Wheezy spent more and more time loitering at The Brass Bedspread and walking around the West Village. He was soon appearing at the café every once or two weeks, and became a familiar neighborhood denizen. As such, he was welcome to crash in peoples’ apartments while he was digging up more gigs.

Wheezy did not suffer for lack of sex. He’d go out on the stoop after his recitals, breathing in the cool night air, and bewildered young women flocked around him, urgently asked him their bewildered questions, no one minding if the answers were indecipherable bull shit. The more obscure his statements were, they ‘deeper’ they were assumed to be. In the cafes, on the street, all Wheezy had to do was take his choice. He’d have a room for the night and a bed partner, too.

At the end of one evening, Wheezy was approached by a slim woman in a sable wrap and a black ankle length dress. Her raven hair was severely coiled like springs on either side of her head. Her skirt spread very wide at the bottom. With her pearls agleam, she reminded Wheezy of a jet black Christmas tree. She was a long, cool drink; she looked like a fashion model grown a little long in the tooth. Obviously a “lady of quality”. Wheezy greeted her by lifting an eyebrow. He flashed a sour, pinched grin in an ‘ain’t-I-cool?” mime. And just as quickly, the grin disappeared.

“Mr. Wheezy”, she said in a respectful, undazzled tone. “I very much admire your aesthetic of honesty.”

“Well, like, um, what can I say except I try to keep on a realistic track, you know. I call ‘em as I see ‘em. That’s what a good man does, like. I try to be ‘good’, anyway.”

“That’s just what I appreciate, Mr. Wheezy. I’d like to learn more. Won’t you accompany me to my house for dinner.” It was not posed as an invitation; it was an inevitability.

“Well, like, I don’t know. Like, I’ve got a lot of…”

The society woman maintained her silky smile. “Oh, cut the bullshit, Mr. Wheezy. You could use a nutritious meal, from the looks of you.”

Wheezy was dumbstruck. It had been quite a long time since anyone dared to address him as an equal. “Yeah, well, I…”

“Shut up, Mr. Wheezy. Come along. I’m holding.” How could any red-blooded toker resist that siren song. She curled a finger around his. Her car was sleek and shiny black. Hard to study in the dark, but class even in Braille.

The lady was at the wheel. Wheezy looked back at the buildings of the Village, feeling some big changes could happen. His eyes traveled to the woman’s face, occasionally illuminated by the green, red and yellow lights of the traffic. The whites of her eyeballs flashed; her lips were pursed only slightly, revealing two beautiful rows of pearly teeth. She had an eager, hungry look. Good, thought Wheezy. I could do worse. Some money couldn’t hurt. All I have to do is be inscrutable.

The pair arrived at her sleek, modern building and an attendant took charge of the automobile. Wheezy and the rich woman ascended in an elevator to an uppermost floor. The corridor’s walls blazed yellow. The carpet was blinding white. Wheezy slouched behind her, hands in his pockets, unimpressed. If you’re so fortunate, woman, why are you picking up beatniks in coffee houses?

Ol’ rich woman bent over her lock. Wheezy studied her backside. Her skirt was too dark and wide to read through.

The woman led the way. It was a sumptuous suite. The color scheme of the halls continued; even the drapes and upholstery gleamed white. The woman turned to Wheezy, her neck extending like a giraffe’s. “Oh, pardon me; the name is Kitty DaVore. Some call me “Lady Bountiful”. I’ll go change. Uh…I have a choice of ‘junk’ on the table there. As you like it.”

Kitty strode confidently from the room. By now, recreational drugs were being offered to Wheezy all the time. It was a gesture of fondness more eloquent than any deed could ever be. Besides, he didn’t have to worry about his timing nearly as much now that he was a monologist. Being off kilter and unpredictable was part of the art.

The table groaned with goodies. On a silver tray were straight, alluring lines of cocaine; syringes so full they were ready to shatter, and the most neatly rolled joints Wheezy had ever seen. All he wanted now was mellow, so he selected the shapeliest joint.

Wheezy sucked on the joint and pinched his forehead. He had a hell of life. His path had been unchartable. But he had to admit he’d never been bored. He lingered on the infinity of change there had been since his burlesque days. It boggled the mind. So did the shit he was smoking. Smooth as silk, just like that woman’s smile.

“Oh, Mr. Wheezy,” Kitty’s voice called from the back of the apartment. It was like listening to pouring syrup. “I’m ready now.”

Wheezy got up and meandered about in search of the bedroom. “No, Mr. Wheezy. Here…in the kitchen!”

What the hell..?! In a drab little kitchen, complete with linoleum and checkered tablecloth, a pleasant, prosaic, lower middle class meal awaited him. Kitty stood over the sink in a housecoat the shabbiest housewife would wear. Her hair was wrapped in a bandana.

“Enjoy your meal, dear!” she called over her shoulder.

Jeez, Wheezy imagined a woman like this would have a servant or two. And what was with the pocket of poverty bit? Oh well. He tucked into the steak, potatoes and iceberg lettuce. Kitty ate nothing herself. She just sat on the opposite side of the table, cradling her chin in folded hands and stared at Wheezy contentedly.

“Is it good?”, she cooed.

Remembering his persona, Wheezy said grumpily, “Nectar of the gods, baby.” Just to give her a thrill, he issued a hard belch.

Kitty kept staring at him while the silverware clicked away.

“Remember that assault you committed, Wheezy?”

Wheezy choked on his food. “Hey, what is this?”, his mouth still filled with food. “What kind of thing is that to ask??”

The woman cringed, wearing a coy smile. “Ooh, Marlon; are you going to beat up your little Stella??”

Before Wheezy could react, Kitty arose and pushed the table out of the room. Bewildered, Wheezy reached forward. “Here, let me help you with that…”

“Oh, no, Marlon; don’t assist your little downtrodden little wife!”, she said, continuing to push the table into the hall. She turned to Wheezy, panting, her pelvis thrust at him. She fanned her face with her hand. “Now, Marlon! Recite for your little wife!”

“Poems?” Wheezy was crosseyed with confusion. “I ain’t got no love poems, baby!!”

“Not some stupid love poem, Marlon! Something relevant! The angriest monologue you’ve got inside you! HIT IT TO ME, POPPA!”

“Look, what is this ‘Marlon’ shit??”

“JUST DO IT!!”

Wheezy swallowed hard, inhaled, and started into his monologue about his nearly killing Beautiful Joe, and the cops throwing him around, and his existence in prison. His mouth filled with an acrid taste. He was growing angry.

“Now, strike me, Marlon!!”

Wheezy just stood there.

“DO IT!!”

Wheezy gave her a mild little cuff. Kitty loudly collapsed to the floor on purpose. “No; aren’t you a man, you slab of beef??! HURT ME!!”

“You’re a weird chick.” He looked at the exit. The table was blocking the doorway.

“DO IT, Marlon.” Weakly, she squeaked, “I’ll pay you.”

Wheezy shut his eyes tightly. He tightened his hands into fists. Kitty remained on the floor.

“come on, marlon…you remember how you assaulted that old man. You must have given your women…those strippers…similar treatment. Give it to me. I deserve it.”

“Jesus”, he hissed. He hit Kitty in the face with his fist. “That’s right, Marlon. Now kick your wife!! But keep talking about prison.” Wheezy continued his monologue as he kicked Kitty again and again.

“Now whip me with that cord, Marlon!”

“What??...No, I…”

“Please…” she said weakly. “I deserve it.”

Wheezy picked up the extension cord. He fingered it.

“DO IT, MARLON!! DO IT!!”

He thrashed her, all the while talking prison.

She continued heaving and crying and repeating, “I deserve it…I deserve it…”

Wheezy was ashamed. In a daze, he sat on the kitchen table and looked down at poor Kitty. He couldn’t just leave.

Kitty got up, crawled to Wheezy’s feet, and threw her arms around his ankles, kissing his shoes fervently and repeatedly. “Wheezy…I knew you’d do it for me. I deserved it…every bit of it.”

Wheezy asked, “WHY do you think you deserve it, lady?”

“Because I’m rich.”

Wheezy did a double take.

“Your kind…you suffer so while people like my kind suck you dry. Don’t you get pleasure from getting even?”

“Well, actually, no, Lady. Why don’t you give your earthly possessions to the Army-Navy store or something? This is pointless.”

Kitty still clung to his ankles. She gave his shoes a long, sucking kiss. “Because I need it, Wheezy. You’ve suffered. Make me suffer?...please?”

He said nothing; just pushed the table out of the way and, keeping his eyes off the lady, stalked out of the room. I’ve got the reputation of a deranged sadist now. A psycho.

Kitty trailed closely behind him. “Just a minute”, she called. She picked a purse off a table and handed Wheezy a fat roll of bills. She flashed her teeth once again. “Now the narcotics; would you care to take them home in a doggie bag?”

Oh, yeah, that’s the first thing I need, lady, Wheezy thought. To get caught with a bag full of that shit. He scooped up a handful of reefers. “Thanks, Kitty. I’ll take these, anyway.”

“Thank you, Wheezy; thank you.” One arm wrapped tight around his waist, she slipped him some tongue. “You know”, she whispered, “You’re a real gentleman. I know others who’d appreciate your…services.” Fishing in a pocket of her housecoat, she slipped him a card with her address printed on it. “If you need some extra income, call me.” Kitty stepped back. “The attendant downstairs will drive you back home. Good night, Mr. Wheezy.”

In the car carrying him back to the Village, Wheezy weighed his options. After all, cash is cash.

He and his friends shared bitter laughter. Sex Life of the Phillistines! So this was how society’s cream got their extracurricular kicks! It was hilarious and disgusting.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE:

Paul St. Clair was continuing as MC and house singer at The Candl Club. He arrived at three one afternoon. On his way to his dressing room, Mona Fago entered his dressing room and asked him out to lunch. Mona was careful not to take him to a place that served liquor; they went to a non descript coffee shop a few blocks away. They sat at a booth. A waitress arrived.

“Anything you want, Paul; I’m buying.” Paul smiled “okay, Boss!” and ordered meat loaf. Mona had vegetable soup.

After the meal was finished, Mona gravely said she had some bad news: “Paul, I’ll be dropping you in two months.”

Paul was thunderstruck. Immediately, he blamed himself. What could he have done wrong?

He stared down at the food scraps. “Where did I fail, Miss Fago?”

“Paul, you failed nowhere.” She touched his sleeve. “You’ve been doing a fine job. But the club’s going to an all-dancer policy, Paul. It’s the flesh that brings the folks in; not comedy and good music.”

So it had at last happened. They had wised up that his role in the operation was a sham, and were at last acting upon it.

Tears came to Paul’s eyes. “Oh God, Miss Fago; how will I survive? This has been my home for at least ten years. Where’s a broken down MC going to go?”

Mona placed her hands over his. “Listen, Paul. I understand radio is dying…”

“Oh God…”

“…But television is opening up. With your voice there are a lot of things you can try. Forget the clubs. We’re dying too. That’s just the point.”

“Well, yeah…I suppose I can.” Paul sat with his hands wrapped before him. “But, oh God. My safety is all gone. I don’t know if I’ve even got the balls to start all over again. It’s wearying.”

Mona intensely regretted her own cruelty. He was the saddest, most fearful man she had ever known.

“Paul; look. You won’t be doing it alone. Any afternoon you want, you can come to my office, and we can both look at the trades.”

This made things seem less bleak to Paul. He agreed.

“But, Paul. Don’t go back to drinking heavily because of this. That’ll ace you out of any job. When you feel the urge to do it again, think of all of us. Think of me. We’re all pulling for you. You’ll make out.”

Five in the morning, Paul arrived home to greet Mama doing her ‘daily dozen’.

Paul dropped in the easy chair, feeling the great loss in his life. The cat jumped into his lap. “Mama. I’ve been let go from the club.” He quickly added, “But I’ve got another two months. It isn’t because of anything I’ve done. There’s a new policy at the club, and they don’t need an MC any more. But don’t worry; I’m gonna make it through.”

Mama stopped exercising. She remained on the floor with her head turned to him. “There’s no question of that, Paul. I know that job was just about your whole life. But there is no question you’ll make it through. No question…at…all.” Then she returned to being a maniac health nut.

Paul sat back and watched her. What the hell….

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO: PAYCHECKS DON’T LIE

Red had renewed relationships with many of her male friends. Most welcomed of all was Mr. Browne.

After he had escorted Red home one evening, Browne sat on her sofa hunched forward, his arms folded across his legs.

Red approached with a pot of coffee. “What’s the matter? You don’t look happy tonight.”

Browne looked up at her with weary eyes. “Well, I’m not, Kitten. The wife has had enough. It looks like the divorce court.”

Red joined him on the sofa. She squeezed his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Browne.” Actually, she was and she wasn’t.

“I never wanted to part with her for good,” he said. “But what can I do?”

Red leaned back on the sofa. She shrugged. “Well, I might be willing to take up the slack.”

Mr. Browne looked at her, incredulous. He broke out into a smile. Damned good idea! They embraced. There were no more decisions to be made. Mo second thoughts to mar this spur of the moment ecstacy.

Upon hearing the news, the Desby Twins reacted predictably, jumping alternately like pistons. The bartender grinned grotesquely, and the stagehands grimaced helplessly over the sexual power of money. Paul and Mona looked at each other sideways: didn’t you just know this would happen? The new strippers, already in air over their debut in ‘show business’, cheered in airy, quizzical happiness as mere outsiders would.

After the last show, Red, Mona, Paul and the Desbys joined at the coffee shop to celebrate.

Grouped at a table, Paul looked around at the circle of women. All beautiful in their unique, distinctive ways. The Desby Twins, curly haired, dimpled, well built little pictures of the essence of chirp. Paul didn’t know how they kept it up, with the rowdy lives they were all leading. He didn’t really know them at all. Just their happy presence.

Sugar Red of the flaming hair, the heavy eyelids, the throaty laugh and red mouth. Red with the high and mighty attitude and damaged ego. She had, without intention, saved Paul’s life. Through no choice of her own, she had had to defend herself all of her life, and naturally there was a hard shell, but that shell was easily be broken if she cared about a person or they cared about her. That was what she yearned for all the while. She was the embodiment of carnal love, and that, as far as society was concerned, was all she could possibly need. She did love sex, and readily accepted it as an approximation since there was rarely a choice. Paul hoped that this ‘mogul’ of hers saw her as a human being.

Mona Fago, soon to be his ex-boss. Hair in a loose bun, the cat’s eye glasses, the high cheekbones and great poise, even under pressure. She was of a VOGUE type, cool green, detached beauty. It wasn’t hard to believe she had been a stripper some years back. Paul imagined she would have come on with an imperious stage presence, the kind that made men feel as if they were receiving a Royal Gift when she removed a garter. Paul could see her as the kind who would have been billed as “The Duchess” or “The Blue Eyed White Russian”. Mona spoke disparagingly about her dancing days. She insisted she didn’t have the sensuality to succeed in stripping. People always spoke in hushed tones of Sugar Red being the consummate expert of the profession. Mona was another kind of less celebrated expert; she could handle people. It was she who held the show together. She knew people well, but hadn’t grown to dislike them to the point of losing the awareness that they were as human as she and that she was just as full of flaws as they. She was harsh, but with wisdom and gentility.

They were all artists, all professionals. Paul was so happy to have been part of it all. But if the business had changed, so be it.

Meanwhile, Mona continued auditioning dancers. Paul witnessed a motley parade of hopefuls passing the office for their auditions.

Most of them were barely out of their teens. Sex held no ‘mystery’ as it had for their elders. Artistry and mystery were unknown distractions. The girls shed their clothes quickly and shook their meat frankly.

There was no falsity; the new breed was too young, too ‘fast’, and too unsophisticated to concern themselves with anything but the crude exhibition of their bodies.

It had Sugar Red grumbling out loud. “They’ve forgotten what made it great,” Red whispered to herself in her dressing room. “No glamour. No tease! It’s supposed to be an uplifting experience. Dreams come true; not just walking on, dumping it on the table and leaving. No style here. It’s stupid.”

Paul leaned in through the doorway. “Why don’t you show them how, Red?” he asked her with a smile.

Red looked incredulous. “What? I’m gonna give away free secrets?”

Mona Fago had no misgivings. After all, business was business. She saw the way things had been going. The old Shriner and Masons’ club audiences weren’t going to continue having their nights on the town, she had concluded. Why go out when you’re getting old and can stay home and watch The June Taylor Dancers for free? Now that TV was giving them the shows in their very own homes, it was time to ramp it up at the clubs, to cater to the young and the lonely. Less ‘glamour’. More flesh. Mona shrugged. She didn’t want to close like so many other places had.

But even Mona, after seeing the umpteenth kid off the streets going through meaningless thrusts, concluded that they lacked competence. She called Sugar Red aside.

“Red, this is getting monotonous. There’s no skill here; just a bunch of penny ante prostitutes. They wouldn’t pass an audition in Tijuana. I’d like you to step in and speak to the girls we’re hiring. Run them through their paces; show them how to do the moves with a degree of professionalism.”

Once again, Sugar Red objected. Why should she teach youngsters how to take over her job? It had taken her years to hone her craft. Lion tamers and witch doctors don’t give away their secrets, either. Mona assured her once again: no one could take her place. It was a matter of keeping The Candl Club from being a mere cooch house. True exotic dancing was a dying art. Sugar Red was the only one keeping it on life support.

Her ego and loyalty stroked, Red began teaching. Her bosom looking impressive in black leotards, she would sit at a table in front of the stage. Scurvy provided piano rhythms.

A plump, tittering young woman stepped onto the platform. Red asked her name.

“Heather Sweetbody”, she answered coyly.

Amen, Red thought bitterly. Well, she’s got one of those goofy, voluptuous bodies. A corn fed cutie. The wet dream of middle aged men from coast to coast. When she comes on the stage with those wide hips and bouncing titties, they’ll shoot for miles. Raw material. Very raw, but with undeniable potential. She reminded Red of herself in her bloom of youth.

It’s up to me to see that all this ‘talent’ doesn’t go to waste, she mused.

“Well, Miss Sweetbody, let’s see what you’ve got to offer”, clearing her throat at the end.

Miss Sweetbody began with her back to the audience, swiveling that ripe ass.

Right off at the halfway mark, Red thought. The art is over.

When Miss Sweetbody finished, Red clapped her hands lamely, and rewarded her with, “That was fine. That was worthy”, and unceremoniously joined her on the platform to whip her into shape. Red struck the poses and demonstrated how to twist and turn with skill and not just sexuality. The hopefuls huddled at tables in the back widened their eyes and nodded to each other. This woman was the real thing!

The new girls had the sex; Red proceeded to teach them the craft. She assessed each girl’s personalities and best features, and encouraged each individual to capitalize on them for the greatest sexual effect, always with some demonstration. Soon, the girls were moving with more intellect and purpose. Mona was impressed.

Wiping her neck with a towel, Red stood back and witnessed the results of her shared knowledge. Being able to watch others she had mentored filled her with a different kind of pride.

I did that!

Now she felt that she was not just watching an art deteriorating; she was doing her part in keeping it vital!

Miss Fago congratulated Red. The stripper walked away on pink clouds. But Mona kneaded her forehead as Red left the stage. Mona knew the mission was far from accomplished. She had let Red go a little too far in setting the artistic mood. Red had made the girls dancers, but her concepts of stripping were outmoded. Elegance wasn’t going to draw the crowds, not when obscenity was necessary; something that would whop ‘em in the gut and snatch hold of their cocks from minute one. With a creative fervor long dormant, Mona made notes and jottings, and, within a few days, was giving the new dancers further instructions herself.

A few days later, Wheezy called Kitty back to see if she had been ‘real’ about that offer. She assured him she had, and told him to appear at the garden of a certain women’s club at three the next afternoon.

Women’s CLUB?? He wondered after hanging up the phone.

As was his nonchalantly antiestablishment habit, Wheezy arrived about twenty minutes late, and was guided into the garden by a series of high toned attendants. He stopped short when he saw a line of middle aged ladies, in foundation garments, lingerie, or in the “altogether”, trussed up in front of a chariot like horses. A number of them jogged in place. The matron in the lead called him over. She told him to put on the Nero-like tunic resting on the garden chair. Wheezy, making a strong effort to maintain his coolness, took off his street clothes, and heard a few wolf whistles and purrs of approval behind him. Slipping on the tunic, not an especially clean one, he spread it before his eyes like a girl’s skirt, looked up at the matron and asked irritably, “What now?”

“Get in the chariot, Mr. Wheezy. Now. See that megaphone?”

“Yeah…?” He held it up before him, inspecting it in puzzlement.

“We want you to recite your lovely rhyme about murder and prison through it. And, occasionally, use that whip.”

The whip was coiled on the side of the chariot. “My lovely ‘rhyme’”, he mumbled to himself. That statement alone would help him to enjoy this gig. He cracked the whip over the womens’ heads, and they broke into a trot along the garden path. The women snorted and whinnied through their harnesses. Through the greenery and butterflies they traveled, and as Wheezy cracked his whip, he reached a state of peace that was broken only when he was obliged to deliver his own dialog. It was cheapened; this sado masochistic charade was beneath his dignity. It was a mockery of all his true life experiences and demons. But he was making good money. He was getting a payback for all his years wasted in jail and for the loss of his career in comedy. Years ago, if asked to do this for nothing, he would have been ecstatic. Imagine making mazumah for lashing these old crones! But now it was just money. He was the trollop, and he was taking his art for the ride.

After the last lap, the women collapsed on the green in a sweating, panting, satiated heap. Without a sound, Wheezy stepped from the chariot and put his clothes back on. An attendant approached and handed him a thick envelope containing his payment. Then the realization flashed into Wheezy’s mind: These hens have each made individual payments for this travesty! I’m flush!!

The pot and espresso were on Wheezy that night.

As the weeks passed, Paul pored through industry newspapers.

When Mona would return to her office, she’d periodically huddle with Paul over them. With her guidance and encouragement, Paul had glossies made and business cards printed up. They’d circle cattle calls in the want ads. Paul would pound the ol’ pavement and hated every second of it. He’d often meet people who remembered his name. Smiles more sympathetic than sincere. Little nibbles. Sometime soon.

Dejected, Paul reentered Mona’s office to go through more trade papers. Mona came in, and told Paul that she had good news; a possible lead. One of her connections was doing some film sound work and was looking for an announcer. Paul lit up.

“Let me call him up”, Mona said.

Paul sat while Mona called the man up, speaking highly of Paul. Good voice. Nice fellow. Easy to work with. A quick study. A few formalities, and she hung up.

“Okay, Paul. You’ve got an audition on Thursday, 11 AM.”

“Mona, thank you…”

“I hope it adds up to something.”

“Conquistador Sound Services”. The office was in a bleak industrial part of town, a characterless square of concrete. Paul pressed the front door buzzer and waited. The door clicked. A balding man wearing hornrimmed glasses, a shabby vest and an undone tie pulled the door open. A cigarette stub dangled from his lips. He looked a little dodgy, as if trouble was a distinct possibility. Then he calmed down.

There was little light, little space, and not enough air in the hallway. The linoleum floor was unmopped and strewn with strips of notepaper. It was the hallway of a slum tenement. The one source of light was a window at its end. The man led the way through a side door into a tiny recording booth. He pointed to two sheets of typed paper on a music stand.

“This is the copy. Study it and please be ready for a test in ten minutes.”

The man closed the door and went into the engineering booth.

Simple enough, thought Paul. He was almost disappointed. He had hoped for a little time to become familiar with the studio. He read the first lines to himself and did a small double take.

“THE BROAD BUTCHERS! Women are the tainted meat they carve and serve piping hot!! Carnality for the carnivorous!!”

Hey…this was narration for the trailer of a dirty movie! Paul was titillated. This was the kind of crap that was pushing live burlesque out of the theatres. The skin world was so closely knit, it figured that this was one of Miss Fago’s connections. Paul smiled. Moving on to this sort of garbage was keeping in step with the times; ironic and appropriate, if not dignified. A gig’s a gig, he thought, and tore into his reading. Snarling, cackling…the choke of moral outrage …the leer of lust.

“Plus! Extra Added Attraction: Top secret medical footage of the birth of the Gabor Sisters! Six lovely nurses will be in attendance in case of nausea; all you have to do is whistle!”

He morosely belched the final announcement: “THE BROAD BUTCHERS !!!! Don’t let them spoil…your night…Filmed in ErotiScope!!” The man behind the window signaled “OK”, and came out smiling faintly. “You’ll do. Do it once more, and you’ll get your check. Free as air.”

Paul was awed. “Right here? I needn’t come back?”

“What for? You got it right”, the man said over his shoulder as he left the booth.

Paul puckered his lips. How long has this been going on?, he thought.

Paul continued coming to the club. He and Mona had come to an unspoken agreement that as long as he paid his percentage of the phone bill, he was welcome to share her office as his Manhattan headquarters. Announcing work for the smut pictures picked up. Other gigs started coming in; “party” records of racy comedy songs and sketches, and kiddie records on which he’d sing little jingles concerning Snow White and Rose Red, or other such literary personages. The money, what there was of it, began adding up to a respectable sum.

‘Beat’ monologist Wheezy Gibson was certainly not living in the style to which he had once been accustomed. To maintain a semblance of affluence, he relied increasingly on the society women for his income. Once again, he left a note for his current bedmate on the kitchen table:

“Hey Babe,

I’ll be back later tonight. I have to go ‘service’ another of the old broads.

All the love I can spare, Wheezy.”

He felt like a clown again, but a mirthless one. His present “gig” required him to squeeze into a leather boy’s outfit, replete with a maze of studs. He stood waiting in the garage of his “client”, a buxom, trembling dowager who insisted on being smooched and cuddled as she hung on his arm. The woman was nearing sixty. Her costume: that of a cheerleader in yellow and pink, a bow in her hair. And saddle shoes. Days prior, she had pulled some of her matronly strings and arranged to rent the outskirts of a cemetery for a midsummer night’s spree.

Wheezy was repulsed. But by this time he had reached the edge of his self respect, so he might as well jump off.

Grim, cadaverous; resembling a green skinned Abraham Lincoln, the dowager’s chauffer hauled a medium sized motor scooter into the garage and hitched it on the trunk of the car. The dowager said to Wheezy, “I remember one of your interviews. You drive these, don’t you?”

“I have. But not since…” Wheezy mumbled.

“Oh, one never forgets”, giggled the dowager, hustling him into the car.

The chauffer steered the automobile through the stark night. Traffic noise was left behind. The dowager towered over Wheezy in the back seat. She caressed him like a doll in her meaty arms. He was barely conscious; just filled with hate for this whole stinking world.

The car passed through the iron gates, and continued over the pathway of tombstones and crypts. The car’s headlights were the only illuminants for miles. The only sounds apart from the humming motor were the crunches of fallen leaves and the snaps of twigs. The old biddy in her cheerleader’s outfit; himself clad as an idiot party fag; the motorcycle on the back of the car. Suspicions about what it all might amount to drifted in and out of Wheezy’s mind. But it was impossible to predict anything.

The car stopped in a desolate spot. Only a few headstones were in sight. Lights of the city twinkled far in the distance.

Silently, the chauffer unhooked the scooter and, the image of stateliness, held it against his side as he stood by. The dowager sat on the leaves, crossed her plump legs Indian style, and cooed, “Now repeat your lovely monologue, Wheezy. The one about your time in prison.”

Why wasn’t Wheezy surprised? With tired eyes, he repeated the bit by rote, all its relevance drained by now. It had become as much a routine as the old money changing routine. He was playing to matriarchs, not for their enlightenment, but for their inane sexual obsessions. Truly, he was now an Establishment whore.

Wheezy reached the end of his piece. Then the dowager rose to her knees, took on a glazed, wild look, and breathed, “Now, Wheezy! Chase me on your motorcycle! Through the graveyard! Now!!”

The scooter was nudged into his side by the chauffer, who, with a mere elevation of the eyelid told him, ‘you’d better do it if you want to keep Madame happy.’ Wheezy breathed loudly; he straddled the scooter and started the motor. The roar filled the darkness.

“Ready…set…GO!”, cried the dowager, capering off like a giddy schoolgirl. Wheezy took out after her. Even above the motor’s roar, he could hear the woman’s shrill laughter as he swerved around trees and tombstones, disgusted by this phoney pursuit.

The dowager ran on her tippytoes behind a tree, peeked out, and held both her hands to her mouth, stifling a girlish giggle.

Wheezy steered the scooter in her direction and zoomed ahead, caring for nothing. The front wheel snagged on the long root of a tree. Cycle and driver were sent tumbling on the earth. The next thing he knew, Wheezy’s face was being squeezed between the dowager’s hands, and covered by her blubbering kisses. Then she pulled down her panties, turned, and shoved a huge expanse of flesh into his face.

“Suck me…”

“Enough’s enough!” Wheezy cried. He rose to his feet and gave the dowager a vehement kick that propelled her in a somersault.

Her legs spread, sprawled in the wet grass, the dowager caught her breath and, mopping a curl from her forehead, looked up at Wheezy. He was gazing at her with contempt.

The dowager’s face turned to hideous stone.

Returning to town, Wheezy slouched in the back seat of the car, sneering straight ahead, his limbs splayed in all directions. The dowager sat as far from him as the car allowed; upright, outraged, with her hands tightly joined in her lap. She hissed icily, “So help me, Mister Gibson; I’ll see to it that you never work in this town again! I’ll report you to

The Daughters of The American Legion! I’ll…”

The chauffer behind the wheel caught Wheezy’s eye in the rear view mirror. The chauffer dryly winked at him. Wheezy returned it with a barely perceptible grin.

He had had his fill. When he returned to the apartment where he was currently staying, it was still the dead of night. His bedmate lay curled in a drugged sleep. Wheezy pulled a chair to a window, parted the worn curtains, sat and stared until dawn, the time he had detested for a generation. Then he left the apartment and cruised the row of used car lots, just opening up.

“Hey. Mister. That scooter. How cheap are you willin’ to go?”

A few minutes after noon, Wheezy’s bedmate rose from her slumber, surprised that he wasn’t snoring like a buzzsaw beside her. Scratching her hair, wearing only a man’s sleeveless undershirt, she wandered into the kitchen to make herself some coffee. On the table, she found a note.

“Baby;

I’m sorry I had to blow like this, but I couldn’t afford a second thought.

I’ve got nothing left to say here.

In Search of New Words,

Wheezy

P.S.: Thank everybody for everything. Especially Rembrandt.”

“Wheezy” Gibson had created his own legend: He had been foully seduced into returning to the web of the Establishment. His reward, cash; the price, the perversion of his art. Just when he reached the point from which, for any common man, there was no return, he had followed his conscience, and abandoned the world of dog-eat-dog. Straddling a ragged motor scooter, he had roared into the distance, saying ‘Goodbye’ to it all.

His principles inspired and sustained many in the future.

Wheezy Gibson was reborn as an eternal patron saint of the arts. Surely he and Van Gogh will have a few things to discuss.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE: ‘TIL DEATH DO US PARTY

Their lifestyles being what they had been, it proved not so easy for Mr. Browne and Sugar Red to arrange a church wedding laden in white. Red boldly proclaimed, “Fuck them! We’ll do it at the City Hall!” A union made in defiance. Browne was amused; such technicalities didn’t mean a lot to him.

And so the ceremony was performed in a cold grey office filled with metal folding chairs. The Candl Club employees were there, along with friends and associates of Browne’s and a bunch of Red’s old friends. Men who had been involved with Red over the years, some performers, often not, hovered over the punch bowl, exchanging stories and groaning over this swell broad who had gotten away.

The strippers made the picture: so happy to meet out of uniform, they were resplendent in their fashionable dresses and hats; all colors of the rainbow, playing substitute for a cathedral’s stained glass. The wedding had not been planned as an elegant affair, but it certainly turned out to be one.

Mona was impressed by how good looking Mr. Browne actually was. Perhaps there was something more than money involved there. The Desby Twins were radiant. Paul’s mama was there, too, in deep blue. She had grown that warm with Paul’s coworkers.

The ceremonies finished, a line of limos waited to take the guests to Mr. Browne’s Long Island home. Though Paul wanted her to come along, Mama begged off. Paul, Mona, and the Desby Twins shared a car with a few other guests.

“There it is! The house!!” Paul and Mona looked up to see a regal lime green manor in a woodsy clearing. Paul whistled.

One by one, the limousines stopped at the front doors to admit the guests. As the group entered, dance music swelled, smoothly played by an orchestra in one of the upper balconies.

Guests were dwarfs, in fact microbes, under the ceilings. An endless plain of lime carpet stretched before them, and the huge windows shed limpid yellows throughout. Mr. and Mrs. Browne were nowhere to be seen. Guests swarmed over the bar and buffet like ants on a cracker.

Mona allowed two glasses of champagne for Paul. As the popping of corks echoed through the chambers, men loosened their ties, and women grew languid, hanging on their arms and shoulders for support.

Buzzed, Paul turned to Mona, observing, “The party’s becoming a little informal.” They began weaving closer to one another. A happy lady squeezed by, frankly laying the pressure of her buttocks against Paul’s crotch as she passed.

“Oh-HOH! Excuse me”, she burbled. Mona wryly lifted her glass to her.

The orchestra switched from society dance music to Dixieland. Couples danced; people danced by themselves. Men belly laughed and women screeched. The conviviality derived from Bacchus’ grape reigned. Silently, Mona and Paul joined together in a dance. They realized that guests around the room were shedding their clothes. The strippers, the moneyed, the entertainers and ex-beaus were pairing up.

“Oh-oh, Paul”, Mona said. Flushed from the heat, the pair moved to a couch to watch the proceedings. The Dixieland slowed down; only the piano and a muted trumpet continued to be heard; the slow, slinky sounds suggesting bordellos of Bourbon Street. Loud, smacking kisses and sucking and the occasional anguished sigh. Couples rolled over each other. Erections protruded from a floor tiled with flesh. Hands reached up, and slowly stroke the erections with their fists. Some hands had painted nails, some didn’t. Buttocks pumped and down; now you see them, now you don’t. A couple could occasionally be seen running skillfully through the crowd, the man in pursuit, the woman cackling.

Mona turned to Paul. “Oh, well, When in Rome…”

“…have an orgy!” Paul finished with a shrug. The couple disrobed, Mona freeing herself from an intense black weaving of lace, panty girdle, garter belts and stockings. The couple carefully folded their clothing and laid them on the back of the sofa.

They were both embarrassed. They were both aging. Paul had little muscle tone; his body had the softness of a baby’s. Mona’s banana breasts hung naked; her slight pot belly, not uncharming, protruded. Paul did notice her muscular, beautiful legs.

The couple embraced, explored one another’s mouths, ground their pubes, hands on each others’ buttocks. Paul looked in her eyes in askance, and Mona nodded ‘yes’ as they stretched out on the floor, surrounded by human flesh. Laying side by side, their bellies together, their hands held the sides of each other’s heads as they hungrily kissed and sucked. Paul’s hands went straight for Mona’s legs, fondling, stroking their contours. She ran a finger down his neck, shoulder and back. Revelers’ flesh, touching, brushing against them on all sides, warmed and comforted them. Mona’s hair was undone and draped over them both, almost hiding the upper halves of their bodies. She threw a leg over Paul’s hip. Paul’s erection played with Mona’s vagina, finally sinking its way into her without either of them intending it. It slid in, out, and back again. Mona wrapped an arm around his neck. She murmured, “I love you, Paul.” This doubled Paul’s hunger, and the pair rolled flat on the carpet, thudding against each other. A drool trickled from the side of Mona’s mouth. With Paul’s every thrust, she cooed, “I love you…” Paul’s erection pulsated within her, like a second heart. Their lips locked again. By now, it was almost comical, the breaths and burps from their lips and the speed of their convulsions.

“I love you, Paul. I love you…”

Mona’s head pulled back. Her cunt exploded in a rainbow of colors. She delivered what can best be described as a whispered scream. Looking at her like this, kneading her breasts, Paul came with force, with agonized joy.

They laid there on the floor, engulfed by the surrounding flesh. They both felt drowsy, but the constant pumping and rolling of the bodies woke them out of it. It was like trying to sleep on a storming sea.

They looked at each other and agreed it was time to leave. They rose clumsily from the waves of skin, made certain all their belongings were still there, and bumbled between the bodies, out the door.

Driven back to the city, the pair remained silent. As the limo pulled to a stop in front of her apartment house, Mona looked pained. Her eyes met Paul’s, and she tried to speak, but couldn’t say the words.

“I know, Miss Mona,” he smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t love you, either.” She returned the smile and they shook hands.

In the morning three days later, Red called Mona at home.

“Boy, what a time, ah?” Red laughed.

“Yes, it was”, Mona answered, sounding a little detached.

Red commented on how ‘good’ it was with Mr. Browne, then noted, “I saw you and Paul went at it hot and heavy.”

Mona wondered how she could have even seen them.

Red observed, “You know, he’s got a pretty regal cock. How was it?”

None of your business, Mona thought. But she answered, “It was nice. Very nice. It was good. He knows the craft.”

“I could see that. Boy! You were on him like an animal!!”

Mona could almost hear her lustful wink over the wire.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE:

Came the debut of The Candl Club’s new line of strippers. It was a clear, starry night. Inside, the band played its happy background music. Patrons entered; some old faces, some new. The bartender watched over them with his supercilious eye.

Heads swung as Sugar Red breezed into the establishment on the arm of Mr. Browne, who looked pleased if a little weary. The room filled with whispers about her retirement from burlesque. From then on, she would be busy running her newly founded school for aspiring strippers. Once seated at a table, Red tugged at her husband’s sleeve and pointed at the stage. “The girls on the stage tonight? They were trained by me. All of them by me.”

Browne knew it. Well. “That’s wonderful, my dear, Wonderful.” Already his eye was roving around the room while he played with his moustache.

The band played their intro. The Desby Twins squeezed past Paul and Mona and entered the stage, doing their old routine to the strains of “Nola”.

Mona looked testily at Paul. “I don’t know that the Desbys fit into the policy now, Paul. They’re too coy and old fashioned.”

“Oh, Miss Fago. Do you have to get rid of them, too?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Mona pulled at her chin. “We might have to sex up their act a little. Dump “Nola”. Rock ‘n’ Roll’s the thing now. Hard and driving. You know, raw sex. Kids can watch the Desbys’ stuff now. You can see it on Gleason.”

Paul lost his smile. To Miss Fago, everything was Gleason and Berle now. The TV stars were the monsters that she had to vanquish, and she was willing to sacrifice anyone to make that happen. He wondered if he’d really be able to warm up to someone like her at all.

The audience was noisier during the Desbys’ performance than they used to be. Where was the new meat? The twins exited the stage nearly nude as usual, but to tepid applause. They went back to their dressing room to lie on each other and cry. Paul started to leave to comfort them, but Mona held his arm. “Not so fast, Paul. I want you to see this.”

The musicians went into a butt swinging, nose thumbing rhythm. They were allowed to enjoy themselves now. No smarm or businessman’s jazz. The drum beat heavily; the sax inhaled and belched; the pianist stuck to a drunken tremolo. Out of the side came Nude Rochelle, a husky blonde from Portland with a long ponytail and prominent buttocks. She wore a bejeweled bikini, pointy sunglasses, and an inner tube with the head of a duck around her waist.

In the club audience, Sugar Red puzzled. That isn’t the costume I had in mind. What could possibly remain for her to undo? And what’s with the inflated duck?

Nude Rochelle flung her sunglasses off stage, dropped the inner tube beside her and stood in profile and slowly bent into a frank ass thrust, wiggling this part of her anatomy until her flesh jiggled and vibrated. The audience reacted loudly, hornily. This was the real stuff.

In the middle of the hoots and hollering, Red was taken aback. Her choreography had been tampered with! This wasn’t the act she had taught the dancer.

Nude Rochelle stretched out on her back, spreading her crotch to the audience. She lifted one leg and then the other, and opened them to employ the duck’s protruding bill as a dildo.

Then the realization blossomed in Red’s mind: It was Mona Fago who had imposed her own touch on the routine! She and her talk about bringing in the crowds with “frankness”. Her chin in her hand, her legs firmly crossed, Red turned to look at Browne. He was now the opposite of his ‘dignified’ self. His concentration was on the girl’s crotch. Bleating, snorting, whinnying; sounding like Father Noah’s ark, he’d occasionally explode in an overwrought war whoop.

Red grimly watched her new husband. So she’s got him like a wild turkey in heat. No entrancement. Years of perfecting the fine art of tease had come to this. She hid her head in her hands.

The band was in a repetitious frenzy as Nude Rochelle raised herself into a kneeling position, humping the duck’s bill, her ass thrown to the crowd. Sugar Red decided she had seen enough. She got up, huffily, hoping Browne would get the hint and take her the hell home. But he ignored her, looking straight ahead and screaming at the spectacle. Fuming, Red used picking up her purse as an excuse to whack the back of Browne’s head with her elbow and maneuvered to the exit. Browne followed in pursuit, hoping to straighten things out.

Nude Rochelle wasn’t finished yet. Still lying on the floor of the stage, she worked off her bikini bottom. A miniscule g-string remained, just enough to avoid a raid by the police. She jostled, twisted and plunged on her rubber duck.

“My, my; the girl certainly knows how to play a crowd. We’ll have to make her a headliner.”

What do you mean WE?? Paul thought. Then, to his surprise, without turning to him, Mona reached her hand behind her and grasped Paul’s. They stood there like a pair of kids, the kneading of fingers adding up to a nearly sexual experience.

Was Mona aroused by the stripper’s performance, the roar of the crowd, or the thought of money? Paul wondered.

Nude Rochelle strutted off the stage. The crowd had not stopped being noisy through her entire performance, and now their passion increased several degrees.

The band thrashed itself through a hyped-up “hope you like our show” finale, the sax man hooting at hyper speed as Nude Rochelle took a second bow. As she flounced backstage, Mona was ready to congratulate her, but before she could open her mouth, the dancer snapped, “Your floor is filthy out there! Get your boys to mop it up!”, and kept going.

Mona looked at Paul, shaking her head and shrugging. Such hadn’t been the case with the Desbys or even Sugar Red. There was no denying that this new wave was not only younger, but sluttier.

Then Chameleon Girl went on the stage. Her specialty was rolling over old paint tubes.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: BUSINESS IS BUSINESS

The evidence had been presented right up on that stage: the likes of Sugar Red, once considered bold, brazen and ‘red hot’, were now tame and politely suggestive. An era had ended.

Hey; Mona had caught on early, and the night had gone well, but the Desby Twins left immediately, and Red and her husband had not come backstage. The crew hadn’t even the chance to say ‘hello’ to them. The bartender left. The stagehands left. The new girls bustled about and left to meet their own, new line of Stage Door Johnnies. Only Mona and Paul remained.

“What do you say, Paul?” she asked him.

“Well, you know, Miss Fago, I’m only a straight man.”

“Well, out with it, straight man.”

“It seems like kind of a mean show. Belligerent. It was, like, ‘Here it is, Suckers!’”

“Well, ‘Here it IS, Suckers’! These audiences were never bright. In your rosy haze of nostalgia, are they going to become the Algonquin Roundtable?”

“Of course not, Miss Fago. But that loud music and everything; to me, it was abrasive. Hollow.”

“I know it. But it’s all changed. No more dreamy eyed crap. No more ‘Parisian Honeymoon’. That was hiding from sex, and night club audiences want the real thing! They want to see what you can’t see on TV. If that means screaming saxes, so be it. Throbbing twats? So be it. I didn’t get where I am by being human.”

Paul looked glum.

“It was always smut, Paul. You know that.” She jutted her chin at him. “Come on, you’re doing voices for smut films and ‘party’ records now. You’re still in it. Who are you to point fingers?”

It was all correct. From the inside of a recording booth, Paul had felt distanced, but it was all for the same howling audience.

“We did amazingly well tonight, Paul. It shows I was right all along. The Candl Club will go from being a speck on the pavement to a spot on the map.”

“Yeah, Miss Fago, yeah. You’re right again.”

Mona was thrilled enough to invite Paul for a ‘siesta’, but he said good night before she had the chance.

Paul returned to his apartment at five in the morning. Mama was jogging in a very fast circle. “Beep! Beep!”

Paul slumped into the easy chair. Into his lap the cat landed again. Paul buried his head in his hands. He was so confused. This was decidedly not the future he had lived forty eight years to enjoy.

“Oh, Mama”, he said. “Things are changing so fast.”

Mama continued her frantic circle and said, “Wait until you’re older, Son. Things will move so fast, you won’t even notice. Beep! Beep!”

THE END

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THAT'S SHOW BIZ! by Milton Knight

THAT'S SHOW BIZ! by Milton Knight

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