Spirit of the Silent Butler

By Babs Lakey

Elsie in Spirit of the Silent Butler: "I don't think of myself as an avenger, Sampson, please, don't think of me that way either." Her voice was serious. It was important to her that he understand. "It's more like this: I study the evil in a person and use it to set a trap. It's a trap for them to kill themselves. If they stop killing, they'd live. Get off free as a bird. But, if the bile, the disease inside them, is so strong that they continue, my trap will snap and bite them in the butt. I'm the sting of a deadly spider that waits for you in a place where you should never be in the first place. If you go there - I'll get you."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Babs Lakey
• Release date: Oct 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781928857174

Babs Lakey

In Spirit of the Straightedge, the first of three thrillers, Minneapolis author Babs Lakey, dives into her past and gives us Murder, Mystery and Chilling psycho-drama.....but even better yet - a heroine who patiently strategizes revenge, then acts. She is the bait ... but is she the killer? Babs managed a motorcycle shop from the mid 80's until recently. For Babs her greatest achievement has been being a mom, also a grandmom, and now great-gran of 18 total! When she started writing in the early 90's she saw a need for networking and helping new writers. So much talent, so little help! That was when she started a magazine called Futures - later it became FMAM, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine - www.FMAM.biz She won a Derringer Award for the help she'd given new writers, and also an award by the Mayor of Minneapolis for helping writers and artists in the Minneapolis community. Right now she is writing screenplays and enjoying that side of writing tremendously!

Book preview

Chapter One

The devil-in-high-heels promenades; her hips writhe with song, with joy. I watch with fascination. She plays the role of an homogenized soul. Few see through her facade. I see. I call her Devil. Because I know.

Her elusive-illusion is capped with a luxurious crown; flames of curls flutter back in their attempt to lick my soul. My heart jumps, oh my! Heat sears my face. Her heat.

By the way, call me Angel. It will amuse me as we play. Who will win this game. Devil or Angel?

Angel catches a toe on a slab of the concrete sidewalk and stumbles.

I gulp cool air, refill my lungs. Close call. I could have pitched smack into Devil’s back.

Lucky me—the young woman’s mind is elsewhere. My mind hears the scream of her hips—a la croute!

Devil’s shoulder gives a careless dip, she flings her curls in a sensual, torrential rain.

She flaunts it in my face! The bitch! Ding Dong this one is mine, Ding Dong this one is gone. I rewrite the witch song from the OZ and mentally hum the tune. She will be taught that there are consequences when you waggle a red flag. Taught that at the very least it should be secured—a tight bun at the nape of her slender, oh, so fragile neck.

Angel smiles. Taught that the waggle gets the gaggle!

My eyes roam her. As her hips sway, so sway her breasts.

Huge zeppelin globes nearly lift her off the ground. They transform Devil’s body into a float! Not the floats we see in the Rose parade but a root beer float, its froth and foam an advertisement. For a fraction of a second my eyes close and I allow my mind to trip on these breasts; I imagine the color of peaches, peaches so fresh that juice drips from the pinkish pulp.

Devil’s implants are obvious to all but an imbecile. I would imagine there are many ways to reveal this truth as absolute but I prefer my own procedure. Very soon all will be revealed as I proceed with that procedure. Hee!

In the six or seven weeks since her arrival in my town, she’s not made one close friend, nor one intimate amour.

The stalker gives an angelic grin, knowing this is true.

They do not develop their personalities very early in life, do they, these ornamental exquisite creatures? Surely every cell inside of them must stretch and strain for counterbalance, to blossom into a body such as I see before me. Perhaps personality is something we develop on a need-to, basis? They do not need to!

Time to play racehorse.

An accelerated gait puts Angel at Devil’s side.

Each hair on my right tries to reach for her with all the electricity it can muster. As I pass her, I veer to her side of the walkway, drop my magazine, stoop to retrieve it, then pull myself upright. Our eyes connect!

She ignores me.

I smile. I’m used to it. I know that I am invisible.

Had Angel not leapt out of her way there would have been a collision.

I stand back while she steps ahead, still ignoring me.

Behind her once again, her image is mine to hold dear; every detail screams for memory. These details are what I now own of her. They are mine forever.

Devil will lose this game.

Angel is on patrol, hypnotized by her roll and sway, closing the gap once again.

Those who stride by, gape—her heat a magnet. If their eyes flick a millisecond toward me they see nothing and I see a vacant stare.

I am a freshly Windex’d pane of glass. Invisible, that’s me.

I turn my attention from her backside to their eyes.

As the passers by salivate, their desires flicker; Angel sees Devil’s image reflected in their eyes.

I have to bite my tongue not to divulge, not to whisper to them while I watch the sparks flick, flick…red, yellow, blue, this one’s for you.

It used to annoy—a gnat’s buzz at my nose—that no one ever noticed me; severe aggravation would be the more appropriate depiction. It is not that my image does not travel from the eye to the brain. It never registers at the eye. The morons look right at me and see nothing.

Then, from the depths of the oldie-tune’s card-file that resides in my mind, I yank: One fine day you’ll look at me, and you will know, blah, blah, blah.

Listening, to that tune, the raison d’etre came to Angel.

I am not registered at the No-tel-Motel—yet, I am there! A free guest? Yes, indeedie. Something to think about and think I did. I have a remarkably astute and analytical mind. Thus, this Divine Plan was revealed to me. I am destined for greatness. From the creators womb to my mothers womb.

Knowing that someday they will crystal-clearly see me makes it possible for me to exhilarate in being temporarily invisible to the masses.

Knowing. No. Wing. That’s the thing.

Julie, Devil-woman-Julie, will make the perfect example.

For weeks I have observed her. Oppressively, unremittingly, close. Yet, she does not have a clue, not one eentsy flicker of a clue.

Angel must continue to remember that cogitation is not what Devil-Woman does best. Whatever would thinking have to do with why Julie was created?

I watch her hips sway before me and I can barely breathe. Her sensual slide induces my hypnotic trance, a trance that heightens my sense of her until it literally fills me—pulsing pulsing, it varoooms throughout my veins. My head vibrates. The nerves at the very top of my head are electric; they zing their message to my brain.

God how I loath this creature.

Ah. Inside, my soul heaves a sigh of relief.

Angel returns to the oldies. You will know our love is meant to bee..ee..e…one fine day, you’re gonna want me…

Do you wonder how Angel will gain entry into this physically precocious child’s domicile? Surely, you ask, she has locks and takes precautions? There will be no need to break into her home. Oh my, no. She will invite me inside. One more puzzler for the cops.

Cops. I dislike the word. It sounds sinful. Cop. As in, cop-a-feel. Fuzz would be better. Fuzzzz. No. Too cute for a cop. Something more loathsome would be eminently more appropriate. Loathsome, as in pukesome. Hm. Yet fuzzy like hair. Oh yes, I have it! Hairball. Fuzzy…yet the hairball is regurgitated by little kitties, i.e. pukesome. Here we have another poser to perplex the hairballs.

She glides with an air that tells me she doesn’t have a concern in the world; an insipid smile masks her face. How appropriate, that glued, inexpressive expression! Her vivid amber eyes intrigue. I had a cat once with eyes that precise shade of gold. The difference was in the intelligence that lurked behind the eyes of my cat. Devil’s have a vacant spark as if the future holds unexpected and unearned treasures and pleasures.

Would that it could but it won’t. Not this time and not for you, my lovely. No, not you.

She takes it for granted, this great beauty she possesses—that is the sin of it. A sin of the most profound magnitude. Someone shall teach her gratitude and humility, make her aware of what she has and how elusive it has suddenly become.

Flip-flop. The haughty become the submissive.

That must be in the Bible somewhere. Flip-flop.

But I must concentrate on that bounce before me, that click, clack of her high red heels. Oh my. My thoughts degenerate. Seventeen years old she is; all alone in the big bad city with those lovely fake bazoomies.

Looking for trouble, wouldn’t you say?

Well bitch—you’ve found it.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

Parts of life are a real bite in the butt. Detective Gerald Lawrence had troubles but he knew they were insignificant when compared to the ones he was about to uncover.

Law drove his sporty old heap o’ tin convertible East on Lake Street. It was a mosey more than a drive; he had things on his mind. Not surface things, but bubbles from deep inside his cauldron of crap. He grumped to himself about his destination and philosophized about life in general.

This 1967 MGB has seen better days. As had he. The similarities between his car’s frame and his own aged chassis were numerous: paint, faded and scratched; body, dented and beginning to rust; seat, battered, worn and tattered.

Ouch. He felt a stab in his ragged rear and knew it was symbolic.

The car’s rubber was worn from too many miles and rough Minnesota winters. Law’s feet commiserated with a constant ache. Were the headlights getting as dim as his eyes or did they just need a good wash? He snapped off the car radio; it interfered. The silence didn’t help. The location of the distractions changed from car-speakers to car-squeaks. Squeaks he’d been unaware of with the radio lead his thoughts. The old metal bucket made strange new noises; no need to go into what a major problem gas expulsion was at his age. Still, in Law’s mind the worst of this comparative parade was the hood. Cracked paint peeled and blew off with the wind and weather as he drove.

Instinctively his hand went to his head. Pretty bare. To find anything but smooth skin was a challenge he wasn’t up to. Seemed like only yesterday when his hair was in his eyes, and a nuisance it was at that. If he could go back he’d appreciate each strand. Yeah, right.

Man, oh man. Detective Lawrence sighed and forgot his personal agenda. His focus changed, his frown deepened. He was on his way to scope out the situation with those Disciple Church biblebangers. He and the padre in charge did a little phone exchange just minutes before Law left the precinct. Man called himself Brother Tall—name was Wacktle. Johan Wacktle. Jo rhymes with ho and is pronounced Yo. He’d somehow made that into Walk-tall. For short they called him Tall—no pun intended. Law rubbed his ear remembering how oily it felt after he hung up the telephone. Too much of ‘things always happen for a reason’ made him feel he was being worked. That, and, ‘Jesus will fix it.’

Amen, Brother, Tall.

Law straightened and checked his rear-view mirror. Better pay attention to the road ahead.

Years of working the area left him with what many would call a sick attraction to the litter lined street; as it unfolded he wondered why. Lake Street. Now here’s a story. It’s the kind of street that songs are written about. Hopes are dashed here every damn minute. It’s paved with poor people, drugs, hookers, dirt and graffito—but the area didn’t make him feel oily like the padre.

This was the ‘Street of Broken Dreams’.

As he came to the corner of 5th Avenue and Lake, a young girl stepped off the curb. Her hair, blonde and matted, could use a good wash. Her skirt was red leather—so tight she could barely wriggle by; so short you could see all but the splash. Her black and silver satin blouse exposed enough to cause Law’s face to turn pink just because he’d given the young flesh a routine ‘eye’. She tottered on spiked gold heels that were too high for a stroll down the street—strictly bedroom shoes. A good stiff wind would set her on her ass in the trash filled gutter. Then, he saw her eyes. Vacant. Stoned.

Helloooow, anybody hooome, eyes.

Law tried to see through the heavy make-up—she was working, she was high, and she was a baby—maybe fifteen. If that.

Detective Lawrence had a massive headache. His right hand rummaged through the glove box in search of any ol’ kind of pain reliever. Where are the Disciples when they’re needed, here, in this shit neighborhood? He grimaced as his hand came out empty. Right now he’d settle for being able to help the kid but what were the options? He could toss her in his car and take her with him to the church, but he didn’t know what she’d find. Likely more of the same—more of what she’d just gotten from down the hill.

Down the hill a block was Honeywell’s main offices. Connected to Honeywell was the ramp where the executives parked. A portion of those executives went to their cars in the ramp during their nooner noon hour and sat waiting for girls such as this one. Young girls like their own daughters who were home safe or in some suburban high school chattering with the other kids in the lunchroom.

The lunch hour blowjob performed by Ms. High School Dropout and paid for by the men who owned those large mansions on Lake Minnetonka.

They weren’t bad men, were they? Even Law’s thoughts were sarcastic these days. This job was getting to him. Pay the hooker. The hooker pays the pimp and pays the candyman, too. Who takes all that moola and buys the new fancy cars? Not the hooker. The executives kept the area economy going strong.

A dark man with a belly that hung over his belt and a dirty old sombrero pulled over his eyes, stumbled down the street with a brown bottle-bag in his hand…tipping it up as high as it would go he held it a long minute, waiting for a drop to drizzle to him. The hat fell back and he staggered to keep his balance. Law felt pity. The drunk leaned against the bus stop bench—eyes as empty as the girls’. Did he wonder what he’d missed? How had that bottle gotten so empty, so fast? I can tell you what you missed, thought Law, a good ten years of your life. That bottle must be a dead-soldier. Dead as the boozers head.

Law missed the light and heard a honk behind him. He motioned to the driver to go around him and waited for the light to change again while his eyes walked the sidewalk. People hung out on the corner together, a few here, a few there. Were they waiting for a bus? More likely, for that cigarette they smoked to turn into some sorta catapult-cannabis-stick. On a search for numbness. Take them away for a minute or a day.

They were trapped on this Street of Broken Dreams.

Detective Lawrence pulled over and parked in front of the Disciples Church. The burden of the city felt heavier today for some reason. It clung to him—leeches in a Nam swamp. His body felt the mud-laden weight comprised of sadness for the things people should be doing for one another. We fall damn short, he thought. Or I expect too much.

Law rang the bell and got something he did not expect, which was rare these days. The door was opened by a beguiling young thing. She was dressed with amazing similarity to the woman-child he’d seen minutes ago on the return from her ‘Honeywell connection,’ playing with old men’s ballies for jollies. What was it the padre’d said on the phone? Love breeds love. That was it. Question is, who was breeding whom, here? He flipped open his ID. I’d like to see Johan Wacktle.

Brother Tall is indisposed at the moment. She breathed the words over him. She smelled of eau de cologne with a hint of lemon Pledge.

Get him.

The words passed Law’s lips just as a man appeared. Wacktle must have ESP, thought the detective, or else he’d been standing there waiting. Had he been? At any rate, he miraculously appeared in the vestibule and extended his hand.

Detective Lawrence. Good of you to stop by.

Law ignored the hand, choosing instead to hold the man’s eyes with his own. Take me where we can talk. Law’s face was a mask, and he knew that his voice had a sneer to it; he didn’t want this silkster to feel at home for a minute—though it was his home. Law surveyed it as they walked.

Wacktle led them to a dark, cool room. Heavy drapes. Plush oriental carpet that smelled new. Solid mahogany furniture. Now mahogany…that spelled money.

Please have a seat, Detective, the tall man said.

Law perched on the arm of an indigo blue velvet love-seat across from the mammoth dark desk. He longed to slip back onto the deep cushions, take a deep breath of the wood-stained air; his leg was killing him. If he could take a few minutes, lean back and suck up this air. Ah! The smell of money is Aromatherapy to me. But it was more important to him to piss off the padre. He heard the velvet arm under him creak, and sat silent, thinking, this might just do the trick.

Can I offer you a refreshment? Gloria would be happy to oblige.

No. Law didn’t have to work at being rude. Just hearing the words slide from the oily bastards’ lips set him off. What else, he wondered, would Gloria be accustomed to oblige him?

Well, then? Wacktle took his six foot, seven inch frame and folded it accordion style behind the massive desk.

Law let his body drop to the love seat and sat hard. The scent of anger oozed from the padre’s pores. Law sighed and allowed himself a moment of contentment at that small accomplishment. He let his gaze travel with arrogance over the gratuitous surroundings. The cruise down Lake Street fluttered through his mind. All those people who needed a haven. Wasn’t that what a church was supposed to be? This was a haven, all right, but not for them. Perhaps he should take some time to find out more about this, ‘house of the lord.’ His eyes returned, cocksure now, to Wacktle.

The man was tall…Jack-the-bean tall.

Law noticed that he wore cowboy boots to make himself even taller. His reddish-blonde hair was curly; his sideburns, clownishly long, came forward toward his nose to meet his mustache. He completed his ensemble with black Levis and a black silk cowboy-style shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned to show—not the hair on his chest, but gold chains—complete with an over-large, gauche, gold cross. His hands were the whitest Law had ever seen—except on a corpse. Six pale fingers held gaudy, gold-with-various-gemstone rings. Well, maybe he considered the jewelry to be a diversion from his face. It was acne pitted like craters on Mars.

Achem. Wacktle cleared his throat.

The padre is evidently on a grueling schedule and being held up. Yes, well. Sorry to interrupt your busy routine Padre Wacktle, I’ll…

Please, Detective, call me, Brother Tall.

Law went on as if the tall, thin man was mute. I’ll try to make this as brief as possible. First of all, what denomination is this church? Law jotted on a notepad, pretending to take it all down.

Brother Tall winced. Yes. Ah...I am certain that our Lord did not aspire to denominationalize his flock. However, if it makes you more comfortable to do so, I would imagine we could be considered in the evangelical class. We are missionaries who spread the word of Jesus. He lives inside each and every one of us, including yourself, Detective. Praise God.

Just how many birds are in your flock, padre?

Detective. I would not dream to sit here and call you, cop. Please afford me the same courtesy and address me with some measure of respect. He cleared his throat, possibly expecting a response—getting none. To answer your question, I have approximately sixty-five members in my following. Perhaps you’d like to stop by for a service some evening or weekend?

Law watched him carefully. Oh he was cool. A point in his favor? Law shivered. It felt as if the man could slip over and pick his pocket or slit his throat without being seen. His hair was the rusty color they were looking for, and it could have been a wig, but it looked like it was his own. And now there were strains of a Hallelujah chorus coming from speakers that appeared to be hidden in the walls—did the padre flip a switch somewhere to give him that extra little edge of smoke on his side?

Law ignored the man’s question until it was plain he would not respond. Interrogation Techniques 101.

Wacktle was not stupid, he continued. Did you want to go over the statement I gave the officers with regard to that unfortunate business?

"By unfortunate, I presume you mean the young ladies who’ve been raped and beaten. All were previous members of your flock, correct? The detective did not wait for a reply. Naw. It’s here in the report. He poked his notebook with his finger. All I wanted was to get a first hand look at you, brother—kind of a lock on what you’re about."

Again, Law sat without movement and Wacktle seemed pleased about something. He started to rise as if the meeting was over and was stopped midway by the detective’s voice.

This Gloria. She a daughter of one of your members?

For the first time Wacktle appeared uncomfortable. It was just for a fraction of a second, but Law caught it and inside he smiled. There was a nervous tick in the padre’s left nostril. Law looked down, fast. When you catch them, never let them know. Let it be your little secret.

No. Many of the members are run-a-ways. Gloria was one of those. Here with me they find truth. They find that the more you give the more you get. This is why Gloria is working now. Many of them do small jobs here. They learn to give it up to Jesus, for Jesus.

Where, Brother, do your funds come from? I don’t expect run-a-ways have a lot of spare jing.

The long, pasty fingers began to tap on the mahogany desk to the chorus that permeated from within the hidden bookcase speakers. Initially, there was a large amount from a Federal Grant that non-profit organizations such as our own are eligible to receive. We also do a great deal of fundraising. In fact, many of our members work the phones or go door-to-door daily, to raise funds. We try to get other large organizations and businesses to contribute. Do you think we should contact the Minneapolis Police Federation? His voice shimmered with sincerity but his lip curled with the edge of a sneer that would not be harnessed.

Law watched this man-of-the-cloth relax as he realized he wasn’t going to be grilled on the molestation’s. So. Time to do exactly that. Now, Law’s eyes were ice-picks, let’s go back a minute to the, what you give, you get, rhetoric. What is it that you give? Wait. I already know your pitch. Like the worm, Law turned—each word flew and hit a bulls-eye. Why don’t you tell me your version of what happened to the three young women from here who were attacked?

Law’s timing was precise. The room was cool but the long man began to show slight beads of perspiration on his brow and upper lip. Law wasn’t in a mood to give him time to think. Since you seem at a loss for words, Brother, let me ask a few more direct questions. Were any of the three youngsters members of your flock for a long time?

Tall seemed about to comment on the word youngsters, then thought better of it. Well, yes. The white, thin-skinned, fingers twisted one another, twitching as if with a mind of their own.

A luminant light from the desk gave off a blue glow that made the preacher’s facial craters look worse than they were. Law could visualize this pathetic creature being dealt his share of rejection. At least in the private sector.

They were children of the Lord for quite some time. The first was Angeline. We only use first names; they are re-named with their baptism in Christ’s name. Angeline was the one that you call Cynthia Jacobs. She was a daughter of the flock for over two years. One of our very first members.

How did she happen to ‘come’ to you?

Divine Spirit is, in the final analysis, what brings us all together.

How about you tell me in English, rather than theological-speak. Consider me Hallelujah-illiterate.

Detective, if you don’t mind my saying so, I will be spending a goodly amount of time after you’ve gone praying for your Almighty soul.

Well, hopefully I won’t be ‘going’ too far for a few years yet—

I didn’t mean—

"Right. Well, that being the case, as long as you wait until I leave, have at it. I could use a good miracle right now. However, I’m still here, so let’s hear your story on Angeline."

What can I tell you? She came to us a lost soul. She ran away from her family. They were farmers from some small town in Wisconsin.

Fountain City. South of Pepin.

Yes. That’s it. She was fourteen when she ran. We picked her up on the streets. She danced her tango with the devil and was ready to give herself over to the Lord. We healed her spirit and, as I recall, deloused her body, too.

This is where the fairy tale gets a little topsy-turvy, if my facts are right, Brother.

I really did not get to converse with her much after the attack. I know she was having some problems staying on the path to holiness. The power of belief is strong, but evidently she began, once again, to stray. I am told she became impregnated.

"Convenient for someone that she lost the child when she was raped and beaten." Law checked his watch—he was late for his date with Gee and was getting nowhere here.

One more thing. Let’s see. They found her down by the river, about three blocks from here. The Jacobs were called and came the next day to take her home to the farm. Have you any idea how she’s doing? I mean, obviously this is a situation that Jesus can’t just fix, so what’s the skinny, Brother Tall? Do you have a plan to help her now?

If you’re asking do I feel a responsibility here, the answer is a resounding, no! By giving in to temptation she let down the group. Whatever spiritual help she needs or desires, at this time, she must look to God directly.

Law stood, noticed that those fingers were back to tap dancing. He wished that he carried a nightstick to slam them hard enough to break a few. He knew they deserved punishment for something. "Much as