Goody One Shoe (26 page)

Bang. Bang. Bang. Her shoulders tensed with the memory of
each shot. Three shots. She opened her palm. Three casings.

She grabbed Arthur Richard Douglas by his evil clown feet
and dragged him to the edge of the dock.

Billie sat on an upturned wooden crate and slid the knife in
and out of Douglas’s body. His flesh put up little resistance.

Dead men don’t fight.

She ran her fingers over the bars of her gold crucifix and stared
across the wide expanse of river at the lights of downtown Grantham. The
strains of an old Adam Ant song rang in her ears.

Goody two-shoes, my ass.

Bullets. She had to get back those bullets or the cops might
be able to tie his murder back to Bruce. She stripped off Douglas’s bloody
shirt and found one bullet hole among the stab wounds. The blade of Douglas’s
own knife slid inside his dead flesh. She shoved her gloved fingers in the hole
and dug around until she felt the bullet. She held it up to the moonlight. It
looked like a brass banana, peeled and exposed, with a Claymation mushroom for
bloody flesh. She dug out the other two and dropped them into her pocket, along
with the gun.

She rummaged around the area for rocks and anything heavy
that would sink Douglas in the brown ooze.

Half an hour later, she’d filled his clothing with rocks and
bound him in rope to secure the weights. She raised his knife into the air and
stabbed the blade into his chest.

She slid Douglas off the edge of the dock. His life,
abundant with evil and notoriety, ended without fanfare. With zero splash. He
slipped into the water without so much as a slosh.

“It’s over.” She looked up into the face of the moon and
raised both arms. “I did it, God,” she yelled at the sky. “Justice delivered.
An eye for an eye. My father’s life for his. If I could kill him again, for my
mother, I would.”

Her mouth filled with saliva and her guts revolted. She
dropped to her knees and leaned over the roiling water. Vomit hurled from her
mouth. She gagged and puked, tears running down her cheeks and mixing with her
dinner and the dirty grave water of the man whose murderous actions had ruled
her life.

She kneeled at the altar of Arthur Richard Douglas’s death
and prayed to God for forgiveness. For understanding. And she prayed that
Douglas would burn in hell where he belonged, for all eternity.

BILLIE WAS SO HIGH
on life,
she nearly skipped toward Tony’s regular spot. News of the demise of Art
Douglas was tingling on her lips. It was all she could do not to brag about it
to every sidewalk robot who passed by. But there was only one person who needed
to know. Then Tony could relax and live out the rest of his short life without
worrying that his former partner in crime would seek him out and shove a knife
in his gut.

She neared the stoop of the Dilly Deli, her step light, her
mood lighter. It was an elation she hadn’t felt since … well, since never. It
was better than meeting Bruce, better than saving Jeffrey, even better than
getting Bat Head behind bars. Hell, it was better than sex. And that was pretty
damn amazing.

But the closer she got to Tony, the darker her vision
became. His spot was empty. No rumpled heap of homeless man. No cup jingling
with coins. No fuck you, fuck you very much.

She stood where he sat and scoured the sidewalk, eyed across
the street past the boobs-and-booze ad and along the edges of the buildings. He
was nowhere, the only sign of him a dried up chunk of apple fritter being
picked apart by pigeons.

An ache hollowed her gut. She shook it off. Perhaps he’d had
enough of the same crowd and moved on. Found some more fertile sidewalks to troll.
But damn, he hadn’t even said goodbye. No, something was wrong.

She picked up her pace and hurried to the office. Three
phone calls and six transfers later, Tony’s parole officer’s phone rang and
rang.

“Jamison.”

“Good morning, Mr. Jamison.”

“Ms. Jamison.”

Billie held the receiver from her ear and stared at it for
the blink of an eye. The deep bass on the other end did not sound female.
“Sorry. Ms. Jamison. My name is Billie Fullalove.”

“No shit? As in Wilhelmina, the little girl in the alley way
back in ninety-three?”

“So Tony talked to you about me?”

“Lady, what happened back then ate that man alive. I’m
guessing that’s where his cancer came from. Stress and remorse. If that’s
possible.”

Billie nodded to herself. Maybe it was possible. “He wasn’t
in his usual place today. I just wondered if you knew where he might be.”

“Last we talked, he told me about your visits. He seemed
happy for the first time in years.” Paper shuffled on the other end of the
line. “Let me make a few calls. What’s your number?”

Billie reeled off the digits of her work and cell phone
numbers and ended the call. She leaned back and ran a hand through her hair.
She fluffed her tresses and clicked open her latest manuscript.

Every few minutes, she glanced at the clock, clicked the
lock on her phone to be sure she hadn’t missed any calls. An hour later, she
paced in front of the window, her arms crossed, her mind anywhere but on the
work. “Damn it, how long do a few phone calls take?”

Her chair creaked and bounced when she flopped into it. She
slouched in the seat and dragged her mouse around, clicking between the
manuscript and an empty Google page. She jumped at the ring of her phone and
snatched the received up without checking caller I.D. “Ms. Jamison?”

“Uh, helloooo. It’s twelve-ten. You were supposed to meet me
in the lobby. Lunch, remember?”

“Oh, Jeffrey. I’m so sorry.” She became aware of the rumble
in her stomach. “I’ll be right there. Can we walk up to Dilly? I don’t want a
pre-wrapped soggy sandwich from the coffee chick.” And she could spy on Tony’s
spot and see if he’d shown up.

“Sounds good to me. I could use a big fat pickle.”

“Jeffrey, no penis jokes about food, please? Now I can’t
have a pickle.”

“You get pickled at least four times a week. Lucky bitch.”

He was crude, but she couldn’t help but giggle. “I’m
coming.”

“Oooh.”

“You know what I mean. Give me five.”

Billie yanked the bottom drawer of her desk open and pulled
out a cosmetics bag. She tugged a brush through her hair and checked her face,
tossed the bag back, and slammed the drawer shut. She ran to the hall and
jabbed the down button for the elevator four times in quick succession, like
that would make it arrive any faster.

In the lobby, she burst free from the elevator and
ran-walked across the marble floor, polished to a mirror sheen, to meet Jeffrey
at the door. She entwined her arm with his and they exited into a bright and
sunny Indian summer day. It was Billie’s favourite time of year. Past the heat
of August, the leaves just beginning to turn, but not yet threatening to plunge
from the trees to their death on the ground below. And before the God-awful
snow hit. Running was easy. Navigating icy walks with one leg that had a
delayed reaction to slipping was treacherous at best.

They walked with their heads together, catching up on office
gossip.

“And he dumped the bitch, just because her Fendi was a
knock-off and her Holt Renfrew suit was a Value Village hand-me-down. Serves
the bitch right.”

“Come on, Jeffrey, that’s not fair. Katherine is definitely
the bitch of the century, but that guy sounds like a horrible snob. She
deserves better.”

“Whatever you say, Saint Billie.”

They wended their way through the gauntlet of lunchtime
pedestrians. Near Tony’s regular spot, Billie slowed and eyed the empty
sidewalk.

Jeffrey tugged her along, in a rush for a fat slab of meat
and salty pickles.

They placed their sandwich orders and slid along the
cafeteria-style line with their retro brown plastic trays that had seen better
days. Billie opted for a bottle of sweet iced tea, a brownie for dessert, and,
damn it all to hell, a big fat dill pickle to cut the cholesterol-and
carbohydrate-laden Reuben on rye.

She slid into one side of a booth for two, Jeffrey facing
her. She picked up her pickle and hesitated. “Look away, Jeffrey.”

“Why?”

“If you watch me shove this pickle in my mouth, I’ll
probably spew pickle juice in your face.”

Jeffrey fanned himself with one hand. “Don’t tease me.”

Billie giggled. She’d let the hatred of that titter go and
had come to enjoy it. A spontaneous expression of joy and hilarity,
embarrassment and anxiousness, all rolled into one bubble of girly laughter. A
sound she used to make with regularity before nineteen ninety-three ruined her
life.

Her phone vibrated against the cool stainless of the tabletop.
She poked the screen and the number of Tony’s parole officer stared back at
her. She pressed the icon and fumbled to get the phone to her ear, her fingers
quaking with anticipation. “Hello? Ms. Jamison?”

“Hi, Billie. I’ve got some news.”

Billie closed her eyes. Ms. Jamison told her of Tony’s fate.
How he’d spent weekends in a nearby shelter because there wasn’t enough foot
traffic downtown to bother begging.

“He spiked a fever Saturday afternoon. They called an
ambulance and got him to the hospital, but it was too late. He died late
Saturday night.”

Billie rubbed her eyelids with her fingertips. Saturday
night. “What time?”

“I’m not sure. Is that important?”

“No, just curious.” Perhaps Tony was finally able to rest
once Art Douglas’s evil presence was erased from this earth. “What about his
funeral?”

There was a long pause on the other end. “Billie, there
won’t be a funeral. He has no family, no one to mourn him. And, frankly, no one
to pay the bill. He’ll be cremated and buried in an anonymous grave outside the
city. They do write his name in the cemetery ledger, though.”

“No.” Billie shook her head. “How do I claim the body? I
want to give him a proper burial.”

“I’ll find that out and let you know.” Ms. Jamison breathed
into the phone a few breaths. “Billie, I just have to say, you’re the oddest
victim I’ve ever run into.”

“The woman’s body has been sent home to Calgary. Funeral
services will be announced.” Bruce slid the newspaper to Billie and handed her
a red pen. “When are they going to catch this bastard? Shit, this one wasn’t
even a hooker. Just a screwed up kid with less-than-perfect parents and a yen
for adventure.”

Billie swiped a tear from her cheek. If she’d acted quicker,
not spent so much time planning, maybe that girl would still be alive. She just
couldn’t leave her out there to rot like the fish. One mumbled emergency call
from a lone payphone on a dark street corner brought the cops to the hellhole
on the dock. Billie was long gone before their flashing lights bathed the dock
in red and blue.

“Hey, you’re taking this pretty hard.” Bruce slid off his
stool and stood behind Billie, massaged the tension from her shoulders. Or at
least, he tried to. “I know it was the same guy that killed your parents, but
this isn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

She rewound the article in her head. Art Douglas’s
fingerprints and DNA all over the dead girl’s body. His blood all over the
dock. Evidence of other murders the cops were matching up with missing persons.
All-points bulletin, warrant for his arrest, and BOLOs across the country.

What a waste of effort. But he’d surface one day. Billie
didn’t tie good knots.

“Hey, Sunshine.” Bruce kissed her cheek. “Not your fault.”
He spun her stool and held her shoulders. His eyes implored hers. “Right?”

She didn’t say a word. Just stared at him and let tears pool
in her eyes.

He sighed. “You know, I’m feeling a lot less like Robin, and
more like Lucius Fox.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, ran her thumb along
the wisp of a scar under his eye, and smiled.

He closed his eyes and kissed her palm.

She wiped her cheeks dry and dragged the newspaper closer.
Her eyes wandered to the pencil cup filled with red pens. “Maybe we can’t fix
everything. But we sure can fix some things.”

Or at least, she could.

She flipped the pages and scanned the crime section, snatched
a red pen from the cup and jabbed it into the newspaper. “This one. Let’s edit
this one.”

BILLIE SAT IN THE
hole on the
sidewalk left in Tony’s wake. She rested a paper cup filled with daffodils on
the pavement in front of her crossed legs and pulled a bag from her purse. She
tore pieces of fried dough from an apple fritter and tossed them at a crowd of
pigeons a few feet away.

The birds raced each other for the offering, pecked at the
chunks of sweet pastry, and bobbed their cooing heads. Pedestrians shuffled by,
disturbing the birds’ feast and sending the feathered rodents scattering across
the sidewalk just long enough to turn right around and continue pecking at
crumbs once the coast was clear.

Billie lifted the small bouquet from the cup and brought the
canary blooms to her nose. She’d wanted the flowers to mean something. To be
more than just an empty gesture. Google to the rescue again. She spent more
time worshipping the Google gods than her own God of late. Daffodils meant
beginning anew and leaving the past behind. They were the perfect choice, not
only for Tony, but for her, too.

Passersby absent-mindedly dropped coins into the empty cup.
They didn’t look at Billie, didn’t notice her clean, pressed clothes, her tidy
hair, her fresh-washed scent. Sitting on the periphery of their lives, she
became part of the landscape in an instant. Their anonymous donations were
their penance, their Hail Marys, forgiveness for their perceived sins.

She tossed the last bits of fritter to the birds, spread the
flowers over Tony’s empty spot, and pocketed three dollars and eighty-two cents
in coins — pennies? Seriously? They don’t even mint those anymore — to be given
to the first homeless person she met.