Billy
by Townsend Walker © 2007
Billy was short, not short as a minute, but 4-10 short. And he was round, so his apple complexion showed no wrinkles, even at forty-five. Billy might have passed through the world unnoticed, but he had some particular gifts. He was graceful on his feet, and with his hands, lizard tongue quick.
His gifts could have been used many ways. But Fat Anthony and Vinny Gorgeous picked him off the streets, and gave him a job at the age of twelve. His life was knives and guns. With a flick of his wrist a blade or bullet was in someone's chest.
At fourteen Billy brought home in a month what his father earned in a year. At eighteen he bought his mother and father a house in Brooklyn, and an apartment for himself on Bleeker.
Billy was in no hurry to get married, but when he turned thirty, Vinny Gorgeous introduced him to his sister Simona. Angels hovered over that introduction, and flickered about when the two were together. There was such an attraction her family advanced the wedding three months.
Billy was a happy man. Until last week. Billy and Fat Anthony walked into Umberto's Clam House for lunch. It was late, and they were in a hurry. They sat down before the table was cleared. The butcher paper covering the table was filled with drawings.
“Billy, this is good. This guy musta been an ar-tiste,” Fat Anthony said as he was moving plates around to uncover more sketches. “An looka this, will ya, whata babe!”
Billy flushed. “Ya okay Billy? ya don't look good; yer all red; whatsa matta?”
“I'm fine, fine,” said Billy through pinched lips. The sketch of the babe was like a statue he saw in a museum in Paris, Venus de Milo. The face looked like the one he saw in Paris, but the body looked like the one he saw last night. This was a no-doubt-about-it drawing of Simona, the mole under her left breast, a birth mark high on her right thigh.
“Scuza Tony, gotta whizz.” Billy got up in a hurry, and went toward the Mens. Out of Fat Anthony's sight, he collared the maitre d'. “That table? Who was there before?”
“I don't know Mr. Carlino,” the maitre d' shrugged.
“But yer gonna find out, right?”
“Right Mr. Carlino,” the maitre d' said with the appropriate tone of respect. “I'll check the credit card slip. Here it is. Name of Michael Phelan.”
“Now yer gonna tell me where he lives,” said Billy. The maitre d' made a call. Phelan lived on Bleeker too; in Billy's building, apartment 4A, two floors down.
Billy went to the Mens; splashed some water on his face; took a couple of deep breaths; returned to the table. He and Fat Anthony had the seafood platter-- shrimp, calamari, mussels, and scungilli, then clam linguini, washed down by a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio. They talked about the new operation in Yonkers.
“This one's on me Billy,” Fat Anthony said when the check came. Billy was going uptown, Fat Anthony downtown, so they split at the corner of Mulberry. Billy walked slowly back to his apartment. He took the elevator to five, walked down a flight, and knocked at 4A. A man, mid thirties, tall, glasses, dressed in blue jeans, and a paint splattered shirt, answered the door. “You Michael Phelan, the
ar-tiste?” said Billy.
Phelan looked down at the small round man, a little annoyed, “Yes, and so? How did you find me here? My works are shown at Agora, the gallery down on West Broadway. Did they tell you to come here?
“Let's say I was sent by a mutual friend, said we had an interest in common, said I had something ya might care about.”
“Let's say I don't care,” Phelan said, now impatient, and a little angry.
Billy insisted, “Lemme show ya.” Billy reached into his pocket. After a flick of his wrist Billy looked straight into the Phelan's eyes, and saw that he truly didn't care. Not one bit. He was past caring.
The End
Townsend Walker is a writer living in San Francisco with his wife, the artist Beverly Mills. Townsend had a long career in finance that included writing such books as A Guide for Using the Foreign Exchange Market, Managing Risk with Derivatives, and Managing Lease Portfolios. Amazon has them should you care. In 2005 he went to Rome, changed careers, and started writing short stories. Stories have been published in Crimson Highway, Static Movement and is forthcoming in AntipodeanSF.
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