Goody One Shoe

by Julie Frayn

  Billie squeezed between the broken glass and rotting plywood covering the window. She stood at the first-floor window facing the entry to the docks and let the consistent routine of Arthur Douglas play in her mind.

  Arrive around six. Unchain the fence, drive through, padlock it back up again.

  Except for that one night he didn’t show up until after eight. It was almost dark.

  Billie fished a pair of binoculars from the suitcase and trained them on the dockyard. She scanned the length of the chain-link fence. No holes. No breaks. She scanned left then swept right. And there it was. A section that wasn’t blocked by crates or barrels or rusted-out shipping containers. Her stomach gurgled. She pressed on a spasm until a bubble of gas exploded from her mouth. She giggled.

  “See you next Saturday, Art Douglas.”

  Monday the 21st

  BILLIE STOOD AT THE window of her twenty-fourth floor office and stared out at the city below.

  Ants.

  All those miniscule people really did look like ants scurrying around in their little downtown tunnels. She scanned the office towers around her, peered into windows to see if anyone else watched the insect melee in the streets. Last week, she’d have been one of those little ants. Technically, she still was. She just had a better vantage point.

  She sat in her ergonomic leather chair and ran her fingertips over the glass top of her desk, its surface area at least three times that of the tiny workspace in her proofing pool cubby. The editor-in-chief had already dropped by to welcome her and hand her a stack of manuscripts. There were more in her email inbox.

  The office smelled of good coffee and clean carpet. It lacked the fetidness of peon-sweat and lost hope. There was no lingering odour of Katherine’s perfume that was less subtle and more like a caveman whack to the head. No yappy little dog, nor any of its shit to pick up.

  Billie flipped through the first pages of each manuscript. Errors the proofing pool missed jumped from the pages like bad grammar jacks-in-the-box. Billie tamed each with a swipe of her red pen and made a mental note to tell Katherine to do a better job managing her staff.

  After sifting through seven candidates, she settled on an action novel of intermediate length for her first official project as associate editor. She couldn’t resist the title.

  Kill. Or Die Trying.

  She sipped at her creamy sweet coffee and snapped off half a chocolate chip cookie from the cookie bouquet the third floor sent her. She’d bet it was Jeffrey’s idea, his signature on the good luck card the biggest and most flouncy, surrounded by little purple hearts. Katherine barely signed it at all. Couldn’t even bring herself to break out the cursive. Just her first name, printed in small block letters. In red ink.

  Billie handed Tony a submarine sandwich, thick with meat and cheese and calories and fat. His body jerked, and his legs quivered with restless spasms. His cheeks were sunken, like those skeletal Somali children who dominated the news shows her father always had on in the early nineties.

  “I’m not too hungry.” He placed the sandwich on the sidewalk beside him. His breath wheezed and rattled in his chest.

  “You need a doctor.” She held the back of her hand to his forehead like her grandmother used to do. “No fever. But you look like hell.” More so than usual.

  “I’m fine. Just a little off.”

  Billie filled in his cheeks with her mental red pen and tucked a crimson rose into the lapel of his imaginary suit jacket. “Just be sure to eat. Keep your strength up.” She didn’t have a good reason for stopping by. The anticipation of the coming events had made her jumpy and excited. Scared to death but elated at the possibility of ridding the world of evil incarnate. She’d toyed with the idea of sharing the murder plot with Tony. But what if he tried to talk her out of it? How could he ever understand her driving desire to see his former partner’s blood spilled? To see the life drain from his eyes?

  “Can I bring you anything? I’ll grab you a coffee before I go back to work. And some water.”

  He patted her hand. “You’re too kind to me, Billie. I don’t need nothing like that.” His eyes teared up. “But there is one thing.”

  “Yes. Name it.”

  He looked away, then turned his head until their eyes met.

  A wave of concern and compassion overtook her. She reached out and held his hand. “What is it, Tony?”

  “I don’t deserve it. I’d understand if you said no. But I was hopin’ — prayin’ — that before I die, maybe you’d forgive me for the terrible things I done?”

  Billie’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s a tall order.”

  “I know. And I got no right to ask. Only if you want to. If you truly feel it. Only if it’s real.”

  She nodded and stared across the street, the dry skin of his dirty hand rough against hers. The events of that night in nineteen ninety-three rushed through her mind. She closed her eyes and looked for Tony, looked past the gun and the fear and focused on the younger version of the man seated beside her. The muzzle of that gun trained on her face, the sudden movement of an arm knocking it down, the flash of light glinting off a gold tooth in Tony’s open mouth, yelling words she didn’t hear. He had saved her life. And for the past few months, she believed it was a life worth saving.

  She squeezed his hand and released him, got to her feet and looked at his crumpled form. “I do forgive you, Tony. You gave me a second chance at life. And I appreciate that.”

  He closed his eyes, rested his head against the brick and nodded, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, a twisted grin on his lips.

  Billie turned and walked away. Half the weight of two decades of anguish, hatred, and guilt lifted from her like a helium balloon.

  It was time to release the other half.

  Saturday, September 26th

  BILLIE PRESSED A BUTTON on the side of her watch. The glow from its face lit hers. It was getting late. Maybe Art Douglas wasn’t coming back.

  She stared out the window of the abandoned building and tapped her toes against the concrete floor. Damn it, he had to come back. Tonight was the night, she was so ready. The same satisfaction that came over her when she saved Jeffrey flooded her body. And when she took Bat Head out of commission and probably saved countless women from being raped, maybe even killed. Righteousness and action had filled her with power.

  She pulled on the snug leather gloves she’d picked up just for the occasion. She opened a new box of bullets, loaded a magazine, and smacked the magazine into Bruce’s gun.

  How could she have ever known that this was what she was built for? To be a vigilante. A defender of justice. Just like her name means. Maybe her father knew that. Named her Wilhelmina on purpose. But he probably never foresaw this for his little Billie Angel. No, he probably thought she’d be a cop like him. Or maybe a lawyer. But a hired gun? Shit, she wasn’t even hired. She’d do it for free as long as it was justice.

  A slice of headlights across the window flashed in Billie’s eyes. She pulled back and peered out. She grabbed the binoculars that dangled from a leather strap around her neck. There was someone in the car with him. Someone short. Or drunk.

  Three weeks of stalking and planning. Twenty-two years of anguish, pain, and hate all wrapped up in survivor’s guilt and tied up with a fugue ribbon. It all led to this moment. “Okay, Billie Sunshine, are you ready?” She bounced on her feet and shook her arms, rolled her neck until it cracked.

  She nodded. “So fucking ready.”

  She crawled out the window, ran across the abandoned lot, her body crouched low. Douglas had done what he always did — drove in through the gate, closed and chained it, and secured it with the giant padlock.

  Like that could keep her out. Maybe he’d never heard of bolt cutters.

  She pulled out the section of chain link fence that she’d cut open the prior Sunday and laid it gently on the ground. She was as quiet as possible in case her prey had hearing like the dog he was.

  The stench that took her br
eath the first few times she’d approached the docks no longer bothered her. Now it smelled of sweet vengeance.

  She traversed a labyrinth of teetering rusty shipping containers — some Seussian landscape from an R-rated horror movie. Wooden crates were strewn about, alongside oil drums that stunk like toxic waste. So many places to hide bodies. Or pieces of bodies. And no one around to look for them.

  The rotting flesh of the containers gave off a metallic stench that swirled with dead fish and dead hookers in an eddy of putrefaction. A waft of jasmine caught in Billie’s nostrils. She searched the darkness for its source. Among the trash and filth, creeping through pavement and rooted in rot, sparse vines dotted with white flowers were scattered about the dockyard. The scent made her feel a bit drunk with its sweet, sensual power. She plucked a blossom and inhaled the elixir. It mixed with the adrenaline flooding her veins until purpose and confidence coursed through her.

  Breaking glass shattered the silence. Billie dropped to the ground and duck-walked behind a stack of crates and barrels. She peered out between two drums.

  Douglas’s silhouette was backlit by the dim light cast from a bare bulb above the door to the Quonset hut. He pulled a bottle out of his car and lobbed it at a pile of trash; brought another one out and uncapped it, tipped it to his lips, and gulped down the remaining contents. That bottle died alongside the others, splintered glass spraying the tarmac.

  Douglas pulled his car mate from the passenger seat and dragged her toward the Quonset. Her stiletto heels scraped against the pavement.

  Whoever it was, she was passed out cold. Or dead.

  Billie slinked through the night until she was hidden behind corrugated cardboard.

  Douglas dragged the body to a stack of crates and tossed her on top. She landed hard and sent the sharp crack of breaking wood through the night. He arched his back and stretched his neck. A flash of flame lit his face, then the red tip of a fresh cigarette glowed in the shadows. He pulled on the cancer stick, his full attention on the corpse atop the crates. Between puffs, he leaned in. There was an audible intake of air when he sniffed her hair. He ran his fingers down her back, over her behind, and down one leg.

  “Definitely dead,” Billie whispered. She eyed the body on the crates. Short skirt, crop top, high heels. Another hooker. Easy prey and nobody looking for her. Bastard had learned his lessons all right. Go for the invisible victims and chances are, the cops won’t give two shits about them. Won’t even look for them. Just assume they moved on to more profitable territory.

  Cops needed a wakeup call.

  Douglas sucked the last of his cigarette and tossed the glowing butt into the air. It bounced on the blacktop and rolled. He unbuckled his belt and whipped it from his belt loops with a snap. He smacked the dead woman’s ass with the belt, then threw it aside. The buckle clanked against the tarmac. Douglas cut the woman’s skirt off with a knife. He tossed the blade aside. Its metal edge sparked against the blacktop and came to rest a few yards away. He dropped his pants and bared his ass to the audience he didn’t know was watching.

  Billie looked away.

  The squeak of crates blessedly masked his groans and grunts. Billie took a deep breath and squeezed her hands into fists.

  It was now or never.

  She tiptoed through the darkness and around the edge of the dim spotlight created by the bare bulb. Art and his date went about their business in the shadows, which allowed Billie to get within spitting distance.

  Billie fingered the gun in her pocket. Her eyes caught the glint of Art’s discarded blade. She scooped it from the ground and rolled the handle in her gloved hand. Oh, irony, you have a wicked sense of humour.

  Billie sidled up to Douglas. When she was within arm’s reach, she held his knife to the side of his face.

  He froze mid-thrust, his gulp audible. He glanced sideways until he caught Billie’s eye. “Well, what have we here? You want a threesome? It must be my lucky fucking day.”

  His voice turned Billie’s stomach. “Dream on, pig. I’m going to watch you die on the pavement in a pool of your own blood.” She drew the blade across his cheek and marveled at the crimson oozing from the cut. In the dim light, it looked black, like evil escaping his veins.

  Art Douglas winced. Then he laughed at her. “Seriously? Some scrawny bitch thinks she can do me in? How ‘bout you just do me instead.”

  He pushed off the dead girl, knocked Billie sideways, and stood in the dark with his pants around his ankles.

  Billie recovered and stood in front of him, her eyes glued to his face. “I want a fair fight. Pull up your trousers.”

  He huffed and bent to pull up his pants, his eyes never blinking, never leaving hers.

  “Besides,” she said. “I can’t bear to look at your pitiful excuse for a dick. No wonder you fuck dead people.”

  His face contorted. Billie readied for him to rush her.

  Douglas threw his head back and roared. “I like a little trash talk before I slice a bitch to pieces.”

  “You like that?” She jerked her head at him. “You have huge feet. So I guess that whole ‘big feet, big dick’ thing is just an urban myth.”

  He snickered. “That’s funny, bitch. But your trash talk could use some work. It’s a little stiff.” He eyed the ground.

  “Looking for this?” She sliced the air with his blade. “Yeah, I cut you with your own knife. Thought it would make our little encounter more personal.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Wilhelmina Angelina Fullalove. In nineteen ninety-three you murdered my parents in an alley.”

  He snorted. “Which parents? Which alley? Ninety-three was a long year, sweetheart. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  Billie went cold at his callous words. “Police officer and his wife, out for a stroll after a nice birthday dinner for their eleven-year-old daughter. That would be me.” She tapped her chest with her fingertips. “After you murdered them for no reason, you shot my leg off.”

  “So, Tony finally ratted me out, eh? He saved your life that night, you know that, right?”

  Billie nodded. “I’m aware.”

  “Now I’m gonna have to go kill his sorry ass.”

  “No point. He’s almost dead already. Cancer.”

  “Well, ain’t that nice. I love it when God does my dirty work.”

  The hair on Billie’s neck bristled. God would never give someone cancer. Not on purpose.

  Douglas pulled a cigarette pack from his breast pocket and tapped one out. “You mind?” He lit the smoke.

  “Not at all. Consider it your final wish before you die.”

  “No. My final wish is to fuck your stupid brains out. But I think I’ll do you while you’re still breathing, then carve you up piece by piece while you watch. I’ll toss your juicy bits to the slime that swim in the river. They love them some whore parts. Gobble it up like it’s their last meal. I bet they even eat the bones.”

  She tossed the knife into her left hand and pulled Bruce’s gun from her pocket. She aimed it at Douglas’s dick.

  An almost imperceptible twitch in his eyelids gave him away. Fear was creeping in.

  Billie squinted and lowered her chin. Her lips quivered and her jaw clenched. She couldn’t take her eyes from his face. Refused to fall victim to him again.

  “You got a silencer on that thing?” He swallowed hard. “You shoot, gonna be cops swarming all over this place.”

  “No there won’t.” Billie closed her fist on the knife and kneaded the handle like a stress ball. She memorized his every movement, every jerk of muscle in his arms, shuffle of feet and shift of his eyes. “There’s nothing for miles. Police don’t give a crap about this place. Isn’t that why you’re out here?” She jerked her head at the body on the crates. “For the privacy?”

  He snorted. “You been following me. I knew it. Could feel it.” He eyed her from bottom to top. “You got skills. Maybe I could use that.” He sucked on his cigare
tte, reached behind and butted it on the hooker’s cold thigh. “We should team up, you and me.”

  Bile rose in Billie’s throat and her balance wavered. No, she would not fuck this up.

  She launched the knife at Douglas. It penetrated his right shoulder and crunched into bone. The handle protruded from his flesh at a right angle, erect, aroused.

  He reared sideways and grabbed his arm. His jaw clenched and he straightened. He glared at her, and yanked the blade free. In one swift movement, the knife sailed through the air.

  Billie dove over a pile of garbage. The blade pinged off an oil drum and skittered along the pavement, coming to rest against an apple core. Through her heartbeat banging in her ears, she heard footsteps and grunts of pain.

  She rolled onto her back and raised the pistol, focused on the front sight and aimed for the centre of his looming blurry figure. He lunged for her. She shot once, twice. Three times.

  His body jerked with the impact of each bullet. He looked her in the eyes, his face a mask of shock and pain, before he crumpled and fell on top of her.

  His hot breath, sweet with whiskey and laden with tar and nicotine, expelled from his lungs and onto her face. Her stomach clenched and roiled.

  A roar built up inside Billie and exploded from her mouth. She thrust her arms out and pushed him off, propelling his limp form and the gun a good metre. She scrambled to her feet, wiped his grimy touch from her. She shook out her arms and stood over him.

  He gasped and drew in a gurgling breath. Bubbles of blood trickled down his chin. He grinned and lifted one hand, made a lame attempt to grab her leg before his arm flopped to the asphalt. “Well shit.” He coughed up blood. “You got me.”

  Bastard was hard to kill.

  A scream bellowed from deep inside her. She kicked him in the groin, the side, the arms. His knife lay on the ground. She stormed at it, snatched it up, and turned to him. She dropped to her knees and stabbed him in the stomach and the throat, pummeled his head and his neck with her other hand.