Blip Magazine Archive

 blipmagazine.net

 

Home : Archive : Links

Billy Vigor

Scott D. Pomfret

 

A six-story rectangle of gray concrete and shaded glass stands where the Towahannoc River used to run through Hebron's warehouse district. A century back, the building employed nine hundred people. It churned out wooden clocks and a man could raise a family on what he made there. Fifty years ago, it was watches. Forty years back, the factory shut down. All the jobs went to Taiwan faster than a gook on a scooter. Donít let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

In the Seventies, when they started busing in South Boston, Billy Vigor moved to Hebron to avoid the apocalypse. He took a long-term lease on the east wing of the vacant former flagship of the Towahannoc Watch, the first tenant in a decade. Billy slung a chain link fence around the parking lot, zapped the perimeter with electricity and razorwire, stocked his shelves, and put a sign up outside: Billy Vigor's Surplus and Supply, the Safest Spot in the Free World. The place looks like a penitentiary, flood-lit with power Billy steals from the grid.

His outfit is part Army-Navy surplus, and part home security. On the former factory floor, uniforms and fatigues hang suspended like sides of beef in a meat locker. Rows upon rows of firearms are racked behind glass. Stacks of devices and scopes and nightvision goggles and global positioning units are stacked every which way.

Many of the windows of the Towahannoc Watch building have been broken and patched. The old loading dock is a mess of tags, some fresh, some faded. Shattered glass glitters in the parking lot. On Billyís end of the building -- thereís six floors of subsidized Section 8 housing on the west side -- a clock tower rises three stories above the roof. It houses four clocks, one facing each direction. The Roman numerals that marked the hours were ten feet high. Each minute hand was forty feet long and weighed 800 pounds. No two faces ever show the same time.

Billy has made a killing post-9/11. Heís welcome in the office of four-term mayor Angelo Cicilline any day of the week. Sissy (as heís been known since elementary school) thinks Billyís an upstanding citizen. That assessment is not hurt by Billyís generous campaign contributions. Billy is the kind of homosexual that anyone would like.

Detective Seann MacPhail likes Billy in particular. He likes him for a sixteen-year-old murder. Itís a cold case. There was a defunct gay bar called the Chain Male, and a Jewish stiff, and a murder weapon gone AWOL. Macís got no personal beef, but it eats at him that Billyís still out on the street.

Mac gets no end of guff from the brass about pursuing the case. It takes some serious cojones to move against Sissyís friends. And it doesnít help that the stiff was a scumbag. A lawyer for cons. A guy who worked the unions and greased city hall to get Billy his building permit. Maybe a fag besides.

"Who would you rather have alive?" other cops ask Mac when he wonít let it die. "Billy or the Jew?"

Billy Vigor's Surplus and Supply is a favorite among the cops. Billy stocks some standard issue equipment, but most of what he sells is designed -- as Billy Vigor puts it -- "to help even the odds out on the street." If you buy something from Billy, he wishes you luck, but he doesn't want to hear a whisper about your plans and you canít be a stickler about serial numbers.

Just after Labor Day, Macís down at Tinoís having some pops. Heís not thinking about his cold case. Heís thinking about Toni V. Mac has a thing for Toni. Most girls are interchangeable. You had one, you had them all. Like it was all one fucking girl. But what makes Toni different is the addictions. Sheís addicted to everything not nailed down. Booze, drugs, gambling -- itís all in her past, but sheís so much an addict that she has overdosed even on the dimestore/checkout-counter self-help books. She chokes down two a day, from finance to spiritual awareness to thin thighs in thirty days, written by first-name gurus with strange degrees from weird institutes and jacket photographs that send warning bells off in Mac's head. He used to fund them stuffed and hidden under mattresses and in sofa cushions and at the bottoms of closets among the winter shoes, white soft cover books in cheap printings with garish promises and accusational titles, from which Mac sometimes got a clue as to Toniís next complaint about them, their relationship, or life in general.

In his spare time over the past few weeks, Mac has been stalking Toni. He doesnít mean any harm by it. He drops by after work, or he parks a squad car outside her apartment all night long. Or calls her and doesnít say a word. Nothing scary or out there. He just wants to teach Toni a lesson. He canít understand how she can possibly think about dumping him. She dump him. Like sheís some hot shit and heís nobody in this town. Just another stiff whoís Dad used to work for Towahannoc Watch. Things have gone downhill since Sissy took over.

Macís about to order another beer, when Billy Vigor the fat fuck waddles in.

"Speak of the devil," Mac mutters. "I was just thinking about fucking your wife."

Billy and Toni had married in í75. They divorced a year later, and were still best of friends.

Billy says, "I been looking for you, Mac."

"You forget how good her pussy smells, Billy?"

"How come you donít like me, Mac?"

"Kind of a questionís that? I love you, Billy. The way I love spiders and rats and cockroaches." He slaps his hand down on the bar and his glass jumps.

"Whaddou I have to do to get you to like me?"

"Kill yourself. Why donít you try that, Billy? I think Iíd like you better dead."

"Whatíre you drinking?"

Billy signals Tino to bring Mac another beer.

Mac sighs. Nothing a guy said to this scum-sucking fudgepacker got him angry. Billy doesnít even give a shit that Macís fucking his wife. Billyís without the basic emotions, flat as a picture on a page. Which drives Mac fucking cuckoo. Nothing gets his goat more than a man without passion, without animation. The amorphous and stubborn and passive are anathema to him. The worst of the worst. How many times in his career had Mac wanted to kill not the murderers and the rapists, but the sniveling snitches, the passive cowering sneaks who were hard to pin down, hammering jelly to the wall? They let themselves get kicked like dogs but never change their ways. These are the dangerous people, these are the people who will stab you in the back. World a better place without them.

Billy and Tino talk it up. Billy doesnít care that people like Tino make a mint laughing at him behind his back. He talks about the Sox, and the new tax hike, and whatever happened to summer, and when there seems to be nothing left to talk about they talk about the Festival of Hours. The Festival is Sissyís work. Bigger than First Night. Bigger than St. Paddyís. They have fires in the river, and a parade of boats, and costumes, and music, and cotton candy, and it is all supposed to tempt people off the interstate and into Hebronís downtown to celebrate the cityís heritage as the place where time began. Sissy went all out. They actually dug a new channel for the Towahannoc River to re-route it through a part of town better suited for the Festivalís crowds.

"Festival doesnít suck," Tino says. "For business, I mean."

Billy says, "Not from where Iím at. All the folks are up at the festival. No sense in evening opening my doors. And more fools they all are, far as Iím concerned. They should be fuckiní afraid. They should be coming down and stocking up. You just never know whatís going to go down at Festival. Osama. Housebreaks. People got to be prepared."

Billyís got a lot of "th" in every "s" that comes out of his mouth. Tino just nods and polishes glass.

"Speaking of," Billy says. He turns to Mac. "I gotta tip for you."

Billy says heís got suspicions about a sale heís just made. It seems a kid came in, just eighteen years old. He was looking for a shotgun. Didnít say what he was up to, but Billyís got suspicions itís no good. He says Mac should look into it. Might get a promotion out of it.

"Kidís name," he says, "is Lot Bates. I got the info in the file."

Mac fixes Billy with a stare. Billyís not known for having scruples about the business he does. Maybe heís got an ax to grind. Maybe Billy tried to get down this kidís pants and got shut out.

"All that suspicion didnít stop you from making a sale, did it, Billy?"

"Well, I didnít sell him any ammo."

"Youíre a fuckiní sweetheart."

"Kid gives me the creeps, Mac," Billy admits.

"I know that feeling."

Billy seizes Macís arm. Mac hauls off as if to smack him.

"Donít you ever put your faggot hands on me, Billy!"

"You gotta help me, Mac. Itís bad, you know. Thereís a difference between mean and evil. You know it and I know it. Meaníll get theirs in time, but evil needs putting down, because each time evil is not put down when it should be, it grows stronger. You gotta put this down, Mac. Kidís evil, Iím telling you. Nowís the time."

Mac grunts.

"You only got a couple of days, Mac."

"Gonna turn into a pumpkin?"

"Whatever the kidís up to, itís going down at the Festival of Hours," Billy says. "Thatís the word I get." Billy slips a note across the bar. Itís folded sixteen times, written in words Billy might have wrote himself. Itís a threat. He says itís from the boy.

"Two days," Billy repeats.

Mac takes a long pull on his long-neck.

"I got all my life, Billy."

Itís more than a few drinks later that Tino kicks Mac out. Hebron is hushed and quiet. Mac feels sorry for himself. Mac feels as if heís the only one keeping watch. A hundred years ago, when he was a kid, he might have left Hebron like everyone else. But guys like Mac donít run away. He has a sense of destiny. Things to accomplish. He has spent his whole life looking out for that moment when his time will come. Everything else is just entertainment. Passing time.

Because heís not ready to get behind the wheel, Mac walks to the place where the Towahannocís two branches converge. At that crooked divide, the river is all elbows and awkward. The currents are all wrong and the interstate passes at angles on the overpass overhead. To change the course of the Towahannoc, they had gutted houses and sunken streets. Even split old neighborhoods into two. Where the river used to run -- by the Towahannoc Watch building, right next to Billy Vigorís -- they put up Section 8 subsidized housing. Thereís nothing but dry winds down by Billy Vigorís, replacing the water that had once run there. Around the riverís new course, they built parks and walkways that lead straight to Sissyís City Hall.

Mac stands on a span over the river. He looks down at the place where the Towahannoc funnels into the new riverbed they built for it. The river is a stew, broken by tree limbs and shopping carts mired on the banks or caught in the current. Cold air skims a mist off the water. He hardly knows the river any more. What kind of arrogance does it take to move a river from its God-given course? Sissy must think heís going to live forever, never have to pay the price.

Mac wonders if what was drowned under the riverís new course still carries on under the riverís surface. A shadow world. That says to anyone who would looks: Here is the way life was supposed to have been.

Always the same river, Mac thinks. But never the same water twice.

Mac canít swim, but he imagines he can breathe water. What was it that Toni used to say? Ideal man breathes through his ears and has a twelve-inch tongue? Mac wonders if sheís is up for fucking tonight. He glances over toward the looming shadow of the old headquarters of Hebron Time Co., where Toniís got a state-subsidized apartment that Sissy fixed for her to keep. Fixed by Billy Vigor no doubt. It gets Macís goat that Toni lets that faggot provide for her. It gets his goat that he canít give her up.

A car approaches and slows. Macís hands shift to his badge and weapon. This is not fear, he tells himself. He almost wants someone to try to fuck with him tonight.

The car overshoots him. Itís a 97 Buick Regal. Instinctually, Mac notes the plate number and matches it against the time on his watch.

Thereís the crunch of gears, a flash of white light from the carís rear. It backs up. A jowly face looks out the driverís window. Father Twomey. Returning from some night errand. Heís likely lonely. These must be bad hours to be a priest.

Strange, Mac thinks. In a city of two hundred thousand people, the one driving this late would be one I know, who knows me. Or maybe not so strange. The city shrinks at night. The population gets smaller. It's just me, Tino, a host of crooks, and the priest. Mac feels himself part of a conspiracy.

"Get in," the priest says.

Mac does not immediately accept the invitation. His eyes are down the road. A convoy of State Police cars appears, one after another, whooshing out of the dark and silence at 60 miles an hour, a low throb or whisper as they pass without siren or flashing lights, so that they appear unnaturally quiet, people who can keep a secret.

"Get in," the priest repeats.

He does not ask what Macís doing out here late. He explains that heís been called out to Lower Hebron to perform the sacrament of the sick. He jokes, "I think itís the third time this month that Mrs. Walsh has been dying."

Mac thinks: I like a priest whoís got a sense of humor.

He thinks: Why is the priest not more careful with decorum when he is around me? Why am I exempted from priest-like political correctness? Was this honesty on the priestís part? Was that what honesty was, the absence of decorum? The ruder, the blunter, the less circumspect, the more honest he was with me?

The longer Mac thinks about it, the more the lack of decorum seems like a lack of respect.

You think too much, he tells himself.

Mac asks, "You got a kid in your parish named Lot Bates?"

"Sure," the priest says.

"Not Jewish?"

"Father was Jewish. Quiet kid. Tough what he went through. Iíve always felt a pull to minister to that family. Isnít that strange?"

"Weíve all got a calling, Father. Whatíd the kid go through?"

"Huh?"

"You said the kid went through something."

"Oh. Yeah. Didnít you know?" He mentions the murder sixteen years ago.

Mac stiffens, and the priest is keen to his surprise.

"Didnít you know that, Mac?"

Thereís a clenched fist in Macís belly. His dickís hard for this news. Heís angry at the priest for making this connection before he had.

"I know," the priest allows. "Sore spot. You guys never solved that one?"

"Thatís not the half of it," Mac says.

The priest looks discomfited. "What do you mean?"

"Turn here."

The priest falls into silence. They come to a traffic light. The pavement is unaccountably wet, though Mac does not remember its having rained.

The lights of Billy Vigor's compound cast the clock factory in a shroud of darkness. The lights on the tower wink red.

"I heard it from someone up in Sissyís office," the priest offers. His tone is almost apologetic, as if he feels he has to explain that he has come to the information legitimately.

Mac thinks: Maybe the priestís personal knowledge is innocent. Or at least, equally culpable. Which is the most most of us can hope to shoot for. Iíll know in due time. I will know more than this priest knows. I will know every detail. I will crawl around the scene on my hands and knees and review ballistics reports until my eyes burn.

The priest observes, "Things on your mind, Mac."

Old school, Mac thinks approvingly. Heís not trying to pry. He knows that each of us has our burdens. He is not part of this broader culture of vomiting up all your secrets on reality TV, eyes on you all the time, cameras in your shower, and doctors looking up your ass with klieg lights, and some how it comes out you donít know anyone any more, even though you know you been up their pooper with a microscope.

"If ever you need to talk ..." the priest starts to say.

"Donít ruin a good thing, padre."

"Nothing wrong with that," he says. "Doesnít make you a bad guy to want to put it all aside, to admit itís got you shaken a bit."

Macís thoughts are cold. The burning pique at being bested by the priest has left him. Inside his head it is all cold ashes. Dusty. Lunar. He wants the priest to shut his yap.

"You know Billy Vigor?"

"Everyone knows you got it in for him."

Mac is surprised. He had not known that everybody knew he had it in for Billy.

"Hey," the priest says. "I saw Toni V. at Mass last Sunday -- she was asking after you."

Mac misses having Toniís body in his bed. He misses her brown skin. Wet pussy. He misses her fiercely. Last thing Toni said to him was, "Youíre a real bastard, Mac. And your dickís small." She said, "Your timeís gonna come, too, Mac. Just you wait."

Mac checks the kid out. Confirms the priestís intelligence: Lot Bates is indeed the second son of the Jew. He was two years old when his Daddy killed, and he has moved back to Hebron just in the last two months, staying with an aunt from the Catholic side of the family.

Mac questions principles, teachers, coaches and neighbors. They say the same thing as the priest: quiet kid. They donít know him much.

Typical lazy-ass civilians, all of them, pulling salaries, but doing slipshod work. Mac puts in seventy-minute hours to get done what needs doing, while these bums clutch their crotches and coffee cups and wait to pull down pensions that will be as fat as Macís.

Mac catches up to the kid on the street. Bates is dressed in jailhouse sneaks with Velcro ties, a pair of pocket-free jeans, and a white long-sleeved T-shirt. His head is shaved to the bone and heís got a patch growing beneath his lower lip. If Mac had been his father, he would have made the kid shave and give him money to buy himself some decent clothes. From the way the kid carries himself, Mac guesses his handshake is weak, clammy, untaught. His face is gaunt, his body pocked with shadow, dimples, and knobs. His dark eyes are slow. No one would ever mistake this kid for Beaver Cleaver. But thatís fine with Mac. Pure is for Corn Flakes boxes. Mac lives in the real world.

Mac flashes the badge and drills through a list of usual questions. Bates responds in a weird tick-tock, like heís working out a poem in his head. Mac gets a steady stream of no's, until Mac asks what plans Bates has got for the Festival.

The kidís hesitation is no more than a quarter-second, but Mac closes in for the kill.

"What is it?"

Bates shakes his head.

"What?"

The kid denies everything, denies the very hesitation that set Mac off, until Mac, too, questions whether he detected anything it all. Bates reminds me of me, Mac thinks. Chip off the old block. There is something terrible and uncompromising reflected in the boyís eyes. He felt like he was in the presence of an ally.

"You got a gun?" Mac asks.

After a second, the kid says, "Yeah."

"You got a clue how to use it?"

"Yeah."

Mac says, "Donít so anything I wouldnít do."

Late in the morning of the Festival of Hours, Mac wakes alone in bed. He has a sense that time is short. That todayís the day it all comes to a head. Drop your cocks and grab your socks. Fifteen years on the force and it all comes down to today, when heíll get called on, tested, and have to show what heís got in his scrotum. Amen. Prove heís different than the average round of man.

Itís an all-hands-on-deck day for the Hebron PD, but Mac skips the post he is assigned and stakes out Lot Batesís house instead. The brassíll thank him later.

Just before dusk, the kid comes out. On foot. A trench coat flapping at his ankles. Plenty of room for just about anything you might like to hide beneath.

Mac follows at a blockís distance until the crowds force him closer. So close, it feels like Bates is in Mac. He has become an extra floating rib, a vestigial bone, subsumed in Macís flesh, part of him.

Flesh of my flesh. A kid like me.

Mac thinks: I am on to you, Bates. I see it as you see it. I know what youíre thinking. I know what youíve got hidden underneath that coat. He doesnít intercept the kid, doesnít frisk him. Mac lets justice happen as it was supposed to. Thy will be done, as Father Twomey puts it every Sunday. Destiny.

Tourists and gapers surround them. Booths have been set up to hawk everything under the sun. The city has removed the garbage bins from the street, so that no one has a place to hide a bomb. In every window, there are clocks taped to the glass, paper hands turned to every which hour. Father Time costumes have been dusted off from New Year's and recycled.

Macís phone rings and itís Billy and he wants to know if Mac has taken care of "our" problem.

Mac says, "How the fuck'd you get my private number, you pervert," and he hangs up.

At the end of the block, Tinoís eldest son is dressed in dark shoes, dark clothes, and a top hat. Some kids watch as he folds tiny sheets of paper into roses, penguins, silvery fish, plump strawberries. When his folds are finished, Tinoís son brings the flattened paper to his mouth and gives the paper a short puff of breath, of life, and they fatten up from flat. He flips the origami at some lucky brat and takes tips in his top hat. Most of the kids are clamoring for prizes, any prizes, but Tinoís son seems to choose which children get what on a calculus only he can figure out.

Bates stands a moment at the fringe of this crowd, watching Tinoís son do his magic. Mac watches Bates watch Tinoís son. He wonders if Bates expects to win a prize. He wonders for a moment if Tinoís son might also be in on the plan, and the origami fold contain a secret message. Mac wonders whether Billy set him up. Mac thinks: heís probably got a retail paradise down there at the Time Company this evening, because he knows the whole Hebron PD is working the Festival. Modified firearms. Tasers. Child porn. Maybe even drugs, who knows what Billy would stoop to?

Batesís hand worries the space under the trench coat. The striking of the clock in the tower of the Towahannoc Watch is a regular, thready pulse. Mac gets a weird sense that someone else is present with them. A third person, who is watching Mac watch the boy. Watching coldly and clinically. Watching, just as when sometimes Mac steps outside of himself, a second person cleaved off the first, a rock-hard, flint of a person, like a fleck of gravel in the eye, a small ungenerous person, who observes and judges and occasionally provides contemptuous, offhand direction, as if to pretend the second person were not also going to be the ultimate judge of consequence of the first.

When the Towahannoc Watch tower clock reaches its hundredth stroke, suddenly all the clocks in the city, from Father Twomeyís to City Hall, join in. New Age orchestral music plays loudly from hundreds of speakers that have been mounted in trees. The effect is gothic, grotesque. Mac can almost feel the palpable hunger of each and every godless soul around him for a bit of ritual and drama in their lives.

Across the way, a little child with a brass voice dances on the curb. Her hair is drawn up in a marble tie. The girl looks carefully both ways for traffic and crosses the street. She comes up and measures Mac's face, so full of confidence he canít say "Boo".

"Hi!" she blurts. Then she skips away, thrilled with her own daring, three times on the left foot, one on the right, briefly tottering with both blue sandals on the curb.

Bates darts from the magic show and muscles his way through the crowd to the riverís edge. The crowds are four-people thick along the railing. Beneath the rail, at a ten-foot drop, runs the new river that Sissy made. In its current, at fifteen-foot intervals, pyres have been built in big black metal kettle drums mounted in the channel. Upriver, a black boat peopled with dignitaries dressed in black goes from pyre to pyre with long-handled torches. Sissy is aboard, and Twomey, and Billy Vigor, too.

The people in the boat light the pyres. Soon, a series of flames dots the Towahannoc behind the boat. Another boat comes from the Towahannocís other tributary and falls into line behind the first boat, where the two tributaries converge. The second boat is loaded with wood to stoke the fires, which will burn all night.

In the wake of the boats, the Hebron High Swim team leaps into the Towahannoc from the 14th Street bridge. They are laughing and drunk, and when they drag themselves to shore, their boxers cling to their little boy asses which are lit bright by the fires.

Bates is poised at the rail as if he, too, will leap over into the river when Sissyís boat passes. His face is alive with the shadow of flame. In a parade on the street behind Mac, there are pretty lithe girls in tights and batons, the kind Mac would never have asked out on dates in high school. He turns his head.

When he turns back, he finds Bates had made a hole in the crowd, and has disappeared down a short gangway to a floating dock on the riverís edge. Mac runs to the rail. He flashes the badge, pushes aside a mother and child. He is worried he has lost the boy, failed the test.

Below the rail at which Mac stands is a dock floating in the river. The dock rides low in the water on account of the crowd on it. Sissyís boat is approaching the dock.

Bates elbows through the crowd on the dock as if he plans to welcome Sissy and Twomey and Billy Vigor home. Someone catches the bow line. Billy Vigor is on the port side near the dock. Sissy stands behind him, a full head taller but half as wide. Toni V, who Mac sees for the first time, is also in the boat. She taps Billy on the shoulder and whispers in his ear, and Father Twomey touches her shoulder and leans close as if he, too, would like to hear.

The boat glides close and is arrested by the bow line pulled taut. Billy straddles a foot-wide stretch of open water and one foot on the dock.

Batesís trench coat falls open. Mac find his Glock in his hand. He raises, aims, and fires three times. Strokes on a clock.

Bates shoves. Billy topples into the churning water between the dock and boat. Toni shrieks. Fireworks explode overhead. Sparklers rain down. The shadow of flames in the river pyres seem to pat Bates down, and there is no shotgun under the kidís coat, no weapon at all.

Fuck me, Mac thinks. He matches the tableau against the time showing on the clocktower and makes a mental note for a report he will never turn in.

Time stops. Faces are ghost-white under the light of explosions overhead. The second boat comes even with the first. It is filled with muscled men all in black. Loads of stacked, split wood. Toni V. has never looked more beautiful. Mac vaults the rail, breaks the waterís surface just in front of the second boatís bow. His lungs no the water. A hundred courses, but just one destiny. His passage has come exactly on schedule. Donít let the door smack your ass on the way out.


Scott D. Pomfret is co-author of the Romentics-brand line of romance novels for gay men (http://www.romentics.com). He also writes short stories that have been selected for publication in Post Road, New Delta Review, Genre Magazine, Freshmen: Best New Gay Voices, and many other magazines and anthologies. Alyson Books' Friction series of the year's best erotica routinely includes Pomfret's erotic stories, one of which also will appear in Best Gay Erotica 2005 (Cleis Press). Pomfret is looking for a publisher for his collection of short fiction, Until the Sugar Is Caramel, and his newly completed novel, Only Say the Word. Pomfret lives in Boston, Massachusetts.

Maintained by Blip Magazine Archive at www.blipmagazine.net

Copyright © 1995-2011
Opinions are those of the authors.