Billy, The One-Legged Gangster

By itchingmyknee

Everyone laughed at Billy when he told them he was a gangster. They would take one look at his sad stump and NHS-issue crutch and dismiss him as a deluded cripple. But Billy was a gangster. And not only that, he was a damn good one. He was a product of Thatcherite economics; raised in the 80’s and endowed with a vicious streak that comes of being deprived of free milk during your formative years. He had lost his leg in a factory accident and used the compensation to start up his business. It was a cleaning business, of sorts. Namely, he cleaned up other people’s dirty work.
Billy had a weak spot. Girls. He would always tell them he was a gangster, a powerful mover in the upper echelons. They never believed him. Billy was weary of dressing too fancy. The taxman might start poking his nose in if word got round that little Billy was dripping in gold and sporting tailor-made suits from Saville Row. So he kept a low profile, and a wedge of red-backs in his back pocket. It was only the girls who hung around long enough to see this wad that ever deigned believe he was more than he seemed. Some of them pretended to be interested. Just long enough to wheedle a few G&Ts out of the besotted boy, but they were always off at the last orders. Tottering home to their boyfriends or Bridget Jones soundtracks and shuddering at the thought of Billy’s clammy hands travelling up their (thank the Lord we’ve still got them) pretty pins.

The closest Billy had ever come to a relationship was just after the accident. He met a girl called Lavinia over the internet, who had a fetish for amputation. She made him wear strap on leg and would masturbate while pretending to saw it off. She left him for a man with no arms or legs. Billy still saw her in chat-rooms sometimes, and she would resignedly talk dirty to him while he relieved himself. Billy knew it was because she felt guilty. Because she had shattered what remained of his self-confidence.

One day he decided to try that preserve of kooks and freaks, the lonely hearts column. He wrote, “One-legged gangster looking for laughs and lots of sex with like-minded sexpot.” He got three replies. He met the first, Elaine from Tonbridge, for drinks on a Wednesday night. She was no sexpot, she was obese and had more facial hair than he did. He shagged her anyway, but threw up afterwards and couldn’t even look up from the toilet bowl and she thundered, weeping, into the night. The second was a transsexual from Margate. She was very sweet, but decided that Billy simply wouldn’t fit in with her Burlesque crowd. But she bought all the drinks, and treated Billy to a rendition of “You’re The One That I Want” from Grease. The third was the most promising. Her name was Castor, and she was Portuguese. He husband had lost his leg while fighting in some war or another, but had selfishly died the previous year. Castor was looking for someone to make that same short dent in the bed, and to wear her husbands collection of one-legged pyjamas and single shoes.
Billy knew she would do when they met for coffee, and he forgot to pull out his £50 stack. He took her for dinner too, and asked her what she did. She told him she was a cleaner but also worked part-time in a laundrette. As the faint smell of fabric conditioner and industrial bleach wafted over the table, Billy knew by the tingle in his stump that he had found love. He said, “Castor, sugar. Be my honey bee.” And she replied, “Sweet.”