Billie

Kid Lemon’s girlfriend reminded me of a beer served in some hoity-toity hotel: tall, blonde, and a head full of bubbles. That was a first impression only, mind you, and it turned out to be wrong. 

“So what can I do for you, Miss…” I offered her a seat and waited for her to suggest a name. I’d seen her at ring-side, but we’d never been introduced.


“It’s Billie,” she answered, “Billie Harland.” I was almost disappointed; I expected ‘Simone’ or ‘Scarlett’ or one of those names that’s obviously made up by a small-town cutie when she washes up in the big city, looking for her big break. ‘Billie” was pure farm girl.


“I seen you at the fight,” Billie told me. “Somebody said you’re a reporter.” So much for any hope she was flying to my arms for comfort, after her unfortunate loss.


“That’s right, Miss Harland” I said.


“I thought maybe you’d like to look into somethin’,” Billie said. “You know, for a story?” Everything she said ended on a rising note, like a little kid, worried that they’d get in trouble for being heard and not seen.


“You know something?” I asked. “About Kid Lemon’s …unfortunate end?” I tried to make the question as gentle as I could.


“That stupid name,” Billie said. “He’ll always be Artie Leman to me.”


-- 30 --

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