‘This your number one babe? No wonder you’re desperate,’ said Larceny sarcastically, though her curiosity was aroused.
‘Stella runs the hot food stall across the street,’ said Nick impatiently. ‘I’ve decided she needs an assistant. You.’
‘This is crazy,’ said Larceny. ‘Are we on Candid Camera or something?’ She crossed her eyes and put out her tongue. ‘Where’s the hidden camera? Wait, don’t bother answering. I’ve wasted enough time hanging round this place. I’m outa here.’
She hefted the tote bag up from the floor and went to barge past Nick, but his arm shot out to grab her elbow. She froze. The ice-fire came into her eyes and Nick dropped his arm like it had been seared by a hotplate.
‘Don’t ever, ever touch me,’ she said softly, her eyes narrowed like a cat’s.
‘You’re mad!’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. You’re not gonna get the chance to find out, are you?’
Stella spoke. ‘The job. No strings, no trouble. Cash in hand.’
Larceny looked at the old woman. She gazed back. A tough old bird, shrewd and hardened with years of struggling against the odds.
‘Why me?’ she asked simply.
‘You’ve got spirit. And you’re not going to rip me off!’
‘You’re the only one on this planet who thinks so,’ said Larceny. ‘My name’s Larceny and larceny’s my game, man. Got to live up to my name.’
Stella chuckled. ‘Nothing to rip off except donuts, pies and hot coffee, luv. Are you coming? I’ve got Jack minding the stall and he’s not exactly the full falafel if you get my drift.’
Larceny gave herself a surreptitious pinch to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Or tripping out on the after effects of the skunk. No, she was here at Flinders Street station with a smooth-ball called Nick and a scrawny old woman called Stella who’d just given her a job. This was for real. Sammy Soul was the bad trip, the nightmare. She sighed.
‘Yeah. All right. Just for tonight, and no hassles.’
Following Nick and Stella she walked out into the rain-spattered street as the sky darkened, heralding a cold wintry Melbourne night. People scurried past, heads bent against the rain, eyes down, never smiling at each other in apology as they bumped shoulders. Like a mob of sheep, Larceny thought, all going somewhere, following the leader to the trains that would take them home to their safe, warm houses where they’d eat, watch tv and tumble into their beds before they got up again the next day and repeated it all. Forget it. It wasn’t for her.
They crossed the road and reached the stall. It was more or less just a hole in the wall. Seeing Stella, the old dude called Jack unfolded himself from a stool, nodded and shuffled off up the street.
‘He’s a man of few words. Dump your gear there.’
Stella pointed to a corner. Larceny dropped her tote bag and took off her coat. It was warm and steamy in the booth.
‘Right. This is how you make the coffee. Donuts and pies are in the warmer.’
Stella wasn’t exactly overflowing with the gift of the gab either, Larceny thought with a small secret smile. Good. Meaningless chatter got on her nerves. She’d heard enough of it in the psych wards. That, and pompous psychological jargon.
It was basic. Easy. You put coffee in styrene cups, pies and donuts in bags, and took the money. The clientele was rough, street-tough: the misplaced, the lost and lonely dregs of the city who couldn’t afford more than a coffee and a donut.
‘I do sandwiches and rolls in the summer,’ Stella confided, as Larceny served an old drunk with shaking hands and rheumy eyes who coughed and wheezed as he handed over a two dollar coin.
‘Yeah. Right.’
A few streeties rolled up, their hard faces glistening in the rain, feral in their denims: the product of a society too busy dealing with enterprise bargaining, key performance indicators and an ailing economy to deal with its ailing youth. They cracked a few jokes with Stella when she gave them a couple of donuts and charged them less than the usual because she said that the jam had gone and leaked outa them.
‘Who’s the babe, Stella?’ asked one of the guys. He had long black hair slick with raindrops and a sharp, intelligent face. He moved with a dark grace as he lounged against the booth.
‘None of yer business. Hands off,’ snapped Stella.
‘Larceny,’ said Larceny. She resented Stella’s verbals.
‘Huh? Where?’ The guy swung his head round as if he expected to see an armed bandit charging up the road loaded with stolen goods.
‘Me. My name. Larceny.’
‘Yeah? Cool. Mine’s Lynx. See ya.’
‘That young buck’s trouble,’ said Stella, watching Lynx dart in front of a car then back onto the safety of the footpath as the car driver jammed on the brakes, and sent the car skidding sideways.
‘Yeah. So am I,’ said Larceny under her breath. But she wouldn’t give Stella any aggro: the old woman had given her a job, hot food and coffee during a lull in the passing food traffic, and was now preparing to close up her stall. It was close to midnight.
‘Here’s your pay.’
Larceny looked at the money in her hand.
‘Four hours. Six bucks an hour. Twenty-four bucks.’
‘Yeah. Right.’
Larceny pocketed the cash.
‘Got anywhere to sleep?’ asked Stella.
‘No. But I’ll find somewhere.’
Stella seemed to be considering. Then she shrugged.
‘If you’re still around tomorrow, there’s work here after five, okay?’
Larceny watched as she pulled down the heavy steel roller door and locked it. Had Stella been offering her a bed? Pride stopped her from asking. Still, sleeping on the streets was nothing new. She’d been doing it for years in between dud foster families and residentials that weren’t much better. Sometimes the streets were the safest places to sleep!
Without further goodbyes Stella shuffled off down the street and round a corner, clutching her leather handbag tightly to her chest. It was a miracle that someone didn’t mug her senseless and take her money. But if she was under the protection of Nick Farino, maybe the word was out and no one wanted to tangle with Nick. He looked like he’d be bad news if crossed.
Hoisting her tote bag onto her shoulder, Larceny walked wearily across the street and into the sanctuary of Flinders Street station. Dark shapes lay swaddled in coats and blankets, everything they owned in bags scattered around them against the walls. More human garbage.
Since the closure of most of the big mental asylums and refuges the mentally ill, nicely termed as the “intellectually impaired”, wandered the streets, confused and bewildered, unaccustomed to this frightening freedom. And society, unaccustomed to seeing weird and deviant behaviour on its streets, chose to ignore them.
Larceny lay down in the only available space beside one of the snoring bundles and hoped she hadn’t inadvertently taken someone’s patch. She was aching all over from bending into the pie warmer and standing on the hard concrete floor of Stella’s stall for hours. Being on the run from the law had made her mentally and emotionally exhausted. Was it really only hours ago that she’d killed Sammy Soul? It felt like years.
Feeling time-worn, weary and utterly alone, Larceny pulled her tote bag under her head for a pillow as she closed her eyes and fell into a fretful sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
‘You ready for breakfast?’
Larceny groaned as a toe prodded her back. She opened one sleepy eye and focused on a pair of shiny leather shoes. Her gaze travelled up tight black jeans to a white turtleneck topped by a loose jacket and met Nick’s dark-eyed stare. She struggled to sit upright. Every bone in her body ached more than it had before she had lain on that concrete and she winced as she got to her feet. All round her bodies were moving, groaning, muttering and coughing their graveyard hawk.
‘The cops will be here soon to move everyone out,’ said Nick, his eyes raking over her as she stood, slightly swaying on her feet.
‘Yeah. Cops. It doesn’t look nice for the general public to see all this lot.’ He jerked his thumb at the shadows gathering belongings and shuffling off out into the bleak wintry morning.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Told you. Taking you for breakfast.’
‘Why me?’
‘Do you always argue so much?’
He grabbed Larceny by the arm. She tried to pull back but he gripped her more tightly.
‘I told you, don’t ever touch me,’ she hissed.
He ignored her. She looked round. One old guy was staring at them. When he saw the agonised look in Larceny’s eyes he dropped his gaze and busied himself picking up his belongings. She flicked her eyes at the others. No one was interested: they had their own problems. Well, she’d play along, then as soon as he relaxed his guard, she’d take off. She was good at playing this game.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, walking meekly beside Nick as he steered her round the human baggage.
‘You’re coming to my place for a shower and breakfast. Then we’ll talk.’
‘Forget it!’
Larceny stopped and faced him.
‘Grow up, kid. I’m not going to eat you. Or come on to you. You stink!’
His sharp words made her realise that she hadn’t had a shower for two days. Ashamed, she turned her head.
‘Come on!’
Unresisting, she let him lead her down the steps and out into the chilly grey world that was Melbourne city on an August morning. His car, a black sporty-looking model, was parked at the kerb. Opening the door on the passenger side, he waited till she got in, then slammed the door shut. Suddenly, Larceny felt that she couldn’t care less where he was taking her and what he was going to do to her. She was too tired to fight. He pulled out from the kerb and headed away from the city, not speaking.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I told you.’
Larceny wondered whether she had enough energy to jump out of the car. That would be the sensible thing to do. But as if reading her mind he planted his foot on the accelerator, just about rounding the corners on two wheels. Larceny gave up and huddled further down into her seat. She decided to take note of where they were going so she’d know how to get back to Flinders Street.
He headed down St Kilda Road and swung the car into Domain Road. On the left the park was gloomy, misted with rain, and the benches were empty. It was too wet and cold for even the most seasoned vagrants to sleep under their newspapers. Nick chucked a right into Park Street, then another right down a small side street with barely enough room for the car it was so narrow. He zapped the car into an even narrower side lane and pulled up at the back of a block of flats.
‘Where are we?’ she asked as he held the car door open.
‘I told you. My place.’
‘But where?’
‘South Yarra.’
Larceny grimaced as she looked around. Posh. A very swish neighbourhood, quiet and dignified. She could see down the lane into the street, where big old trees were growing on the edge of the footpath. She didn’t belong here. But then neither did this Nick Farino, either. She knew his type. He’d cheated and scammed his way here, a smoother Sammy Soul with a few more brains.
She thought quickly. She’d play along, have a shower, eat breakfast, then bail out, even if she had to kill him to do it. She’d already killed one man, so another wouldn’t make any difference.
‘In here.’
They went up some steps and Nick punched numbers into the security pad near the door.
‘Frightened someone’s gonna break in and knife you while you sleep?’ asked Larceny with heavy sarcasm.
He didn’t answer but ushered her into the vestibule. ‘My flat’s upstairs.’
They stepped into the lift. He pressed the button marked “3” and they whizzed up to the third level. The lift doors slid back.
‘In here.’ He inserted a key into the lock and opened the door. It led into a hallway. Pale beige floor tiles. Paintings on the cream wall. Nice.
‘The bathroom’s through there.’ He gestured down the passageway. Toting her bag, Larceny went where he’d indicated, her running shoes making no sound on the tiles. She tried one door. Inside was a bedroom with a single bed and a number of boxes heaped against one wall. It didn’t look lived-in. The next door opened onto the bathroom.
It was unreal. There was a big spa bath with gold taps, a hand basin and a shower recess, all in white with cream and gold trimmings. Black and fawn towels were folded neatly over towel rails and there was a collection of men’s toiletries on a glass shelf above the hand basin. Larceny was tempted to have a spa bath, but resisted the idea. A quick shower, a change of underwear, something to eat, and she was outa there.
She stood under the steaming shower soaping her hair with Sassoon shampoo. Luxury. She smoothed shower gel all over herself. Nice. She wished she could stand under the soothing water all day. Forever.
But there were still things to do. She had to front Nick Farino. He was as good as his word in that he hadn’t barged into the bathroom and tried to come on to her. But he was still a slimeball. It was written all over him in Magic Marker.
Climbing out, she towelled herself briskly, put on clean underwear, shirt and jeans, rolled her soiled clothing into a ball which she stuffed into her bag. Then, slinging it over her shoulder, she went back down the hallway to find him.
Her nose led her to the kitchen. He was standing at the stove. A golden brown pancake was sizzling away in a frying pan. With a deft flick Nick flipped it onto the stack he’d piled on a bright blue plate.
‘Sit down.’ He pointed to the table which was covered by a blue and white checked cloth. It was set for two, with delicate white crockery and gleaming silver cutlery. Two cane chairs with pale blue cushions were placed at either end of the table.
It was a kitchen in a dream, bright and sparkling, the woodwork on the cupboards glowing richly under the soft lighting. A divider separated the cooking area from the eating area. It was massed with lots of healthy-looking pot-plants.
‘I can’t imagine you with a mop and bucket,’ said Larceny, as she sat down and looked round at the ice-white appliances.
‘It’s a serviced apartment.’
Larceny gathered he meant that someone else cleaned it.
He carried the heaped plate of pancakes over and sat down opposite her with the expanse of table between them.
‘Eat!’
She picked up her fork and gazed through the glass sliding door that led onto a balcony. Through the trees dripping damply against the grey sky she could see the outline of tall city towers. It was like being in a nest among the forest of buildings.
‘Syrup?’
‘Thanks.’
He passed her the container.
‘Do you want your coffee now or later?’
‘Now, thanks.’
He got up again and brought the percolator to the table. He filled a cup and passed it to her.
‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Thanks.’
It was as if she was on a date in this posh restaurant or something. Nick sat down again and regarded her quizzically. She bent her head. She didn’t want to look at him, or have him staring at her while she ate. She always hated people doing that. It was probably a hang-up from some of the foster homes. They’d watched you constantly to make sure you ate everything.
‘No sweets till you’ve eaten all your vegies, dear,’ they’d said. Or, ‘You should be grateful that you’ve got food when there’s all these starving people in the world.’ And in the psych hospitals they’d watched to make sure you weren’t on some starvation kick.
There was a rustling sound as Nick began to read the morning paper while he forked up his pancakes. Larceny started in on one. It was delicious. She k
ept forking them off the plate and had scoffed down three before she noticed what she was doing. He’d think she was a pig.
But then who cared?
She stole a glance at the top of his head. He rustled the paper as he turned a page. Larceny squinted at the headlines. Her heart gave a thump. Sammy Soul! Was his murder going to be splashed across page one? She frowned, peering at it and trying to read upside down. Nick suddenly put down the paper, making her jump.
‘You want to read it?’
‘No. That is —’
He folded the paper and passed it over, studying her moves. Larceny picked it up and opened it, skimming the first four pages.
Nothing! Didn’t murder make headlines any more? She felt vaguely disappointed. Then felt a faint ray of hope. Maybe Sammy Soul wasn’t dead after all!
Nick sat watching the play of emotions across her face. She fascinated and intrigued him. An ice-maiden, plain unemotional, yet he’d seen her apprehension as she’d scanned the paper, sensed her relief when she hadn’t found what she was looking for. Maybe she’d thought her disappearance would be in the paper? He’d met a hundred babes on the run, possibly thousands. He reckoned he was a good judge of character. Some of them were thick, some blatantly sexy, some shrewd and smart. He only ever chose a handful to work for him, and always moved them on after several years. There were other houses to take them in. No intravenous drugs, that was his rule. It got messy. He hadn’t seen Larceny’s arms: she had them well covered. He was sure she wasn’t an addict but maybe she was a recreational?
‘So? Ready to talk?’ He leaned forward, chin on his hands, regarding her impartially as if she was some biology specimen.
‘No.’
‘Pity. I thought a shower and breakfast would loosen your tongue. Well, I guess I’ll just phone the cops and get them to come and pick you up.’
He saw raw fear leap into her eyes as she automatically closed her hand round her fork, the nearest weapon she could find. He saw her reaction and was pleased. They were so easy to manipulate when they were running scared.
Larceny knew she’d have to stab him if he tried to turn her in. Grey mist swirled before her eyes and, raising the fork, she gripped it tighter. She glared at him.
Care Factor Zero Page 3