Frankie

by Shivaun Plozza

  I jiggle up and down on the spot, eyes on the glass doors of the police station. I’ve stopped checking the time because I don’t want to know just how late it is and just how much trouble I’ll be in from Vinnie for not being tucked up in bed. But I need to talk to Nate.

  Luckily I don’t have to wait much longer. Nate’s in reception, hunched over the desk with a pen. He keeps ‘accidentally’ brushing his hand against the policewoman’s arm and grinning. Marzoli is leaning against the doorframe of the interview room. He looks about twenty years older than usual.

  I shuffle to the right, out of Marzoli’s view. I think I’ve worked my way onto his Christmas card list. Only it’s the list where people get a horse’s head instead of a card.

  Finally the glass doors swing open and Nate runs down the steps, two at a time.

  I’m not sure what I’m going to say to the guy but I’m pretty sure he’ll have a few words for me. First, he’s going to grovel. He’ll beg me to forgive him for being such a jerk. Then he’ll say he owes me. I’ll tell him to think nothing of it; we juvenile delinquents need to stick together. And that’s when he’ll nod and say, ‘You’re so wise, Frankie. Let me tell you everything I know about your missing brother.’

  He walks right past me.

  ‘Oi! Girl who saved your arse standing here.’

  He comes to a stop. I can practically see the stupid grin on his face through the back of his head. ‘If you hung around for a reward, Vega, you’re out of luck. Unless it was me you were after.’ He turns to face me. Yup, stupid grin. ‘Back to mine?’ He arches a single brow.

  Really? Six per cent of people can do that and he, he, can do it?

  I ignore him. And remind myself that, yes he’s hot, but he’s also a prime example of the species jerkus arseholeous. ‘You were the last one I saw Xavier with so I want to know if –’

  ‘I’ve just spent the last hour breathing in Marzoli’s coffee breath so I’m all out of small talk. But thanks for the alibi.’ He salutes, winks and walks away.

  Dickhead.

  There’s no one else around because it’s a) freezing, b) late and c) really fucking freezing. The only light comes from the train station, the platform high up to our right. Nate heads down a walkway under the tracks. And I follow, boots clomping.

  ‘I can easily go back to the station and withdraw my statement,’ I say as I catch up. I’m already out of breath. Frankie Vega does not run. ‘And then they’ll lock you away. You’ll be some biker’s bitch. He’ll sell you to a dude called T-bone for a packet of cigarettes and you’ll have to get a “Nate hearts T-bone” tattoo.’

  ‘That could happen,’ says Nate. ‘Except you’d be admitting you lied to the cops and they’d arrest us both.’ He points to my shoulder. ‘You can get your tattoo right there.’

  Damn it.

  I follow Nate out of the walkway and into an empty car park, which is basically a block of dusty earth ringed by a high wire fence. There are streetlights around the perimeter. It’s lit up like a footy stadium. Nate cuts toward a row of double-storey Victorians.

  ‘I’ll say I was confused.’ Hop, step, jump. ‘That I thought it was Thursday but really it was Friday.’ Jog, stumble, wheeze. The guy has giraffe legs, I swear.

  ‘Then you’d be alibiing me for Friday.’

  ‘Don’t you ever take a night off?’

  ‘Sure. I do yoga on Tuesdays.’

  We pass through to the other side of the car park and out on to the street, the row of Victorians looming. We’re nearing the edge of my comfort zone – I am not in Smith Street anymore.

  As soon as a car with way-too-bright headlights zooms past, Nate jogs across the street.

  I hurry after him. ‘Wait, were you with my brother on Friday too?’

  He lifts an overhanging branch, holding it high as I walk under. ‘What did I tell you? I’m all questioned out. Go home and drool over Ian Curtis.’

  ‘I don’t drool. Anyway, how do you know I like Ian Curtis?’

  He stops again but only so he can give me another eyebrow raise. ‘Seriously? Have you looked in the mirror?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Whatever. Didn’t your mother warn you against talking to strangers?’

  ‘My mother taught me jack shit. And if you’re after a matching pair for your black eye, ask me about her again.’

  I stare him out.

  ‘Look.’ He points at the wooden fence we’re standing in front of, palings wonky and rotted. ‘You want to know about your brother? Look right there.’

  I look at the fence. I look at Nate. I look at the fence.

  Maybe this is some weird-arse version of that diversion trick people play. Look! A fence! But when I turn back Nate hasn’t run away. And he’s looking at me like I’m the idiot.

  He waves his hand at the fence. ‘Are you blind?’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  He jabs again at the wooden slats. ‘X Marks.’

  The fence is covered in graffiti. Mostly tags and mostly shit but there’s one piece that’s really good – it’s right above the little red ‘x’ Nate’s pointing at. It reminds me of the purple-skinned girl from the alley, except this one’s an angel. Not just any angel though. She’s riding a skateboard and her golden wings are giving the finger.

  The slats wobble as Nate thumbs the fence. ‘X marks the spot. X for, I don’t know, maybe Xavier? Do I have to spell it out?’

  I doubt he can spell but he doesn’t have to.

  The angel grins at me. The kind of grin that makes you jealous because whoever smiles like that knows the secrets of the world. I hold a hand up to the fence, palm flat against the angel’s shoulder.

  Wow.

  My brother: dimpled thief, fond of dumplings, talented artist. I guess it makes sense – I’ve seen his artwork. I’ve got one buried in my backyard. My little brother, the kick-arse graf artist. Warmth shoots through my body. Either I need to pee or . . . oh my god, is this what pride feels like?

  ‘Heaps more around,’ says Nate. ‘Just look for the “x”. Show’s over.’

  He shoves his hands in his pocket and jogs across the road, not even checking for traffic. I take a final look at the angel. She’s oddly familiar. Like a grown-up version of someone you used to know as a kid – new and familiar at the same time.

  The angel grins at me, eyes twinkling, middle-finger saluting me. She’s beautiful. There’s no way anyone who can paint like this is an evil criminal mastermind.

  When I turn, Nate’s not only on the other side of the street, he’s about halfway up the block, his giraffe legs whisking him – and whatever secrets he’s keeping from me – far, far away.

  As I give chase I ask myself: how shit is my life right now that this douchebag is my only hope? But the angel spurs me on.

  Nate glances over his shoulder as I come spluttering and stumbling up to him. ‘I thought we were done,’ he says.

  I can’t have a heart attack and be a smart arse at the same time so I reserve my mouth for breathing purposes only. He rolls his eyes and walks faster. We’re in a different postcode now. Abbotsford (I think).

  After about another minute of jogging/walking he stops out front of the creepiest, most decrepit-looking bungalow I’ve ever seen. It’s set a little way back from the street, lurking in the shadows. It’s squat, brown and ugly – like a giant cane toad. Half the front gutter has pulled away, dangling onto the porch. All the windows are boarded up and paint is peeling away from the walls, like the house has terminal skin cancer. I can hear the river flowing somewhere in the near distance.

  Nate faces me. ‘This is where I tell you to piss off.’

  ‘You live here?’

  ‘No. I’m just bored with you following me.’

  I did not run – in public – to be dumped outside a crack den. ‘Suck it up, Nate. You owe me.’

  ‘Then you have a problem.’

  ‘I’ve got ninety-nine problems but your bitchy attitude isn’t one.’

  ‘Th
at’s cute,’ he says. ‘You’re real funny. I’m guessing it’s your sense of humour that brings all the boys to the yard.’

  ‘Screw you. I’m calling the cops.’ I reach into my coat pocket but my hand slides in way too easily; I think it has something to do with my phone not being where it should be. I pat my other pockets. Nothing.

  ‘Can I help?’ Nate lowers his face in line with mine. ‘I owe you a favour.’

  He’s holding my phone.

  Son of a kleptomaniac!

  I make a grab for the phone but he holds it out of my reach.

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘Or what?’ He grins, his crooked smile promising trouble with a side of trouble and a little extra trouble for dessert. ‘You going to make a citizen’s arrest? You going to handcuff me?’

  And that, Mark Argyros, is how you do the laser-eye thing properly.

  Nate might be hot, yes (oh god yes), but not enough to distract me from all the stealing.

  I hold out my hand, flicking my fingers.

  He waits for ages, grinning like the cat that got the native bird, before he finally lays the phone in my palm. ‘See? I’m a nice guy.’

  ‘You’re a tool.’

  He laughs. ‘You don’t have a filter, do you? I mean, you’d call the Pope a dick in a dress to his face, wouldn’t you?’ I guess I get a look on my face because he holds up both hands. ‘Hey, never said that was a bad thing. In fact . . .’ He leans forward with an impish grin, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. ‘Maybe I’m telling you it’s the opposite.’

  Did Nate Wishaw, tough-guy burglar and pickpocket, just hand me a compliment?

  ‘I’ve never met anyone like you, Vega.’

  I have to admit I get more than a little lost in the blue-eyed laser show – seriously, I’m only human – but I’m also a realist. So I’m pretty sure Nate Wishaw is taking the piss. Because the alternative is . . . too confusing.

  ‘Nice try, buddy, but your pick-up lines are about as convincing as your I-didn’t-do-it-officer act. Just tell me where my brother is.’

  He pushes his curls out of his eyes. ‘Look. You’re worried. I get it. I don’t know where your brother is . . .’ He tilts his head as he looks at me with all the sincerity he can muster – a surprising amount. ‘But I do have your neighbour’s fifteen-year-old scotch and a milk crate with your name on it. So if you want we can head inside. And talk.’

  He shrugs at me like he doesn’t care either way.

  And, yes, part of me is tempted. But the rest of me knows that when Nate says ‘talk’ he doesn’t mean about Xavier. Hell, he doesn’t even mean ‘talk’.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t live here.’ I look at the creepy house and remind myself that this boy spent the afternoon in the Collingwood cop shop. That I met him robbing a house.

  Walk away, Frankie.

  ‘I’ll pass.’

  There’s a flash of something dark in his look before he clutches his heart and laughs. Nice-guy act over. ‘Ouch. You don’t like being hit on, do you?’

  ‘I love it. It makes me ecstatic.’

  ‘Then you should know that your “ecstatic” face and your “bitchy” face are exactly the same.’

  I think about kicking him in the balls. Apparently my ‘I’m going to kick you’ face is different enough from my ‘ecstatic’ face because he takes a quick step backwards.

  ‘You’ve been a big help,’ I say. ‘And when I say “help” I mean “arsehole”. Why won’t you tell me about my brother?’

  ‘Whatever.’ With a salute Nate saunters off toward the house. ‘Go home and quit wandering down dark streets – all kinds of bad people about.’

  ‘You ought to know,’ I call. But it’s too late; he’s gone, sucked into the darkness. I can’t even tell if he went inside or somewhere down the side of the house. All I can hear are his footsteps, fading slowly.

  My alarm call Monday morning is Vinnie slamming every door in the apartment, vacuuming, rearranging the lounge room, turning up AC/DC way too loud and renovating the bathroom. At least that’s how it sounds to me; I’m operating on a couple of hours sleep.

  I groan and unwrap the sheets twisted round my body. I want desperately to get back to dreamland but I can’t switch my brain to Zen-setting. I try counting sheep but the sheep are giving me filthy looks as I force them to jump the fence again and again.

  About five past nine, Vinnie slams the front door and heads downstairs to the Emporium, and peace and quiet finally descends. I wrap the doona over my head and close my eyes.

  Sleep. Please? Sleeeeeeep.

  I toss and turn and wrestle with the doona. No sleep for Frankie.

  So I get up and make breakfast. I chomp on each mouthful like it’s cat food and glare at the kitchen. Everything is offensive to me today: the chrome toaster is too perky. The fridge is humming: arsehole. Even though it’s winter there’s actual sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window. Great, who knew weather could be sarcastic?

  Buttons is staring at me from his perch on top of the kitchen table, his mushed-in Persian face judging my every move.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  He flicks his tail.

  ‘Same to you, Smoosh-face.’

  I pull out my phone and check the news. Nothing. I mean, plenty on Harrison Finnik-Hyde but less than zero on Xavier. I pull up my gallery and look at the picture I took of us. Awkward poses, neither of us grinning, too dark, blurry. Wouldn’t look great on the front page of a newspaper, I guess.

  For some reason I decide calling Marzoli is a good idea. I grab his business card from beside the microwave where Vinnie shoved it with the stuff to go out for recycling.

  He answers on the fourth ring with a bark. ‘Yeah?’ he says.

  ‘It’s Frankie Vega.’

  ‘You going to retract your statement from last night?’ His voice goes high-pitched with hope.

  I’m about two seconds away from saying, ‘Why, have you found Xavier already?’ when I realise he’s talking about Nate.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I mean, if you want me to lie.’

  Sigh. ‘Then why call?’ Less hope, more suspicion.

  ‘Missing brother, worried sister. What’s happening?’

  ‘I’m looking into it.’

  I wait for him to elaborate on account of that being a crappy answer. He doesn’t. ‘What does “looking into it” mean?’

  ‘It means I do my job, you do yours. Whatever that is. I’ll call when I know something.’

  Soon as I hang up I dump his business card in the rubbish. I scoop my unfinished soggy cereal on top of it and I only just stop short of cleaning out Buttons’ kitty litter tray to scoop that on top, because . . . well, that’s rank.

  I tidy, shower, dress, grab a block of chocolate (yay, Vinnie went shopping) and head downstairs to the Emporium. I have a plan. It has nothing to do with stressing about Xavier or school or anything else. And it doesn’t involve blue-eyed burglars who can’t decide if they want to hit on me or piss me off. I’m going to comfort eat, suck up to Vinnie and watch mind-numbing TV.

  I tell myself Xavier is okay because what else can I do? I’ve told the cops, and I’ve called all the hospitals and his school and left a billion messages on his phone. I’ve faced up to Bill Green. I’ve been brushed off outside a crack den.

  I’ve done all I can.

  But I can’t forget that stupid angel on the fence. In my head she’s no longer grinning, she’s glaring at me, wings folded, accusation in her brown eyes.

  When I get downstairs to the shop there’s an old guy shoving a kebab down his throat. He looks like an off-duty Santa with a permanent red sheen lacquering his nose and cheeks. He waves at me like he knows me and I guess maybe he does look a little familiar, but all these old men look the same to me.

  At least there’s a witness so Vinnie can’t kill me.

  She emerges from behind the counter, slinging her dishcloth over her shoulder. ‘Looky looky what the cat dragged in.’<
br />
  It’s not so much what she says but how she says it that makes me certain I’m in way bigger trouble than I first thought. It’s not even The Nonna Sofia she’s giving me. It’s her original creation: The Vinnie.

  ‘Before you say anything . . .’ I whip out the chocolate from under my jumper and plonk myself on a stool. I slide the block along the counter until it’s directly under Vinnie’s nose.

  ‘No good,’ she says. ‘Not going to work.’

  She hoists herself onto the stool beside me. I breathe in stale smoke, White Diamonds and Cedel hairspray.

  ‘I’m going to eat it, of course.’ She breaks off a square of chocolate and hands it to me. ‘But it’s your last meal.’

  I grab the TV remote and turn it up. It’s some kind of game show. I try answering ‘pineapple’ to every question the slick-haired host poses.

  ‘What’s the capital of Romania?’

  ‘Pineapple.’

  ‘What was the name of Henry VIII’s second wife?’

  ‘Pineapple.’

  ‘Finish this famous line from Martin Luther King’s speech: I have a . . .?’

  ‘Pineapple.’

  I laugh. Vinnie frowns. ‘I think it’s high time we had that talk,’ she says. The Vinnie is getting worked overtime.

  ‘Cara’s mum gave her this picture book,’ I say. ‘Where Did I Come From? So I already know that babies sort of magically come along nine months after a man and woman get married but that doesn’t explain Eden Kyles-Tewolde.’

  ‘Eden Kyles-Tewolde?’

  ‘Smartest girl in school. She has two mums. It also doesn’t explain Cara, who has no dad. Or me, who had too many dads. Ouch.’

  I get an elbow to my stomach.

  ‘You know full well that’s not the talk we need to have.’

  I say ‘pineapple’ (‘The chemical composition of water is one part oxygen to two parts what?’) before turning to face Vinnie. ‘If it’s about me coming home so late last night I already explained that.’ I break off a line of chocolate and shove the whole thing in my mouth. ‘Pineapple.’ (‘How many players make up a netball side?’)

  ‘No, you went on some tirade about people who can raise one eyebrow and then something about your brother not calling back. I know you think I’m nagging you for no reason but I don’t think you’re taking this seriously. You could be expelled.’