by Cowley, Joy
She didn’t answer. She knew as well as he that they had run out of options.
Shog said, ‘When Polanski gets back we’ll ask to use his phone. I know that Fern and Trevor—’ He stopped.
She looked up. ‘What?’
‘Peachman left the door open,’ Shog said softly.
They slid away from the table and stood up. The door of the interview room was wide open and there was no one on the other side of it. The hall was filled with late afternoon sunlight which came down from the skylights, washing the empty walls. Everything was still.
They went out on their toes, walking against the wall, and watchful. They heard a voice on a phone somewhere, but did not see who it belonged to.
I can’t believe this, Jancie thought. We’re nearly at the front desk and we haven’t run into anyone. Oh God, be on our side and I promise I’ll say my prayers every night. Oh, sweet Mary! Cross my heart and shootin’ well hope to die! Please! Just keep them all busy.
Now they were at the entrance doors but it was too early to run for it. Softly, softly, she opened one of the swing doors just wide enough to slip through and held it open for Shog. Then they were out, running down the steps and laughing.
They pounded down the pavement with long easy strides, Shog looking back at the station to see if the alarm had sounded.
‘We’ll have to find another camp,’ said Jancie. ‘We’ll go back and get our gear. There’s always the warehouse in Steward Street. Or the rail yards.’
Shog was still looking back over his shoulder. ‘Jancie, that limo is following us.’
‘Where?’ She turned and saw a white stretch limousine cruising slowly behind them, close to the kerb. ‘Nah!’ she laughed.
‘What’s it doing then?’
Jancie looked again and went quiet. The windows of the limo were dark and seemed empty. There was something deliberate about its crawling pace.
‘Could be the shoe store guy,’ Shog said. Then he added, ‘I got a bad feeling about it, Jancie.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘We cross the road and cut through the City Mission.’
As the white limousine pulled up beside them, they turned together like two wheeling birds, and sped across the road in front of it. It tooted. They kept going. They were on the opposite pavement, and about to run through the City Mission grounds, when a familiar voice yelled, ‘Shog! Jancie!’
They stopped.
A back door of the limo was open. Standing by it was a guy in a black suit, white shirt and bow-tie. Real small, he was. Not much bigger than a penguin.
‘Jancie! Shog! Come here!’
They didn’t recognise the suit but the voice was definitely Banjo’s.
Chapter Six
It was the first time ever that Shog had been in a stretch Cadillac. It was funny, he thought, that only about twenty-four hours ago he was climbing up on the old Caddy in the car lot. He slid along the cool leather seat, as Jancie got in beside him.
‘Class Act,’ he repeated slowly.
‘Modelling school,’ said Banjo.
He no longer looked like Banjo. It wasn’t just the new threads and the fancy haircut and the scrubbing. He had a shining in him, a happy excited shining that Shog had never seen before. He looked like a pocket-sized film star and acted like one, too.
‘This is Leroy,’ he said, indicating the uniformed man who was holding the door. ‘He is my chauffeur.’
‘Your what?’ cried Jancie.
‘His chauffeur, sir,’ said Leroy, bowing.
‘Sir!’ shrieked Jancie, and Shog started to laugh.
‘She’s a girl,’ said Banjo.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, miss,’ said Leroy, bowing even lower. ‘Do forgive me. I remember now. Twins, a girl and a boy. I am so sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Jancie. ‘It’s the short hair. It happens all the time.’
Leroy closed the door with a soft click and went round to the driver’s seat. He looked into the rear-view mirror. ‘Mr Banjo, sir, where would you like to go next?’
Cool as you like, Banjo waved his hand and said, ‘Oh, drive around, please, Leroy. You might like to go down Marine Parade to the wharves. Do you know the old fish factory?’
The driver hesitated. ‘I am at your disposal, Mr Banjo, sir, but I am bound to remind you that your video clips are at 4 pm.’
‘It won’t take long,’ said Banjo. ‘Just down to the wharves and back again. I want to show the other kids.’
‘I am so sorry, sir,’ said Leroy, ‘but do you think we could do that some other time. They are very exact about punctuality, you see, sir, and I am accountable if you are late. But don’t worry, sir. Your guests will be suitably entertained while you are being filmed. Mr Matisse will see to that.’
Shog’s head was buzzing like a beehive. ‘How come, Banjo? Class Act? You? I mean, what the heck’s going on?’ He sat up straight and then said softly, ‘Banjo, how did you know Jancie and I would be in Peaches Can?’
Banjo’s eyes widened. ‘Oh! Is that where you’ve been? Was it about the boots? I didn’t know, Shog. After lunch, they showed me the car and chauffeur and I thought it’d be fun to go for a drive. I wanted Leroy to go down to the camp but we were just cruising round and I saw you, running down the road.’
‘You mean it was a coincidence?’ said Shog. He glanced at Jancie who was busy opening and shutting things, a drawer in a small table, a liquor cabinet with crystal glasses, a video monitor that was set into the back of the driver’s seat.
‘You bet!’ laughed Banjo. ‘It was a big surprise. I yelled at Leroy when I realised it was you. “Stop! Those are my friends!” I said.’
Leroy’s eyes crinkled in the mirror. He said, ‘Excuse me, Mr Banjo. I believe you owe your guests some explanation, sir. Perhaps you would like to go back to the beginning and tell them what happened.’
Banjo laughed a shining laugh. Even his teeth seemed whiter.
‘Hey, you guys! You are looking at a future model for Class Act kids’ wear.’
‘This is a big con,’ said Shog.
But Jancie was believing it. ‘Like McCready?’ she said.
‘Yeah, just like McCready. But he’s in Paris.’ Banjo grinned. ‘It’s true! I can show you his latest video.’
‘How?’ said Shog.
‘How me? Or how McCready?’
Shog looked out the window. The car rode so smoothly that they seemed to be standing still, the street, moving. ‘You,’ he said.
Banjo ran his hand down the sharp creases in his pants and smiled like he had swallowed pure sunshine. ‘Yesterday when we were running, you said split and I went into Meek and Gossan, that big department store. You know? Well, the guy wasn’t following me, so I stopped, wandered around a bit. I was looking at the display of Class Act kids’ wear, and the woman behind the counter got real mad. She told me to beat it or she’d call the cops. “You street kids oughta be locked up,” she said. Well, someone was watching me. This other lady. She was dressed like someone out of a magazine, spiky green shoes and green fur coat. She started talking. Said I looked Italian. Said her name was Elizabeth Frey and she was looking out for kids to train as models for Class Act.’
‘Just like that?’ said Jancie, laughing.
‘I thought it was a joke, too. I wanted to go back to camp. I knew you’d be waiting. But she said there were lots of kids after the jobs and I needed to go back to the Class Act for some photo tests, so she took me out to this limo. She was driving it, not Leroy, and I sat in front while she told me all about the model school.’
‘What model school?’ said Shog.
‘Class Act House!’ said Banjo. ‘You’ll see. Oh man! You will see, all right. I tell you, there is nothing on this planet like it.’
Jancie nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard about it. Shall I tell you something funny? We were worried sick about you. Shog reckoned you couldn’t look after yourself.’
Shog scratched his head. ‘What I meant was—’
‘I hon
estly tried to come back. I told her—Elizabeth Frey—I said you were expecting me. I talked a lot about you. Were you really worried?’
Shog stretched his hands over the soft leather of the seat. ‘Yeah.’
‘No,’ said Jancie. ‘It’s obvious you can look after yourself better than we can.’
Banjo leaned towards them and lowered his voice. ‘I want you to meet her and Mr Matisse. He’s the other boss. Class Act is so big now. It’s in countries all over the world. They need more and more models. Elizabeth says it’s the models that sell the clothes. Parents look at cute kids and say to themselves, my kid could look like that, and they pay big bucks for the gear. We get big bucks too, because it’s a short career. Elizabeth says it’s like being a boy soprano. Your voice breaks and that’s it. We work for a couple of years and then get to be adults. But in those two years we can make ourselves really rich.’ He looked at them with shining eyes and then he said in a soft breath. ‘I know you two would be fantastic models. What’s the bet they give you an appointment?’
Shog smiled. He rested back in the seat and felt the soft purring of the engine like a cat, vibrating through the seat and inside his bones. So this is how models lived? Well, if McCready could do it. If Banjo could do it. He glanced at Jancie who was stretched right out, her feet up on the veneer table. She was a natural with her big slanting eyes and that dark red hair. But what about him? Would Class Act consider an ordinary brown kid who had a small body odour problem?
Out of town, they followed the highway down the coast for more than an hour. It was further than he had thought. He understood why Leroy had not wanted to waste time driving down to the fish factory but, at the same time, he had to agree with Jancie that their gear and their room would be gone by now and they would have to start again somewhere else, like birds whose nest had been destroyed. Unless. He caught Leroy’s smiling gaze in the mirror. Unless Class Act. He didn’t dare feed the hunger of his hope. Most likely, they wouldn’t even get a ride back to town. They’d have to get money from Banjo for a bus. Shog stretched out on the seat and folded his arms. If that was the way it turned out, then first thing tomorrow he would phone Fern and Trevor Sanders to see if they still wanted to give Jancie and him a home, and if there was going to be trouble about the Zeus boots, then maybe Fern and Trevor could straighten that out. Shog could always work extra hours to pay them back.
Traffic had thinned to an occasional car and apart from some isolated beach houses, wedged between the road and the sea, there were few signs of people. This part of the coast was not popular, always windy, the sea too treacherous for bathing or surfing, yet it had a wild beauty that had always appealed to their grandmother who had, several times, brought them down here to fly kites and have picnics on the beach. That was when they were small, long before the Class Act Modelling School and Fashion House had been built. Where the clay-coloured building now stood within its high walls, there had once been a windswept farm with a few long-haired goats and an old cottage.
‘We’re here!’ cried Banjo, with a note of ownership in his voice.
Shog and Jancie recognised the place immediately. They had seen it in photographs and had read about it. This was where wealthy parents paid thousands of dollars for their children to learn modelling. This was one of the design centres for juvenile clothing that was getting rave attention from every fashion magazine in the world.
‘It’s going to wow your head off!’ said Banjo.
Leroy drew up outside the iron gates and spoke briefly into his car phone. The gates swung inwards and the car went through.
Everyone knew about Class Act Modelling School and Fashion House but not everyone got inside the gates for a close look. Shog sat forward, his face against the window, his mouth opening in surprise. Inside the thick high walls were lawns and gardens, white statues in rose beds, Grecian columns that surrounded a pool of water lilies, paths, arches, peacocks on the grass. Like the house, it all looked as though it had been here forever.
‘Shoot!’ said Jancie.
‘Wait till you see inside!’ Banjo said.
Shog thought the car would keep on going, round the back of the building, but Leroy turned left and drove up to the front steps. As he stopped and got out to open the doors, two women in pink uniforms came out of the front doors and hurried down the steps.
‘Mr Banjo, sir,’ said one. ‘Mr Matisse is waiting for you in the video room. Do you know where that is?’
Leroy said, ‘Anna? Marlene? These are Mr Banjo’s friends—Mr Ashoga and Miss Jancine. Perhaps they could accompany Mr Banjo to the video room?’
Banjo’s eyes glowed. ‘Yes, Leroy! Let them come with me, they can meet Mr Matisse.’ He grinned at Shog and Jancie, unable to conceal his excitement. ‘You’ll like Mr Matisse and I know he’ll like you! I just know it!’
The women, Anna and Marlene, stood on the steps, smiling like fashion models themselves, their eyes and lips made up, their hair as neat as sculpted yellow plastic, their nails the same colour as their dresses. Shog saw CLASS ACT sewn across the top of their pockets.
Leroy had closed the car doors behind them and was moving them up the steps the way one would shoo chickens, but with a certain dignity to his gestures. His hands were long and lean like the rest of him and his eyes were crinkled in that constant smile which seemed always distant, as though he was amused by something remembered.
It was happening a bit fast, Shog thought, wanting to step backwards and take it all in, but then he remembered that Banjo was late for his video appointment and that punctuality was important here. He wondered if Mr Matisse was the sort who went up in smoke if anyone was late.
Jancie was flying up the steps, her head swivelling to see everything they passed. In through the swinging front doors they went, and then through an interior door to a large entrance hall which glittered with crystal and mirrors and was decorated with large vases of silk flowers. There was no time to stop and look closely at anything. With the two women in front and Leroy behind, they walked, almost running, down a short flight of steps to the basement area which seemed to be made into a series of artificially lit offices and conference rooms. Everywhere the air was heavily perfumed and the carpet so thick that their footsteps were silent. All Shog could hear was the swish of the pink skirts in front of him.
Banjo was out of breath by the time they got to the video room. The woman called Marlene knocked on the door and it was snatched open by a young man with a long blond pony tail and a brown velvet jacket. He wore no shirt under his jacket and his chest was decorated with about a dozen gold chains.
‘Mr Banjo, sir! That wicked Leroy has made you seven and a half minutes late for our appointment.’ He leaned against the door frame. ‘And look at you! Totally dishevelled and out of breath! Oh my, this is really too bad of you, Leroy!’
Banjo seemed to shrink and he looked as though he was going to cry but Leroy’s smile did not falter as he waved his hands towards Jancie and Shog. ‘Mr Matisse, allow me to introduce Mr Banjo’s friends, Ashoga and Jancine Donoghue.’
Mr Matisse’s eyes widened. He put his head first on one side, then the other. He took a step forward and leaned closer as though he were sniffing them. ‘Oh my!’ he said again, but in a different tone.
‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ said Banjo. ‘It was my fault.’
Mr Matisse smiled a slow thin smile that wrapped right around his face. ‘Leroy, you are forgiven. These two are quite delicious. What eyes! What cheekbones! The physique of ballet dancers! Oh, this is too much.’ He poked Ashoga’s T-shirt with a long finger. ‘Tell me again—what is your name?’
‘Ashoga Donoghue.’
‘Where does it all come from, Mr Ashoga? Polynesian, perhaps? Hawaiian? Tahitian?’
‘Our mother was Jamaican. Our father was Irish,’ Shog said.
‘Was?’ said Mr Matisse. ‘As in past tense?’
‘Our parents died when we were babies,’ said Jancie.
‘That is sad,’ said Mr M
atisse, winding his fingers together and cracking his knuckles. ‘They are missing two perfectly beautiful children whom I would dearly love to place on the cover of Vogue or Young Glamour. Oh! Do that again? Smile? Ah, perfect teeth!’ He sighed as though in deep regret and then said to the women, ‘Thank you, Marlene, Anna. You too, Leroy. I expect that Mr Ashoga and Miss Jancine would like to wait while Mr Banjo gets made up for his video clips.’
The room looked like a small film studio with cameras and lights mounted high on sliding tracks and bunches of cords taped across the floor. This room was perfumed too, but under it was the smell of warm plastic and a faint swamp water stink of Shog’s skin. He kept his arms against his sides and hoped that Mr Matisse would not notice.
Banjo was taken to the dressing room behind the black curtain while the twins were given a couple of directors’ chairs to the side of the cameras. Mr Matisse darted like a bird between the cameramen and the twins, his brown velvet jacket fluttering around him.
‘The Italian look,’ he said to one of the assistants. ‘Oh yes, definitely. Put him against the Leaning Tower of Pisa or the Colosseum. No, no! Wait! He’s too waif-like for anything so solid. Something more ephemeral. I know! Venice! St Mark’s Square! Pigeons and gondolas!’ Then he turned to the twins. ‘What about your family in Ireland?’
‘There isn’t anybody,’ said Shog.
Mr Matisse waved his hand at a large screen that was being lowered against the back wall. ‘No, no, not St Mark’s church! St Mark’s Square. Gondolas in the background, for goodness’ sake.’ Then he went on, ‘Nobody? Well that might be tragedy for you and Miss Jancine but, as far as I am concerned, families are a great pain in the sit-me-down. Many of our models have parents who fuss, fuss, fuss and drive us all stark staring mad. Mr Banjo, I can shape into a star, a jewel in the Class Act collection. But for the boy who has a Mummy and Daddy who know best, I can do very little. To make a lovely little prince out of a brat with potential, I must have absolutely complete control. I am an artist supreme, Mr Shog. I can’t have parents trampling all over my work.’ He swung round, flicking his pony tail, to look at the large picture that hung on the back wall. Life-sized pigeons fluttered above a stony jetty and behind them, by a red and white striped pole, three gondolas floated in sunlit water. ‘That is exactly right!’ he called.