Frankie (21 page)

And then Vinnie's there. She comes storming over, grabbing Nonna's arm and shaking her. ‘Don't you dare speak to her like that,' she says. ‘
Non osare!
'

Vinnie grips me under the armpit and heaves me to standing. ‘We're going, Frankie.'

She almost yanks my arm out of the socket. Cards flutter to the ground. Nonna wails.

‘I didn't do anything,' I say as Vinnie drags me out the door. I'm out of breath as she pulls me along at super-angry speed. ‘It wasn't my fault, I swear.'

Worried, nosy faces appear in the doorways as Vinnie charges down the corridor, me being led like a disobedient dog. There's lots of frowning. Lots of muttering.

‘I know it wasn't,' says Vinnie, but she's frowning too. Glassy eyes.

There's a burning in my chest. Same as whenever Juliet would drag me out of a shop, screaming and yelling at the girl behind the counter for whatever it was that day: not exchanging the jumper that was stained and which she didn't have a receipt for (maybe because she hadn't bought it at that shop) or because the girl wouldn't admit she'd short-changed her (because she hadn't).

Everybody would stare at me, even though it was Juliet doing the yelling. Everybody looking at me like it was my fault.

Ten-forty-five. Not long now.

I lock myself in my room and sort my homework into piles: by subject and then by urgency. The urgent pile topples as soon as I'm done.

I'll make a to-do list. It'll be colour coordinated and I'll pin it above my desk. I'll show Vinnie. No, I'll orchestrate it so she comes into my room and just happens to spy the chart hanging over my desk. ‘What's that, you ask? Oh, it's just my colour-coordinated to-do list. No biggie.'

I look at my toppled piles of homework and the half-completed to-do list, tapping my nails against the side of the desk.

Ten-fifty.

On the car ride home, Vinnie told me not to worry. ‘It's not your fault,' she said. ‘It's the dementia. You know that.' She kept bashing the heel of her palm against the wheel, the horn blaring at every car that dared get in her way. ‘Still. Next time I'd better go alone.'

I need air. This room is way stuffy.

I climb on the desk and lift the reluctant window with both hands, trying to make as little noise as possible. In a building this old and creaky, making as little noise as possible is a shitload of noise. I just need more air. That's all.

I stick my head out the open window and gulp it in. The breeze brushes across my face, cooling my hot cheeks. Wow. Never have I appreciated cold air more. They should bottle this stuff and sell it to depressed housewives as a cure for something. Middleclassitis.

Ten fifty-eight.

The cold air is so good I sling a leg out the window and feel about for the ledge. I let go of the sill with my left hand, and reach out for the trellis stuck to the side of the building, leading all the way to the bottom, into the alley.

I need more air. That's all.

The trellis is slippery to touch and covered in ivy, but I manage to get a good grip, good enough to let my right hand go and swing my leg across. I dig my boot into the foothold and grip tight as I swing my other leg.

Spider-Man I am not but somehow I manage to inch my way down to safety with only a couple of yelps and minimal swearing. I jump the last metre but land awkwardly, falling backwards with an inconveniently loud curse.

Someone claps me.

I look up and Nate is leaning against the wall beside the bins, grinning. ‘Nice landing.'

‘If you want people to stop assuming you're a no-good, burglarising, stalking creep,' I whisper, scrambling to my feet, ‘then you should reconsider the amount of time you spend skulking in the shadows.'

‘Hey, I'm not the one breaking out of a house.'

I dust my jeans down as he comes sauntering over to me.

He gives me the once-over. ‘You look even angrier than usual. Something up?'

Oh nothing. Except that Frankie 2.0 was a dud model.

I shake my head. Behind him I see Jackknife's been back and with a new tag and all. This time the two ‘K's in his name are backed up to one another and the ‘i' is in the shape of a knife with a splatter of blood for the dot. It's crap – like one of those finger paintings crims do in therapy. Out of their own blood and faeces.

‘Well, you haven't done anything illegal yet,' he says. ‘You can still chicken out.'

I can't tell if he's making fun of me. He's not smiling, just looking at me, head tilted and a little crinkle between his brows. If he starts making chicken noises, then I'll know.

He glances at his watch. And when I say ‘his' I mean someone else's. ‘Are we doing this or what?' he says.

You may as well quit fighting it, Frankie. You were born to do this. It's in the DNA. It's what everyone expects. Introducing Frankie 3.0. The most badass model yet.

I nod, slowly.

‘Great. We'll take my ride.'

‘You have a car?'

‘Course.'

A text from Cara interrupts my glare.

I feel like skipping school – want to get Spanish donuts and talk boys???

I look up at Nate. He's whistling. Actually whistling.

Shit.

I don't like lying to Cara but I think a little white lie is the lesser evil in this case. This is a whole other level of wrong. And I'm not dragging Cara to the same murky depths as me.

Working :( Rain-check

I shove my phone deep into my pocket. ‘So where did you park?'

__________

He looks up and down Gold Street. ‘Um . . .'

I click my tongue angrily, the way Vinnie does whenever one of the customers says something chauvinistic, homophobic, racist – basically anytime one of them opens their mouth.

‘Great. You've forgotten where you parked? Worst. Getaway. Ever.'

‘Screw you.'

He walks to the kerb and leans over, peering into the passenger side of the car closest to him. ‘This one,' he says, straightening up and glancing at me over his shoulder.

I look at the car. I look at Nate and then I look at the car again. If I pretend this isn't happening then it's not, right?

He rolls his eyes loudly. ‘Something you want to get off your chest, Vega?'

‘
This
is your car?'

The bulky station wagon he's leaning against doesn't do Nate's bad-boy image any favours; his black t-shirt, skinny jeans and black combat boots would be more at home in a black Chevy Impala. Or on a donorcycle.

‘Yeah,' he says. ‘This one. Got a problem?'

‘No. Except . . . have you been hiding a wife, two-point-five kids and a job as an accountant from me?'

‘Do I look like an accountant to you?'

‘No, you're right. You don't look like you can count past five but you do seem to have a child seat in the back there, buddy.'

Nate bobs down and peers into the back, his hands cupped on either side of his face. I rest my forearms on the roof of the car and wait for him to reappear with a look of contrition, maybe even defeat. I think about humming a song while I wait – something ironic like ‘Caught by the Fuzz'. But when his head pops up again he's just scowling. I have to give the guy props – still managing to look like Mr January in the Twelve Most Angry Teens calendar while standing next to a beige station wagon is quite a feat.

‘Yeah? And?'

‘I'm just wondering why you own the car of a middle-aged man with a paunch and a comb over.'

He gives me a look that signals the fun is over. ‘So I got confused. Whatever.' He walks up to the next car along. A Golf. With a sticker on the back window:
Keep calm and eat organic
.

He waves his hand at the car. ‘You approve?'

I laugh. ‘Just open the door.'

He looks up at me from beneath his lashes – not in the sexy way boy bands do but in the ‘I'm thinking about hurting you' way that serial killers do.

‘I must have dropped my keys.'

I sigh. ‘Lucky I know a burglar.'

He tilts his head. ‘You don't have a problem with me doing that?'

‘It's your car, right?'

He nods. Slowly. ‘Yeah,' he says, ‘It's my car.'

Liar.

I shrug. ‘So it's not a crime to break into your own car, is it?'

Nate shakes his head, a smile lifting the corners of his lips. ‘No, it's not a crime.'

‘What's not a crime?' The voice comes from my left: gruff, tired, suspicious, aching for retirement. Marzoli steps off the kerb and into a puddle, his hands cupping the cigarette jammed between his lips while he tries to light it. He shakes the match and tosses it to the ground.

Citizen's arrest for littering!

‘You two wouldn't be up to no good, would you?' He leans against the hood of the Golf. The car I was about two seconds away from helping to steal.

Well,
this
is awkward.

‘No way,' says Nate. ‘I was just telling Frankie it's not a crime to like Duran Duran. I mean
Girls on Film
, that's a classic.'

I give Nate the mother of all death stares. ‘Seriously? Duran Duran? Hairspray, tight pants, model groupies in bikinis lolling about on yachts? They're just a few crappy pop songs and a whole lot of wrinkly old men.'

‘But you told me Simon Le Bon is a better lyricist than Ian Curtis.'

‘You –'

Marzoli chuckles, smoke shooting out his mouth in jagged puffs. ‘Nice little double act you got there, kids. Didn't realise you two were so tight. He your boyfriend now, Frankie?'

‘Hell no.'

Nate gives me a one-fingered salute. ‘Same to you, Vega.'

Marzoli zeroes in on me. ‘What does your aunt think about you messing around with a convicted criminal?'

I swallow. Bastard. That's totally my kryptonite and he knows it.

‘Suspended sentence,' says Nate. ‘And it was expunged when I turned eighteen.'

Marzoli's brows shoot up. ‘Expunged? That's a big word. You learn that playing Scrabble?'

‘You
implying
I'm stupid?'

‘Wouldn't dream of it.'

I rap my nails against the car. ‘You'd be too busy looking for my missing brother to waste your time trading insults with a kid.'

Marzoli gives me the pit-bull eyes, but I just fold my arms across my chest and give it right back. ‘I'm assuming that's why you're here? To let me know how the investigation is going?'

Marzoli gestures over his right shoulder. ‘Been taking a statement from that place there. They were robbed last night.'

It takes all of my will power not to turn and glare at Nate.

Really? Is it like a compulsion or something? Well, at least now I know why he was hanging round the Emporium last night – apart from stalking me and robbing my ex-boyfriend. Public service my arse.

Marzoli tilts his head as he sizes up Nate. ‘You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you, Wishaw?'

Nate scratches the back of his neck. ‘Nope.'

‘Cos I'm looking for a kid about your height.' Marzoli opens his flipbook. ‘Six foot, give or take, wearing jeans and a very nice jacket – black, tan suede collar.'

You're killing me here, Nate.

I sigh. I can't believe I'm doing this again. ‘He was with me. Last night, I mean. So I doubt he knows anything.' Not
exactly
a lie. He was with me (for a time) and he knows bugger all (about most things).

‘You're kidding me,' says Marzoli.

I shake my head. ‘We watched
The Notebook
. Nate cried.'

Nate nods but his eyes are on me. Dark. Pissed off. Murderous.

The usual, then.

I smile sweetly back.

‘He's just ga-ga for Gosling. Aren't you, Nate?'

Marzoli sucks on his teeth while he thinks. ‘
The Notebook
? Is that the one about the moon landing?'

Oh god. This is about to go horribly wrong. Why did I have to be a smart-arse?

‘Actually –'

Marzoli holds up a finger to silence me. ‘Not talking to you, Frankie. Talking to Wishaw.'

‘No,' says Nate. He keeps a calm eye on Marzoli. ‘It's the one with the old guy in the nursing home and the woman with dementia and he's reading a story from a notebook and then they die.'

Silence. I mean, seriously?

Marzoli lets out an epic sigh. It probably causes a tsunami somewhere on the other side of the world. He looks at the car, then at Nate. ‘This thing yours?'

Nate shakes his head.

‘Then quit breathing all over it. And get out of here.'

I hurry past Marzoli. The dude actually growls at me.

‘I'll be expecting your call,' I say. Nate hauls me up the street by the arm. I shout over my shoulder. ‘When you've done your job and found my brother.'

‘I'm sure we'll bump into each other again,' calls Marzoli. He's not looking at me though. He's only got eyes for Nate. ‘Real soon.'