Frankie (11 page)

‘You know it's an offence to lie to the police, Frankie?' Marzoli is going to grind all the way through his teeth and into his jawbone if he's not careful. ‘You're sure this kid was with you the whole time? He didn't sneak out for a cigarette?'

I fold my arms across my chest. ‘I'd remember if he left; I'd have noticed how much less annoyed I was.'

‘Well, that's me in the clear.' Nate jiggles his wrists.
Rattle, rattle, clink.

‘We've still got questions for you, Wishaw.' Marzoli waves Nate toward the interview room.

‘But I've got an alibi.' He goes stumbling as Peters shoves him forward. He wriggles around in Peter's grip to face me. ‘Airtight.'

He laughs as I give him the finger.

Marzoli bashes his fist against the wall. ‘Shut him up, Peters.'

The door to the interview room slams shut on Nate's grinning face. Can't believe I just helped that guy. Hope I don't live to regret it.

Speaking of which . . .

Marzoli leans over me, his coffee breath testing out my wobbly stomach. ‘If I can prove you're lying,' he says, jabbing his finger at me, ‘I'll have you thrown in jail.'

I hold my ground. ‘Just make sure you ask him about my brother.'

Marzoli snorts. ‘Get out of here.' The tail of his coat flaps as he swings around. It's a little bit superhero-like. Well, it would be if he weren't such a massive tool.

The door to the interview room slams shut for a second time.

In Year Eight, Mark read this book about some dude who went to Antarctica and nearly died. It's all he talked about for weeks: he kept saying how the guy ate his dog and how his feet were so frostbitten, bits kept falling off. He totally had a hard-on for the guy. Right now I'm so cold that bits of
my
feet are probably falling off, but I don't think I'll write a book about it. The dog barking at me from behind the fence next door better watch out though.

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.'

‘That'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.