Frankie (18 page)

Thirty-eight Hudson Street isn't a pawn shop. It's not even a
shop
shop. I check the address. It could be eighty-three or thirty-three or eighty-eight or nothing to do with an eight or a three. It might not even be Hudson Street. Nate needs to go back to school.

While it may not be a pawn shop, thirty-eight Hudson Street is most definitely a brick box. The roof is flat, the front window is small and blacked-out – the whole place is narrow, decaying and sad.

I walk across the concrete front yard, past two Commodores and a ute. There are stickers on the front door:
fuck off, we're full
and
fish fear me, women love me
.

I press the doorbell. I can't hear it ring inside but I wait just in case. Nothing happens so I knock. While I'm waiting I text Cara:
If I go missing, tell the police I was last at 38 Hudson Street, the home of a racist fisherman.

The door opens a crack. At some point this house has sunk because the bottom of the door drags along the carpet. The guy has to yank it, cursing the whole time.

‘Why didn't you use the back door like everybody else?' he says.

I peek round the corner of the door as he struggles with it. ‘I'm looking for Ted.'

He makes one final push and then we're kind of looking at each other, as best we can with the door only about forty per cent open.

‘Who's looking?' The guy scratches his chest through his singlet, right over the ‘nt' in ‘Bintang'. He's about a head shorter than me, which isn't hard because I'm pretty tall. He's bald on his crown with a round tuft at the front like a little hair island.

‘I'm a friend of Nate Wishaw.' ‘Friend' is a stretch but it's safer if he thinks he's got Nate to contend with if he tries to screw me around. I don't think this guy's heard what I can do with Shakespeare.

He gives me the once-over. ‘You look his type,' he says. ‘Come in.'

Ted stands aside and waves me into his domain. ‘But don't touch anything,' he says.

When I squeeze all the way inside, I immediately realise how hard it's going to be to stick to Ted's don't-touch-anything rule.

Ted is a hoarder. A TV-show-worthy hoarder. The room is overflowing with boxes, rubbish, clothes and . . . stuff. There's a grey dog asleep on the sofa and I'm betting there are a few cats lurking about the place; every bit of furniture is sprinkled with animal hair and the whole place smells like a giant kitty litter tray.

With my first step, my boot knocks against an old Chinese takeaway box. I wait for Ted to go mental at me for touching something but apparently he doesn't rate Chinese takeaway highly. Breathing only through my mouth, I say, ‘So this place is nice.'

‘Mum's in Bali,' says Ted.

I want to tell him he's a man in his forties who could pick up a piece of rubbish even while his mother's getting drunk in Kuta.

He pulls out a tissue and blows his nose. ‘You got a name?'

‘Ava. Ava Devar.' Teach you to steal my boyfriend, bitch.

‘And Nate sent you?' He pockets the tissue, but not before checking out whatever he deposited in there.

I walk further into the lounge. I can hear screamo music blaring from the back of the house somewhere. When I knock over a tower of old computer parts I wake the dog. He pees himself with fright.

I look at Ted but he doesn't say anything.

‘I sent myself, actually,' I say.

Ted looks at my empty hands. ‘You got something to sell?'

‘I just want to ask you about someone.' I find a section of couch without too much cat hair and junk and sit on the very edge. ‘Xavier Green?'

He laughs. ‘He owe you too?' He shoves his hands in his jeans' pockets and leans against the wall. He's standing between me and the exit; an alarm bell goes off in my head. I probably could have asked him about Xavier while I was
outside
and free to run.

Oh dear.

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘He owes me big time.'

The dog pads over to me, sitting on top of my boots. I try to pull my feet out from under him but he leans against my legs.

‘Well, I haven't seen him since he stiffed me on some electrics,' says Ted. ‘He knows not to come here again.'

And the list of people my darling brother ripped off just got longer.

‘When was that?'

Ted screws up his nose. ‘Dunno. Maybe a week.'

‘Was it a Thursday night? The fifteenth maybe?'

There's a cat watching me from inside a cave of laundry. One eye closed, it's doing that soul-piercing assessment that only cats can do. Ted's got a bit of a cat-stare going on too.

‘Could have been,' he says. ‘Actually, nah. Took Mum to the airport that night and I stopped by my mate's on the way home. Didn't get back here till the next day. That little shit was waiting for me on the doorstep. Looked like he'd slept there all night.'

‘And he had stuff to sell?'

‘Cheap shit mostly, but he said he was desperate. Prick sold me an mp3 player that didn't work. I should have checked it but I was rooted.'

I pull my boots out from under the dog and his arse plonks on the ground with a thud. He guilt-trips me with mournful eyes. I know, buddy; I'd be depressed if I lived here too.

‘How much did he walk out of here with?'

‘These are pretty specific questions, Ava,' says Ted. He pulls out another tissue.

I wonder if he hoards the tissues too?

‘I know but I'm trying to get in touch with him and no one has seen him.'

Ted eyeballs me, the tissue held in both hands. And then he grins. Not kindly and not in an amused way. It's an icky-grin.

‘Yeah?' he says.

Suddenly I'm having flashbacks to Dave. Proper flashbacks that make me hold one hand to my racing heart. I think I'm going to be sick.

Get a grip Frankie.

My phone rings. Oh thank god.

I check the caller ID as I shoot up to standing. ‘Sorry, but I need to take this.'

Ted shakes his head, smirking. ‘Be my guest.'

I look toward the door, but Ted's still blocking the exit. So I pick my way through the piles of junk until I find the kitchen. The music's louder here. The benches are covered with stacks of unwashed dishes, growing all sorts of crazy science experiments on them. I didn't know mould could come in so many different colours. I'm definitely not coming away from this place empty-handed – I'll have some kind of rare tropical disease for sure.

When I answer the phone, Cara screams into my ear and I can't even tell what's she saying at first.

I whisper, ‘Calm down,' as I peek through the kitchen door: there's no movement in the lounge.

‘Where are you, Frankie? What the hell are you doing?'

‘I'm somewhere in Preston. Off Murray Road.'

‘With a racist fisherman? Did he kidnap you? Oh my god, he's drugged you, hasn't he?'

‘Cara, listen. He's some guy who saw my brother before he disappeared. I just want to find out what he knows.' I start opening and closing cupboards. They're full of junk – mostly newspapers and probably every edition of the
Woman's Day
ever published.

‘Are you an idiot, Frankie? Get the hell out of there. He could be a serial killer. Hang on,' her voice switches from terrified to pissed off in record time, ‘you mean you went investigating without me? What gives?'

‘Sorry. I know. But you're right.' I back up. ‘I was stupid coming here. I'm going now. Stay on the line while I –'

I back up into something warm and solid and Ted-shaped. I swear and almost drop the phone.

‘Thought maybe you were lost,' says Ted. There's that grin again.

I draw the phone to my ear again. ‘Oh, don't worry, Daddy,' I say into the phone. ‘You know what I'm like.' I hold my hand over the speaker and whisper to Ted: ‘It's my dad. He's a cop so he's always worried about where I am and what I'm doing. If I'm not home soon he'll send the dog squad out looking for me.' I roll my eyes, but all I get from Ted is a sneer.

‘Frankie? What the hell is going on?' asks Cara down the line.

‘I'll see you soon, Daddy,' I say loudly. My one and only foray into acting was at St Thomas Primary. I got to be the donkey in the nativity play, but I tripped over my hooves and smashed the baby Jesus.

‘Don't be silly, Daddy. It's not far at all to travel back from thirty-eight Hudson Street in Preston.'

The dog has joined us in the kitchen, his arthritic legs struggling to carry him.

‘Bye, Daddy.'

‘Don't hang –'

I shove my phone in my pocket and smile like a weather girl. ‘Parents are so lame, right?'

‘Your brother,' says Ted. He's not smiling.

‘No, that was my dad, Detective Inspector –'

‘No,' says Ted. ‘You said I was some guy who saw your
brother
before he disappeared.'

My smile falters; storms are approaching. Lightning. Thunder. Volcanic eruptions. ‘Didn't I mention that?'

Ted shakes his head. ‘You said your name was Devar. I thought you were looking for Xavier Green because he owes you money.'

‘We have different fathers. So we've got different names.'

I have never been stared at so intently in my life, not even by Buttons, Spawn of Satan.

I start backing out of the room. Ted follows, arms folded across his chest.

‘Good,' he says. ‘Cos I buy stuff from that prick's dad. Don't want to find out he's a cop and he's stitching me up.'

‘Bill?' I bump into a stack of boxes, filled with wires and electronic entrails. I push against the wall to help myself climb over them. ‘Has he ever said anything to you about Xavier?'

‘Just what a useless prick he is. I wouldn't be surprised if Bill was the one who gave him the beating.'

I stop, mid-climb. ‘What beating?'

‘Friday. He was all messed up. Black eye. Cut lip. Bruised all over. Someone was mighty pissed at him. Might not have been Bill, I guess. Could have been any one of the nasty people he owed money to.'

‘Did he –'

‘I'm done doing favours for Nate Wishaw,' says Ted. ‘It's about time you pissed off.'

I back up until I bash into the door, the handle digging into my back. I grimace but manage to keep my mouth shut.

‘It's actually easier to take the back door,' says Ted. Oh god, there's that grin again. ‘Down there.' He nods back the way we came, toward the dark corridor, the screamo and the rape dungeon (probably).

Down the other end of the house the screamo music gets really loud and then quiet again as a door opens and closes.

Oh my god. This is it. It's going to be some giant, hairy biker and the pair of them will do unspeakable things to me. And when they're done I'll be just another piece of junk they refuse to throw out of this hellhole.

Ted looks over his shoulder as a scrawny kid appears around the corner. He's about nine, and I wouldn't even need a hardback to break him – a bookmark would do.

Ted growls at the kid. ‘What you looking at, pus face?'

The kid flips Ted the bird and stalks off into the kitchen. The fat dog does a surprisingly tight U-turn and follows him.

When I look back at Ted, he's sneering at me. ‘You still here?'

I shake my head. I'm a thousand miles from here.

He points at the door. ‘Twist, lift and pull.'

I get back to the Emporium with exactly zero seconds before my shift starts. My plan, once I've safely snuck in, is to switch onto autopilot so I can churn out kebabs while concentrating on figuring out who beat up Xavier.

What was it that poet dude said? Best laid plans always get fucked up. Something like that.

I burst through the front door and I'm knocked over by the force of Vinnie's death stare.

‘Don't give me that look.' I'm breathing hard from all the running it took me to get here, running while yelling apologies over the phone to Cara. ‘I'm exactly on time.'

I hurry behind the counter, dumping my bag and shrugging off my jacket. Other than a pissed-off aunt, there's no one else in the shop.

‘Your session with Daniel ended hours ago.' Vinnie's eyes follow me everywhere I go like a furious Mona Lisa. I don't know what colour her nails are today, but it looks like she's been finger painting in blood.

‘Relax. I went –'

Vinnie grabs my chin. Not in the cutesy way she does when she's about to call me her princess, but in a way that makes me drop the knife I just picked up and gasp. She pulls me around until I'm facing her, eyes glinting like Buttons right before he carves up my leg. Oh dear god, I forgot about the vodka. Busted.

‘You seem to have forgotten that you are grounded, Francesca Vega. You seem to have forgotten the rules. You will keep up with your schoolwork. You will leave the house only when I say so and only for pre-approved activities: counselling, grocery shopping, visiting your nonna. You will return home immediately after. You will keep your nose out of trouble and you will grovel your way back into that school. I've had it up to here with you, Frankie. And when I say “here” I mean high up an astronaut's arse. Are you feeling me?'

I nod. She drops my chin.

‘That's a contract of good behaviour right there,' she says. ‘Don't make me sign it in blood.' She eyeballs me for a few more seconds and then sighs, her death stare replaced by tired, sad eyes. ‘You know I don't like getting heavy with you.'

I pick up the knife and stab a tomato. ‘I know.'

Plan B: In between churning out kebabs, I will write a practice essay on
Nineteen Eighty-Four
, recite Italian verbs, memorise the inner workings of a volcano, list five causes of the October Revolution and compare thee to a summer's day. Oh, and think real hard about how to stop disappointing Vinnie.

Simple.

But, hey, at least I got away with the stolen booze.

Vinnie slings her handbag over her shoulder, her coat already on. ‘Unfortunately, I've got an appointment to get to. I don't like leaving you here on your own but . . .' Her coat rustles.

‘Appointment? At five pm?' I look at her feet and gasp. She's wearing her red ‘Special K' heels. ‘Oh my god, you're going on a date?'

‘It's not a date.'

I wait for her to tell me what ‘it' is, but she just frowns at her shoes and then heads for the door.

‘Make sure he's suitable. I don't want a cult leader for uncle number four.'

‘Just be good and don't burn the place down,' she says. ‘We have a contract now.' She's almost out the door but she stops, leans back in. ‘Oh, and you owe me a bottle of vodka and three more months of being grounded.' She blows me a kiss and then slips out the door, into the cold.

Shit.

Vinnie raps her fingers against the front window and then hurries up the street. Gone.

So I can't sneak out and visit a racist fisherman but she can go on secret dates with a cult leader?

I glower at the empty Emporium.

Is this my life? A humming fridge and a garlick-y stench?

At least it's Monday. No one wants to buy a kebab on a Monday. It's like a law or something.

This is a good thing – I can't get into any trouble on my own at the Emporium and I can't disappoint Vinnie. I can just sit here, bring down my homework and really get Plan B underway. Forget this whole Xavier thing because it's way too complicated.

But first: salad.

I cut the tomatoes and then the onions. It makes me cry.

My phone vibrates. I sniff and wipe my eyes. The back of my hand comes away with a large black smudge so I check my reflection in the stainless steel flume. Stupid onions: now I look like a goth clown.

It's a text from Cara:
Don't hate me :)

I text back:
Why would I hate you?
My phone buzzes again.

On way to you now . . .

I frown. Why would I hate Cara for dropping by? Okay, so Plan B might need to take a back seat for a bit. Catching up with the BFF trumps homework. Sorry, Vinnie, but it does.

I text back:
Cara coming over equals happy Frankie.

But before I can press send another text comes through that changes
everything
.

Ran into some peeps. Bringing them too :)

Peeps? Peeps?! I don't like regular people let alone peeps. I start dialling Cara to get a proper explanation but that bitch is way smarter than I give her credit for.

I get one measly ring in before Cara presses her nose to the front window of the Emporium and waves at me, phone in hand.

Technically she sent me a warning text but she didn't leave enough time for me to call and talk her out of it.

Sneaky.

Evil.

The door jangles.

‘Heya, Frankie babe,' she says. Is the flush in her cheeks from the cold or guilt? ‘Got room for three?'

Three?

Again, I'm not given a whole heap of time to lodge a complaint. Loping in straight after Cara is . . .

Poo, bum, crap, shit.

‘Hey, Frankie,' says Mark. He offers a sheepish smile and a small wave. One of his mates – PopAsia – trips in after him.

Cara smiles. ‘Isn't this great?'

Super.

__________

Cara's got an ink forest growing along her hands and up her arm. Obviously she hasn't been home since school ended because she's still wearing her uniform, an oversized hoodie swamping most of her summer dress, sleeves pushed up to her elbows and a little badge over her left breast that says ‘Joe's Rock 'n' Roll diner'.

‘You hate me, don't you?' she whispers.

I glance at Mark and his disciple sitting at a table by the window, pretending they don't know we're talking about them. That's cool, because I'm pretending they don't exist.

I know this is payback for me not bringing her with me to Ted's house but seriously. These things are not, in any way, equal.

‘Whatever gave you that idea?' I say, piling onions, garlic sauce and chilli onto Cara's kebab.

She points at the kebab. ‘I'll never be able to kiss anyone ever again.'

I go back for more onions. ‘Who are you hoping to snog? Scrawny boy-band dude with zits?'

She grins, leaning in to me. ‘His name is Truc and he might not be much to look at now but you haven't heard him play guitar. Trust me. This one's a long-term investment.'

My fingers hover over the jalapeños. ‘But did you have to bring him here? With his
friend
?'

At least she has the decency to look guilty. ‘Sorry, but dickhead was standing there when I asked Truc out and he invited himself along. It's not my fault he's got a hard-on for you. Just grin and bear it. Please? For me?'

I leave the jalapeños be and start wrapping the kebabs. Mark is folding his napkin into a swan. He used to make them for me all the time, which led to the Great Paper Swan Fire a week after we broke up; maybe I should try origami with the kebabs. A giant middle finger?

‘Eat and leave,' I tell her. ‘I will not be pimped out for your benefit.'

‘Why? You got a racist fisherman you'd rather hang out with?' She sticks out her tongue as she scoops up the kebabs, sashaying over to Truc and Mark. ‘Table service,' she says. ‘How fancy is that?' She hands them each a kebab and takes a seat. The one closest to Truc.

‘Kebabs are awesome,' says Truc.

Kill me now.

I'm not being mean; Cara deserves to be in love but this is only going to end badly. Like Winston the violinist who couldn't keep it in his pants. And Ollie the drummer who couldn't keep it in his pants. And Axel the trainee tattoo artist who, surprise surprise, couldn't keep it in his pants. If I can discourage her now, I'll save both of us a night in the rain painting
Truc is a lying scumbag with a small cock
on the art block wall, and all the tears and repeat watching of
The Notebook
.

I file this moment away as a down payment on a future serving of revenge and trudge out from behind the counter. I guess it's okay for me to leave my post when there's no one else in the shop. And if Vinnie comes back now it won't just be me she kills. Totally worth it.

I drag a chair close to Cara and sit. I do not care if I cock-block her; I will not sit within punching distance of Mark. For both our sakes.

I stare unsociably at the scuffed table, remembering the first time I met Mark. He was lanky, black fringe flopping across his eyes, with the cheekbones of my music idols. He walked right up to me with his hand thrust out. He asked me my name but I lost my voice. Not because he was so cute I couldn't talk – I'm not
that
pathetic – but I couldn't get over the balls it took to walk up to someone you didn't know and just start talking. ‘You're going to have to tell me your name,' he said, grinning, ‘or I'm going to give you a nickname. And my best mate's called Stinko.'

‘So what's the plan?' asks Truc through a mouthful of the magpie special. I do not understand how Cara is giving him gooey eyes while he's massacring his food like that.

I reach for Mark's swan napkin when he's done making it. Even through all the meat and garlic and chip fat I can smell the chlorine wafting from his skin.

‘What plan?'

‘I know,' says Cara, ‘when Vinnie gets here we'll all go to the movies.'

‘Cool,' says Truc. ‘It's cheap night at Nova.'

This guy's the best one yet.

‘I'm working till closing,' I say. ‘Oh, and I'm grounded for all eternity.'

‘Then we'll hang out here.' Cara pinches my thigh under the table. I make the swan peck at her kebab. She slaps my hand.

‘We better not,' says Mark. He finally tears open his kebab. ‘If Frankie's working we should –'

‘Poo-y,' say Cara, sinking into her chair. ‘I never get to see her anymore. She's either working or running around with cute burglars.'

The entire inside of Mark's kebab goes splat onto the floor.

Truc laughs so hard he spits lettuce across the table.

‘Sorry.' Mark looks between his legs at the mess.

‘It's fine.' I stand and give Cara my best attempt at The Nonna Sofia. ‘Cara has that effect on people.'

She gnaws on her lip but not out of guilt – she's trying to contain a smile.

I head behind the counter and pull out the cleaning tray from under the sink. Vinnie only specified I wasn't to burn the place down while she was out, but I think she'd have fairly strong views on food spillage as well.

‘Did you say burglar?' asks Mark, two red patches on his cheeks.

Cara wiggles her pinky at him. ‘Sorry, Marky Mark, but you missed the boat. There's a new guy on the scene and he's hot. Hot in appearance
and
hot for Frankie.'

I dump the cleaning tray on the table. ‘He is
not
interested in me. Friday night was just a –'

‘Friday night?' Cara's jaw drops – and she hasn't even tasted my kiss-me-not kebab. ‘But you were with me on Friday! You never told me you saw him.'

I wring out the sponge, drips splattering all over the table. ‘It was after and, anyway, I'm kind of busy here, C. Someone has to clean this mess up.'

‘I'll help,' Mark says. He dumps the soggy pita into the tray. He starts to get up, but I hold out a hand.

‘Forget it. You guys go to the movies without me.' I get down on hands and knees, armed with my sponge and a resolute scowl. I'm way too close to Mark's crotch for my liking.

‘Seriously. Get out of here,' I say.

I scoop kebab innards into a handful of paper towel. If I ever need a metaphor for my life . . . I don't look up but I know they've heard me when chairs start squeaking, bags start rustling and boots start clomping. I rub the floor in slow circles.

‘Thanks for the kebab,' says Truc.

I salute him but I guess he can't see me.

Mark's feet hover in my periphery. Expensive-looking sneakers. Brand-new. I've missed an opportunity here, haven't I? Could have tied his laces together under the table.

Turquoise hair falls across my shoulder as Cara leans over me, lips brushing my ear. ‘You
will
tell me about Friday night. Text me.' She plants a kiss on my cheek and straightens. ‘C'mon, guys. We can probs catch the late showing if we hurry.'