Free Frankie by Shivaun Plozza

do?’
    â€˜It’s in the DNA, bro. Wait till you meet Nonna Sofia.’
    He flicks a cigarette onto the ground and grinds it under his boot. There’s a scattering of butts at his feet so he’s obviously been here for ages. Why is he standing around in the rain? It’s freezing.
    â€˜Thought you were going to quit,’ I say.
    â€˜I did. Just then.’
    â€˜So you’re here because . . .’
    â€˜Came to see you, didn’t I? What else?’
    It’d be easy just to slip into the banter, keep it light and fluffy. But I frown at the graveyard of cigarette butts and blurt, ‘Your dad called me.’
    He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Yeah?’
    â€˜Said you owed him money.’
    He wets his lips with his tongue. ‘Who hasn’t swiped a twenty from their dad’s wallet? Told you the guy’s a prick.’
    Exactly. Perfectly sound argument. What the hell were you worried about, Frankie?
    He looks over his shoulder at the brick wall, at the purple-skinned girl hidden beneath Jackknife’s shitty tag.
    â€˜So it’s nothing, right?’ I say.
    He nods, rubbing his hands on the front of his jeans and flicking his eyes between the wall and me. ‘Dad’s a tight-arse.’
    Okay, so this isn’t exactly like the last meeting we had in this alley. No giggles, no dumplings, no playful punches. Am I going to have to give him a homicidally themed nickname after all?
    â€˜Then I guess you’re here for that free kebab,’ I say. ‘Sorry,
two
free kebabs.’
    His eyes grow big and he takes a step back. Maybe I oversold the ‘worst kebab joint in Collingwood’ line. Clearly the kid thinks he’ll get the salmonella special with a side of gastro.
    â€˜Nah. It’s cool. I should probably get going, hey.’ He looks at Jackknife’s tag again but doesn’t move.
    â€˜Oh. Okay. Well I’m drenched. Plus, hanging out here makes us look like we’re up to no good. There’s this cop who already thinks I’m robbing the neighbourhood. I hate to break it to you, Xavier, but our family is no stranger to the wrong side of the law. Our uncle’s in prison for armed robbery. And then there’s Juliet.’
    Xavier mutters something I can’t hear. So I lean forward hoping he’ll repeat himself but we end up just staring at each other.
    He looks down at his high-tops, gnawing on his bottom lip. ‘Sorry, but I’m –’
    He doesn’t get to finish because a black blur lands with a heavy thud just behind him, a guy jumping down from the brick wall.
    Because
that’s
normal.
    The first thing I notice about him is his jacket. If Ian Curtis and Lou Reed had a love child who grew up to run a vintage clothing shop on Sydney Road, that jacket would be somewhere in the back of that shop. It’s textured black velvet. If you brushed your hand along it the wrong way it would send a shiver down your spine.
    The second thing I notice – and I really should have seen this first – is the balaclava the guy’s wearing.
    Paging DI Marzoli, I have your burglary suspect on line one.
    He whips off his balaclava and I get an eyeful of the bluest damn eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s stupidly hot, if you’re into that indie boy punk look with the unkempt hair and I-live-on-cigarettes-and-coffee physique. But even though he looks rough round the edges, he still seems put together. He’s taken a lot of time and effort to look this just-rolled-out-of-bed cool. Like his tattered jeans are actually brand-new and his hair, a bramble of black, loose curls, is really a well-manicured, artfully arranged bramble.
    In other words, he’s a poser. An art-school dropout, musician-wannabe, Kerouac-reading ponce. Fuck me, it’s Shia LaBeouf.
    He stuffs the balaclava into his back pocket, blue eyes calmly assessing everything but me as he swings his oversized duffle bag on to