Something Like a Criminal: Part 2
Who doesn't bend rules?
In the previous chapter, the police stop at Frankie’s house to “just talk.” Frankie’s housemate, Parker, delays the cops while Frankie makes her escape.
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You’re probably wondering how I got into this situation. For starters, I’d been staying over at Parker’s place for a few months. I was short of money, my business wasn’t doing well, and, as friends, we worked out a deal on rent. My van holds all the gear I need to work. It’s like a workshop on wheels. When it broke down, I got desperate. I took on a job for a guy that everyone called “Mr. Allcaps,” for reasons that will be clear in a moment.
I should also explain why the cops might, generally, look for me. Truth is I’ve gotten into a little trouble here and there. I’ve been in juvie. They slapped labels on my file: Delinquent. Nonviolent offender. (Did I spell that right? D-E-L-whatever. Looks close enough.) But that’s all BS. I have a business. I’m legit. I mean, sure, I bend a few rules, but who doesn’t? It’s like doing 65 in a 55. You’ve got stuff to do.
The business that I run used to be my dad’s business. He taught me everything he knew about networks and hacking and security systems like surveillance cameras and wireless scanners. One day, about four years back, my dad went on a business trip to New Orleans and had an accident. As my abuela would’ve said, his lamp came back but his light didn’t.
Mom was out of the picture, so I got the business.
Dad taught me everything he knew, but, unfortunately, Dad didn’t know much about running a business. I inherited a van and a client list and also inherited debts and payments and favors owed.
So now you’re up to speed and I’m about a block from Parker’s house. I picked up a bicycle that somebody had left in their driveway. Sure, it was up close to the owner’s house, leaning against the door of their garage you could even say, but if they were really invested in bicycle ownership they wouldn’t have left it unlocked, would they? Finder’s keepers.
Sure beat walking in that heat.
Besides, I’d have it back before they noticed it was missing.
Although having hot wind blow past me didn’t feel much better.
And don’t get me started on how much the seat was chafing my butt.
I can’t ride no-handed. I ducked into a shadow that split off from the corner of a two-story brick apartment building. Opened the pack to get my work phone. And discovered that I’d forgotten to replace my change of clothes after I’d done laundry.
I thought the pack felt lighter than normal.
Fine. So we’re doing this wearing one white Nike and one orange-and-black Adidas, pink-and-white plaid dorm pants, and a stretched-out black T-shirt with the orange Tigers logo of the Rochester Institute of Technology. The shirt was leftover from a month I’d spent with a professor who didn’t have any faults (other than lying about being married). No, I wasn’t a student. I bumped into the guy at Schaller’s.
It was too hot for the hoodie. I peeled it off and stuffed into the bag.
My phone buzzed immediately after I turned it on.
Mr. Allcaps had been texting me this past week. I owed him a solution—call it a creative way to access a network. I didn’t know the details of who owned the network or where the network was. I only had the details of the equipment. I figured out the rest. Or more precisely, I was in the process of figuring out the rest when the cops came ‘round. I stopped after a block—I’d made a direction change at random, hoping to trick anyone following—and stopped for a minute to check messages:
IS IT READY YET?
That was Mr. Allcaps. The all-caps thing was overkill, in my opinion. I get it. You’re scary and you’ll cut off body parts. I’ve heard the stories. Though in my case, there was another implied threat based on the fact that I was young and thin and pretty and a redhead. That threat made my skin crawl.
At least the cops weren’t following me. I wondered how long it would take them to realize I wasn’t in the house. I hoped that Parker’s kid followed my instructions with my laptop.
I started making calls. Text messages weren’t gonna cut it. I needed to hear human voices. I needed to hear my friends.
Stay tuned for the next chapter!
If you enjoy Frankie in this short story, check out the first novel in the Rossi/Lopez series, The Good Killers (ad), where she plays a pivotal role.
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