Something Like a Criminal: Part 4
Frankie finds the snitch.
In the previous chapter, Frankie found a temporary hideout from the cops.
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I rode twice past the address that Trace gave me: once at a normal speed, then around the block, and past the house again slowly. I didn’t pick out any unmarked cop cars or anything out of place.
I walked the bike into their driveway and dropped it on the lawn. Ride it like you stole it, I thought. Casually approached the front door. Trying to take in as much as possible without making it look like I was casing the place.
The porch light was on.
I rang the doorbell.
After enough time for me to turn around and check the street, a gruff male voice came from behind the door.
Crap. Not a good sign.
“It’s Frankie,” I said, forcing my voice to be calm. “I’m looking for Trace. I’m a friend.” Keeping it cool, like we were twelve years old, and I was asking if she could come out and ride bikes. Of course, when I was twelve, I was at Hillside because my parents were in the middle of their first separation, my dad spent half the year in New Orleans on business, and my mom spent her half in rehab. I also didn’t have a bike.
The gruff male voice politely asked me to leave. OK… that’s not true, but you can figure out what he said.
I took a step back, which put me on the steps. “I’m gonna call Trace.” I dialed her up on my phone. The sound of her phone chirping made it out to me through an open window upstairs.
Trace answered with a drawn-out “Sorry!”
“Can you get him to open the door?” I said. “I’m standing out here like a giant lawn gnome and there’s cops all around.” I knocked against a hard object with my foot and looked down to see an actual lawn gnome peeking from behind the base of a bushy plant. It had yellowed grass clippings stuck to its body and weatherbeaten paint.
“What’re you looking at?” I said. I kicked it over. Then I slowly pressed it into the dirt with my heel. Something about its face I didn’t like. Maybe it was that stupid smug smile, like a cop’s smile, like it knew something.
Trace yelled down to her boyfriend, who yelled back up. The sound came through the phone’s speaker on a brief delay like the echo at a baseball stadium. I gathered that the boyfriend’s name was Tony.
I took a deep breath, went back to the door, and pressed the doorbell button again.
The boyfriend suggested that I have a nice day somewhere else, possibly involving a cucumber. Not my first choice of vegetable. Not very imaginative, either.
The front door opened slightly, paused at about an inch, then closed again. Trace and Tony argued behind the door. No shouting, only words exchanged in a very serious tone.
The door opened again and revealed Trace standing there, wearing casual shorts and a floppy T-shirt, her face glistening from sweat, black hair up in a messy bun.
I stepped in and immediately figured out why she was sweating. Actually, they both were. It was about as hot inside as out on their porch.
Trace hugged me. “Sorry,” she said. “I was in the bathroom.”
“Ew. Maybe don’t hug me right after you use the toilet?”
She rolled her eyes.
Tony stepped forward. A tall guy, lean, with bushy hair, heroic beard stubble, and dark circles under his eyes. Someone who hadn’t been sleeping well. He had on loose cargo pants and an untucked short-sleeve casual shirt. I could tell he wasn’t quite convinced of my status as Friend of Trace. He was doing that thing guys do where they stand over you and try to look intimidating. The black pistol he held against his chest, the muzzle aimed casually at the wall, really brought the point home.
“Who are you?” he said, doing the growly-guy voice.
“Frankie. Hussell.”
“Hussell?”
“Yeah. As in moving fast and breaking stuff. Except spelled differently. Who—”
He cut me off. “Tony Murgatone.”
“Megapony?”
“Mur-ga-ton-e.”
I nodded thoughtfully and said, “Meg-a-pon-y.”
“That’s not funny.”
Trace interrupted. “Actually it is funny.” She put her hand gently on his arm. “Can you put that away, now?”
Megapony did not put the gun away. He held it by his side, though, which I guess was slightly less threatening.
Trace said, “Megapony’s on edge. He’s got a thing.”
“Not funny, Trace.”
“She’s an old friend, Tony. Relax.”
Megapony—all right, Tony, fine—moved the gun to his other hand and picked up a beer bottle from a small table by the door that had a bowl for keys, and a ballpoint pen without a cap, and a few coins, and a receipt, and some hair ties, and a cherry Chap Stick, and a thumb tack, and a stick of gum, and a little box of Milk Duds.
“Are you looking for something?” Trace said.
I found the pen cap behind the bowl and put it on the pen. “No,” I said. “I’m done now.”
Tony sipped his beer. He shook his head at me and wandered into the living room. In the living room, the TV was on with the sound low.
I said to Trace, “What thing are you talking about?”
“It’s a side gig,” Trace said. “You want a drink? We got beer, RC, lemonade. Got water. Gotta warn you ahead of time that nothing’s really cold ‘cause the fridge ain’t working right.”
I followed Trace into the kitchen. Tony moved to the large window that overlooked the street. The harsh lighting from the street lamps made him look like a 90’s movie bad guy.
My phone buzzed.
I’M RUNNING OUT OF PATIENCE
I stuffed the phone back in my pocket.
Trace held out a bottle of beer. I opened it and said to Trace, “He seems really on edge for a side gig.”
She lowered her voice, as we used to do when sharing secrets under the watchful eyes at OJCF. (Ontario Juvenile Correctional Facility, in case you’re not from upstate.) “He started doing it, I dunno, maybe a month ago. Maybe longer. We needed money to fix up our Subaru so Tony found this little side gig. That’s how it started. I remember. They give him stuff to hold on to and he keeps it until they need it.”
“And who’s they?”
She made a sign with her fingers.
“He’s a fence?”
“No, no, no. Tony’s just hanging onto stuff until they’re ready to pick it up. He’s like a… he’s like a holder.”
My phone buzzed. I ignored it. “He’s a fence. That’s what a fence does.” I wrinkled my eyebrows at the look on her face. “I couldn’t care less, honestly. But you should know.”
“He’s not a criminal,” Trace said.
“Right. I get it. He’s something like a criminal, though.”
“He’s not a criminal,” she said, holding up a warning finger. “He’s like you. He doesn’t steal nothing. He doesn’t hurt nobody.”
I let it drop. When Trace was into a guy, she was into him one hundred percent, until the final Ctrl-Alt-Delete. “It must be really important, anyway, whatever he’s got.”
“He didn’t tell me. But, sure, he doesn’t normally walk around the house with his gun like this. He started yesterday,” she added, anticipating my next question. “What’s going on with you? Why are you here?”
“Cops showed up at my house. Asking for me.”
“Oh my God. Is the kid OK? And Parker?”
“They’re not looking for the kid,” I said.
“You know what I mean. We all got history. Even Parker.”
“They ain’t gonna bust down my door for my history.” I glanced out in the direction of the living room, figuring if anyone were to arrive, Tony and his trusty sidearm would be the first to let us know. “At least, I don’t think they would.” I pointed to myself. “Nonviolent offender, remember?”
Trace scoffed. “Maybe you were nonviolent… but you were good at getting others to do the violent part for you.”
“I just figure out what people need and find it for them. Some people need to get into buildings and some need to keep people out. Some people need to kick ass and some need their asses kicked.”
“Which one did you do this time?”
“I didn’t do nothing. I’m working on a job, but it’s not the kind that would bring the cops.”
Trace gave me a critical look.
“It’s a side gig. Should’ve been easy money but it’s turning out to be more complex than I thought… and the client’s getting nervous.”
“Who you dealing with?”
I whispered the name.
“You didn’t…” Trace said.
I shrugged. “I got money problems. The van broke down. If I can’t use the van, I can’t get work. What am I supposed to do, schlep my tools around on a bus?”
“Girl…”
“Look, I’d love to debate my life choices, but the cops are after me and I need to know why. You’re the only place I’ve been to tonight that doesn’t have a cop car parked on the street.”
“Where else you been?”
“I went to Mouse’s place and then Shay’s. Both had cops nearby. I’m surprised they haven’t been here yet.”
“Well…”
“They’ve been here?”
“No. Not that. I’m thinking of something else. I don’t live here, right? I’m staying here with Tony for a while because of the heat. He’s got a waterbed and a window AC in his bedroom.”
“Can you check with your mom?” I said.
She thought for a moment, then took out her phone and texted. “Good idea. She lives a few houses down from me so if there’s a cop on the street, she’ll… yeah… there it is.”
I felt a little stab of jealousy that Trace could talk to her mother so easily. Her mother was the real deal. She was the difference between “mother” and “mom.”
She held up her phone so I could read her mother’s reply. “See? No cop parked there, but they’ve been driving by every half hour.”
Despite the stuffiness in her kitchen, a chill hit me.
“What’s special about this house?” Trace said. “Why haven’t the cops been here?”
“What are we missing?” I said. “We all went through Hillside, and then we went through OJCF.” Hillside was where Social Services took you when they took you away from your parents. OJCF was for offenders.
“Even Mouse?” Parker said.
“I met Mouse at OJCF after you’d gotten out.”
“That’s right.” Trace tapped her forehead. “I knew that.”
“But…” I held my beer halfway to my mouth. I didn’t want to believe my thought.
“But what?”
“You’re on the right track. One of us was at Hillside and OJCF, but not when we were there.”
Trace snapped her fingers.
“Parker?” I said, on the same brainwave. “I met her at County.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Trace said.
“It does. She was my friend first. I introduced her to you, Mouse, and Shay.”
“I don’t understand. What difference does it make, who met who first?”
I tapped out a drum solo on her kitchen table while trying to think of how to explain my thoughts. “Look,” I said finally, “Parker’s a friend, but not like you, me, Mouse, and Shay. Parker’s been through the system, but she hasn’t been through the system with us, together.” I took a long pull of beer and immediately regretted it. Lukewarm Genny Cream has a funky aftertaste. “That’s not the important thing. The important thing is that she doesn’t know about you and Tony. She doesn’t know you’re here.”
Trace glanced back and forth, replaying conversations in her head.
“Does Shay know?’ I said. “Or Mouse?”
“No.”
“Then only I know about you and Tony and I found out, like, half an hour ago. Parker must be thinking that you’re over on Westland Park right now. That’s why the cops are there, and they’re not here.” I took another mouthful from the Genny in my hand. Not that it helped. Thinking:
Parker was my housemate.
We shared a bathroom.
I’d been teaching her daughter how to pick locks.
“There’s one way we can check,” Trace said, reading my mind. “You make calls. The one that don’t answer is the one that ratted you out.”
“I called everyone… and everyone answered…. Except I didn’t call Parker. Why would I? I was there when the cops showed up.”
“Call her now.”
I took my phone out and got her number from my contacts and punched the call button with my index finger. A photo popped up on screen of me and Parker and her kid on our couch. We were smiling like sisters. I had the kid on my lap. Her ex-boyfriend took that picture.
Straight to voicemail.
I listened to her recorded voice, all chipper and innocent.
Trace took the phone from my hand and ended the call.
“That bitch,” I said.
“What’re you going to do?”
I felt tired and shaky. I didn’t trust my legs. “Can I crash here?”
We both looked at Tony, who stalked the living room, half-listening to the TV. He had his head down, deep in thought. He crossed his arms over his chest, holding a beer bottle by the neck with the fingers of his free hand. The grip of the pistol stuck out of the pocket of his cargo pants.
I said, “I’ll go.”
“Wait.” She jogged upstairs and returned a minute or so later. She pushed an envelope into my hand. “It’s cash and my bus pass. Can you get to the Super 8, maybe?”
“That’s way the hell out in Henrietta.”
Trace made a worried face and I knew she was doing her best.
“I’ll try something,” I said. “Maybe I can get to the Motel 6. I don’t know what busses are still running now.”
We went to the front door. Tony didn’t say anything or bother to turn away from the living room window.
“What are you up to tonight?” I said, checking the street through a window in the door, half-surprised to see the bike still on the lawn where I’d dropped it.
“I have a shift at the warehouse. Although… I hope my stomach doesn’t get any worse. I can’t afford another day out.”
“You’ll be fine. You’re tough.”
“Not as tough as you,” Trace said.
She gave me a hug and a peck on my cheek. It felt good to be hugged like that. Trace was only a couple of years older than me, but those years felt like decades sometimes.
“Keep your head down,” she said. “I don’t got time to visit your ass in jail.”
“Look on the bright side. Maybe they’ll send me back to OJCF. That wouldn’t be so bad. I think some of the aides would like to see you again.”
“I’m serious, Frankie.”
“Yes, mom,” I said.
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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