Frankie Read Free Page B

time . . . starts . . . now!
    â€˜It’s crazy out there,’ he says. ‘Just saw a Merc almost collide with a tram.’
    Vinnie glares at the puddle forming around Marzoli’s feet. ‘Everybody drives like a moron soon as the weather gets nasty. Course, you being a cop and all, I guess you could do something about that.’
    Ten seconds and counting.
    Marzoli runs his hand over the top of his head – thin wisps of hair clumping together in the wet. ‘That’s for uniform to sort out.’ He looks up at the menu and chooses the Smith Street Gonzales. ‘What the wife doesn’t know,’ he says to Vinnie with a wink. Half his face has to collapse to make the wink happen.
    There’s no way this guy has a wife.
    â€˜Nice choice, Detective,’ says Vinnie. She smiles. It’s thin but passable.
    Twenty-three seconds.
    Vinnie does a shimmy as she hitches down her skirt and starts on Marzoli’s order – lamb, no onion, extra jalapeños.
    Marzoli turns my way; his eyes lock onto me like a pit bull’s jaws around the neck of a Shih tzu.
    â€˜Shouldn’t you be in school?’ he says.
    â€˜Isn’t that for uniform to sort out?’ I drop my gaze to the crossword. ‘Five across. Four letters.’ I tap my pen against my lip. ‘Eject backwards first before cutting work in half to make preserved meat.’
    The electric knife roars to life as Vinnie starts shaving lamb off the spit. ‘Beats me,’ she says. ‘Spam?’
    â€˜Second letter’s an “e”.’
    Vinnie doesn’t bother with gloves, just starts piling on lettuce, tomato and way way too many jalapeños.
    Thirty-five seconds. She’s doing well.
    â€˜â€™Fraid I’m not just here for the excellent food,’ Marzoli says. He pulls out a little black notebook from his coat pocket. ‘We’re canvassing the neighbourhood. There’s been a spate of burglaries in the area and we’re checking if anyone has seen or heard anything suspicious.’
    â€˜Burglaries?’ Vinnie keeps her back to Marzoli.
    â€˜Yup.’
    Forty-two seconds.
    â€˜And seeing as though we’re open all hours you thought we might have seen something?’
    â€˜Sure,’ says Marzoli. ‘That sounds about right.’
    â€˜Pure chance you walked into this shop to ask us questions?’ says Vinnie.
    Fifty-one seconds.
    Vinnie swings around and dumps Marzoli’s kebab on the counter. ‘Your Smith Street Gonzales, Detective Inspector. And would you like a stiletto up your arse with that?’
    Stop the clock.
    Fifty-six seconds being civil to a cop. That’s a new record.
    Marzoli picks up his kebab. A jalapeño falls out and lands on the counter. ‘Still a charmer, Lavinia,’ he says.
    â€˜Nobody calls me that,
Eric
. Now get out of my shop.’
    â€˜How about you, Frankie?’ he says. ‘You seen anything?’ A thin strip of lettuce hangs from the side of his mouth. He sucks it up. ‘Anybody behaving oddly?’
    â€˜This is Collingwood,’ I say. ‘Define odd.’
    He smiles. ‘Pity,’ he says. ‘Still, we’ll get the guy. We always do.’ He takes another bite and turns back to Vinnie. ‘Which reminds me: how’s your brother, Terry? You manage to get to Port Philip much these days?’
    I squeeze the spork in my grip. The reason Uncle Terry is behind bars is standing right in front of us, stuffing his face with
our
kebab. If I were Vinnie I’d have jumped the counter and spiked his eyeball with my Louboutin knock-offs.
    â€˜He sure is lucky he had you to take care of the family business,’ says Marzoli. ‘Picking right up where he left off.’
    My spork snaps in half. ‘Jerk.’
    A jalapeño drops from Marzoli’s open mouth and plops on the counter. ‘What d’you call me?’
    â€˜Five across.