The Painted Man - by Dan Watters

Chapter 9

In the living room with the television off, we talked as a family. It was the type of gathering I hadn't seen since Dad died and I supposed family could be like that. Months could pass in a routine of domestic boredom, of grumbled good mornings, slammed doors and the occasional drama. It wasn't until something drastic happened, something that threatened the family that you saw how much support was really there. Family were the first to criticise you and the first to stand by you in a crisis.

'Don't think for a second you're going to jail for this bullshit. It's not going to happen. I'll break you out of there myself' Mom was almost spitting words, red in the face.

'Do you think you were set up?' said Nick.

Uncle Johnny sat forward, his elbows on his knees.

'Not with the murder. That wasn't a set-up. Finding that body was complete chance. Wrong place, wrong time. But, in Harlem with the handbag, he was set up, for sure.'

'Do we know what was in the handbag?' asked Nick.

Uncle Johnny shook his head.

I hadn't told them. I couldn't. My lawyer told me not to.

'Who sent you to Harlem?'

This felt like a witch hunt and I didn't like where it was heading.

'I got a text message from Angie, but anyone could have sent it,' I said.

'That girl has been trouble since high school,' said Mom, her face brooding.

There it was. The line had been drawn and Angie was out of favour.

'Mom, Angie didn't set me up.'

'How do you know?'

'I asked her. She didn't know anything about the text messages.'

'Then someone used her. Someone at the club. I don't want you going back there. It's not safe.'

The Romanoff club was where Angie lived and worked and the thing I wanted to do the most was to go back there and find Angie, but Mom's decree was limiting my choices.

'That's not fair. I still want to see Angie.'

'You might have to put that on hold for a while,' said Uncle Johnny. 'At least until we sort out these charges. The club is crawling with police. If they see you anywhere near that place, it's going to raise questions.'

'If you're right about her,' said Mom, 'she'll understand that you can't go to the club and she can meet you here.'

I wondered what Mom would have to say to her if I brought Angie home.

That night in my room I went online looking for Angie. I wasn't the only one looking. A friend of Angie's had posted a notice to her page. There were a dozen replies from people who had seen her Saturday but hadn't seen her since.

I put in a search for the Romanoff club. It was a mistake. Dozens of results came up about the death of the club bouncer, the arrest of a suspect and charges laid. No one named me outright. One article had a picture of Dave standing next to two comparatively smaller men and I wondered how anyone could think I'd managed to overpower and strangle a guy that big. The police must be stupid. A few more clicks and I was watching footage taken from the police station. A tight media scrum jostled around a guy, his face hidden under a bomber jacket running from the public eye.

Even I thought I looked guilty.

*****

The engine of a blue 1970's Plymouth 'Cuda burbled, rolling down the muddy laneway towards the rambling tin workshops of Willets point with Uncle Johnny behind the wheel, Nick in the back, sleeping and me up front in the black leather bucket seats with more legroom than a private jet. The two of them had slept over in the living room and Uncle Johnny woke me up early insisting on taking me to work.