The Infamous Frankie Lorde 2, page 4
No, the thing that was making me all weird was that I was…conflicted.
I’d suddenly realized that my dad wasn’t my only friend anymore.
Because now I had Ollie to lean on.
And I was choosing my own marks, coming up with my own heist plans, and training a mentee.
All the things Dad used to do for me.
And that fact made me feel like I was leaving him behind in some way.
Maybe even leaving the old me behind too.
That thought scared me more than anything else. The fact that I was becoming someone I didn’t quite recognize.
“Okay,” Ollie said quietly, realizing I was having a moment—and thankfully he let me have it. After a few more beats to wrap up my thoughts, he spun around to face me in the middle of the sidewalk.
I stopped, surprised.
“There’s something else we need to address,” he said, his expression serious.
“What?” I asked, no idea what he was about to say.
After another uncomfortably long pause, he said, “You mention Disneyland a lot. Should I be worried your heart isn’t made of stone after all?”
I hit him on the arm and started walking again.
“You’re such a jerk,” I said. “I thought you were going to say something serious.”
“It is serious,” he insisted, eyes wide. “You liking Disneyland is just…it’s like Marilyn Manson liking Britney Spears’s music. It’s not on-brand.”
“I can like Disney,” I said almost defensively.
“I don’t know if you can,” Ollie argued. “Not without upsetting the universe.”
“My dad and I have been to every country that Disney has a theme park in,” I said, crossing my arms. “It’s a sacred place to us. It’s the only spot we’ve never stolen from.”
“Now that’s intriguing,” Ollie said, tapping his finger to his mouth and looking off into the distance. “Why?”
I didn’t have to think about my answer. “It’s the happiest place on Earth,” I said. “You don’t steal from the happiest place on Earth.”
“But you can steal anywhere else?” Ollie asked, sarcastically.
“Not everywhere. There are exceptions,” I said. “Believe it or not, we have a strict code we live by.”
“There’s an official thieves code?” Ollie asked, amazed.
“Of course not,” I said, with a wave of my hand. “And I can’t speak for all other con men. But Dad and I have a code.”
Ollie gave me a look like he didn’t believe me.
“There’s a fine line between doing bad things and being a bad guy. Our code keeps us in that big, beautiful gray area,” I explained.
Ollie shook his head. “Whatever you say,” he uttered. “I still don’t get the Disney thing.”
“You don’t have to. It’s our thing anyway. We don’t expect anyone else to understand,” I answered, slightly annoyed. “New subject, please.”
“Okay,” Ollie agreed, giving in to my demand. “Let’s talk about what happened between you and Kayla at The Farm.”
I blinked, lost to the abrupt topic change.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, confused.
“I was heading back inside and caught the end of your conversation,” he said plainly.
“You mean you eavesdropped on our conversation,” I said, crossing my arms.
“Potato, potato,” he said, refusing to feel bad about it. “Okay, so what was going on?”
I shrugged. “She just asked if I wanted to adopt Geronimo. You know, since we get along and all.”
“Oh, no.”
The terrified look on Ollie’s face was priceless.
“Don’t worry,” I added. “I said no.”
Ollie let out a breath loudly.
“Not that I want you to bring that bonkers cat home—I know she’s plotting to kill me—but why did you say no? You guys are like, homies.”
I shrugged again.
“I’m not an animal person,” I said, just like I had explained to Kayla.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “I’ve seen you with the animals at The Farm, and you’re great with them. Way more comfortable than I am.”
“That doesn’t take much,” I joked.
“That might be true, but still, how can you say you’re not an animal person?” he asked. “What’s the real reason you won’t take her?”
“Sheesh, what is this? Interrogate Frankie day?” I asked squirming under his attention.
“If it is, I’m not doing a great job, because you’re still not spilling,” he said, placing his hand on his hip.
Ugh. He wasn’t going to let this go, was he?
“Fine,” I said, giving in. “I don’t want to take Geronimo because…I’ve never had a pet before.”
Ollie’s jaw dropped.
“Never?!”
“Hello? We were traveling practically my whole life,” I said. “When did I have time to pick up a pet?”
Or set down any kind of roots for that matter.
“It would’ve made it impossible for us to move around all the time with a dog in tow.”
“Well, okay, that makes sense,” Ollie muttered. “But now you live here. And no more traveling. You can get a cat if you want. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.”
Something about his statement made me frown.
I live here now.
I’m not going anywhere.
That couldn’t be right.
Sure, I was staying with Uncle Scotty, and had been enrolled in school and everything, but it’s not like Greenwich was my home.
Home was with Dad.
Uncle Scotty’s place was like…a family vacation. A layover before moving on to our next destination.
Eventually, I’d go back to my normal life. Whenever Dad got out and all.
Which Dad and I would hopefully discuss when I saw him.
“Let’s just accept the fact that for now, Frankie Lorde doesn’t do pets,” I said with a playful edge to my voice.
“Okay, F,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
Was that judgment in his tone or was I just imagining it?
“Besides, how am I supposed to pull off another con if I have to be home to feed the cat?” I challenged. “Unless you want to leave in the middle of a break-in to go and take care of Geronimo?”
Ollie was already shaking his head.
“Point taken,” he said bluntly. “Nix the cat.”
“Thought so,” I said, a triumphant smile creeping onto my face.
“Speaking of cons,” Ollie said slowly. “I could’ve sworn I saw a plan forming in your head yesterday.”
“Maybe,” I answered, cryptically. Then I gritted my teeth. “I’m not psyched that the tiger was caught in the middle of all this. I still think that Christian deserved to go down, but I don’t feel great about having left collateral damage in our wake. My gut says we need to make it right.”
“Not that I disagree,” Ollie started carefully. “But who exactly will we be going after if Christian’s already in jail?”
I chewed on my lower lip. “I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “But maybe my dad will have a few ideas….”
Entry Seven
The metal gate clanked shut behind me, the sound echoing loudly in my ears.
You’re trapped, it seemed to say.
My armpits and palms began to sweat and my heart started to race at an unnatural speed. I wondered if it was possible for somebody my age to have a heart attack. Surely I wouldn’t be the first one.
Ironic though, if I died inside prison—but not as an inmate.
“Don’t bother bringing anything in with you,” a guard grumbled as soon as I’d walked into the visitor’s entrance. “It’ll either get stolen or confiscated.”
He didn’t smile at me.
Not once.
Then again, I probably wouldn’t have noticed if he had. I’d been so programmed not to look cops in the eye, on account of being a thief myself, that it came naturally now just to avoid them.
“Don’t worry, sugar,” said a girl standing beside me as we shuffled through one of the gates.
She was around seventeen, and was wearing cut-off shorts and an old, faded camp T-shirt that seemed like the real deal—not the kind of trendy top that was already distressed when you bought it at the mall. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed in a while, and she was wearing bright red lipstick that extended just beyond the natural border of her lips, giving the illusion that they were fuller than they were. The thick, black eyeliner streaking across her top and bottom lids, practically made her eyes disappear completely.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” the girl added, taking my silence for fear.
But it was more like…sympathy.
I studied the stained floors as we followed the guard in a makeshift line down the hallway to the visitor’s room. Did my dad have to clean these floors? Did he have to use a toothbrush and scrub inch by inch like in the movies, or was that all just for dramatic effect? How many prisoners had walked this very same floor while doing penance for their crimes?
Prisoners.
That’s what Dad was here.
A prisoner.
He wasn’t my dad.
He wasn’t Tom Lorde, international thief.
He was a prisoner of the United States.
I shook the thought out of my head.
No, he’d always be my dad, ahead of everything else.
At least I hoped.
“Sit at the table that matches the number you were given during check-in, and then hang tight,” the guard said. “We’ll escort the inmates to your tables when we’re ready. A reminder of the rules: you may kiss, hug, or shake the hand of an inmate at the beginning of the visit and at the end of the visit. Besides those two specified times, no touching will be permitted. Do not give the inmate any contraband unless it has been approved of ahead of time. Do not rearrange the chairs. Do not talk too loudly, be disruptive, or use profane language.”
I followed the guard’s instructions, finding the table marked 7, and sitting down on the hard, faded red chair that was there. Almost immediately, I reached for my phone for something to do, but then remembered that I’d had to leave it with Uncle Scotty at the visitor’s entrance.
With nothing else to do, I had to just sit there in silence.
Now I was sort of regretting letting Scotty wait in the lobby while I went in.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m not going to go in today, Frankie,” Uncle Scotty had said to me on the drive to the prison. “I think today needs to be about you and your father.”
I had cocked my head to the side in surprise. I’d been sure he’d insist on going in with me—not just because I was still considered young by most standards, but because I figured he’d want to hear what we talked about. I mean, most adults were varying degrees of nosey. And while Uncle Scotty had never really struck me as the type to monitor social media or follow my every move, he was a cop. Gathering information was what he did.
“Look, I get that you’ve waited for months for your dad to be transferred to a closer facility so you could finally see him again,” he explained when he saw my face.
Sidenote: Uncle Scotty always said facility instead of prison when he was talking about my dad. I’m not sure if he thought he was protecting me from the image that the p word conjured up, or if he himself didn’t want to think of his brother in a place like that.
Maybe it was a bit of both.
“I gather you two have a lot to catch up on and you don’t need me around to do it,” he said matter-of-factly. “So, unless you’re scared and want me there with you, I’ll just hang back and give you guys your space. Besides, now that my brother’s in the area, I can visit him another time on my own.”
And that was the moment I realized I kind of loved my uncle Scotty.
He wasn’t my dad—no one could be—but he was the closest thing I had now, and I felt pretty lucky.
I don’t know another grown-up who would’ve had the same attitude about the chaos of my life.
And I was so appreciative for the space and trust he was giving me.
Because there were things I wanted to talk to dad about that I just couldn’t say in front of Uncle Scotty.
Not because it was about him or anything.
More like, I wanted to talk to Dad about what I’d been up to since he’d been gone. And if I was honest about all of that in front of Uncle Scotty…well, let’s face it, he might just have to arrest me.
The only door to the room swung open, creaking loudly as if to announce our visitors. My stomach started to do flip-flops as I watched the men shuffle into the room, arms and legs shackled with chains to keep the rest of us safe.
As if I needed to be protected from my dad.
The idea was so preposterous that I almost started to laugh, but then I remembered where I was and clamped my mouth shut.
Man after man entered. They were all different races and shapes, but wore identical outfits, which made your eyes play tricks on you as you tried to pick out your person.
Not Dad.
Not Dad.
Not Dad.
Then, a man with blondish hair and a tall but lean frame walked in. All the other inmates were different variations of pissed, angry, depressed, or tired. This guy was grinning ear to ear.
A guard followed behind him as he made his way over to my table and sat down. Then the guard retreated to a nearby corner and started scanning the room.
Finally, I focused my eyes on the man in front of me.
“Hey, Frankie,” he said softly.
“Hi, Dad.”
Entry Eight
Nothing could’ve prepared me for this moment.
Without thinking, I moved toward my dad to give him a hug.
I saw his eyes flicker quickly over to the guard, and I froze halfway across the table.
“Oh,” I said, thinking maybe I had broken a rule.
When were we allowed to hug again?
“No. You’re fine,” Dad said, smiling at me. “Forget them. Come here.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding in and let him envelop me in a hug.
He still smelled like himself. There were new fragrances on him too, but it was him. I hadn’t thought about how his personal products must’ve lent to his unique scent. And likely, he couldn’t be picky about his toiletries in here. It was probably all generic brands that the government got for next to nothing.
I’d have to remember to send him his favorite deodorant and shampoo. It might make him feel more at home.
Or he could trade it for other contraband. It didn’t much matter to me.
Whatever helped him survive in here.
All I really cared about was the fact that he still smelled like himself and that gave me hope that other things about him hadn’t changed too much either.
“God, it’s good to see you,” Dad said, studying my face.
I started to shy away, embarrassed by the scrutiny, but then it dawned on me that he might really need this. It had been so long since we’d seen each other and even my memory was starting to forget some of the details of his face.
And he didn’t have anything to remind him of what I looked like—from the beginning, he’d told me not to send pictures of myself.
“Being the proud dad I am, I’d want to put them up in my cell,” he’d explained in a letter. “But I don’t really want anyone prying into my personal business, if you get what I mean.”
I did. And that was fine. I didn’t want them to either.
“Your bangs!” Dad said, reaching out to feel my shorn locks.
A clanging sound immediately rang out across the room. We turned in its direction.
“No contact!” the guard warned loudly, gripping his baton tightly
“Sorry,” I said nervously.
My dad’s eyes flashed with anger at the guard but then he turned back to me.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, his eyes crinkling in the corners.
His smile was genuine.
I grinned back.
“So, when I read about your bangs, I couldn’t picture it,” he said. “It’s…different.”
I snorted.
“You’re one to talk,” I said jokingly, nodding at the mop draped down his back. “Your hair is longer than mine now. Do they not have barbers in here? You’re starting to look like a mountain man.”
Dad chuckled as he pulled on his hair, which had grown past his shoulders.
“You have a beard now, too,” I said, not adding that I hated it. Even though I did.
“All a part of my latest disguise,” he said, winking at me.
“Which is?”
“Deranged crazy guy nobody wants to mess with?” he said with a shrug. “People in here tend to leave Crazy Tom alone.”
“Well, you’re doing a good job,” I said. “And Crazy Tom works out I see?”
Despite the ill-fitting prison-issued clothing, I’d still noticed almost instantly that Dad had lost all of his softness. All of the pudge that had made him nothing much to look at had been replaced with lean muscle. His arms were the only body part I could see, but even they were toned.
“He does.” Dad nodded, resisting the urge to flex his muscles. It would’ve been something he’d have done before. Goofing around and not caring who saw it. But not now. Not here.
“Planning on competing in some bodybuilding contests?” I asked jokingly.
“Absolutely. And I’ll win every single one,” Dad said, playing along. “But what I really like are the outfits I get to wear. You just wait. Soon I’ll be the next Rock. I’ll be famous.”
