Number One Fan. Narrelle M Harris
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Chapter One
‘Lachie, turn this one up, will ya?’
The barista making Frank Capriano’s long black dutifully upped the volume, letting the driving rhythm and the staccato lyric swell into the compact coffee shop.
Door locked
Curtain drawn
Gun cocked
False dawn
When the night is closing in
You let the light in
Frank dug his hands further into his pockets and tucked his chin down, simultaneously trying to hide his face and his pleasure at hearing their new song in public. He surreptitiously tried to see who else was listening to it.
The tattooed waitress who’d asked to hear it delivered cappuccinos to the main table where two customers were pouring over The Age’s gig guide.
‘Isn’t this Duo Ex Machina?’ asked the woman with white, spiked hair as her companion spooned up the foam from his coffee. ‘Didn’t they break up a few years back?’
‘Nah, Suze, they did a studio album two years ago,’ said the barista, frothing milk for the rest of Frank’s order.
‘One of them went loopy, though,’ Suze said.
Frank’s grin vanished. He clenched his teeth on a scathing comment, then stared up at the ceiling. A forest of wooden chairs hung from it. He decided to count chair legs until he could resist responding.
The song played on.
You let the light in (light in)
You are the sunlight (starshine)
You let the bright in (light in)
You are the hope in my heart (you’re mine)
‘They didn’t break up,’ said Suze's companion, ‘though I think you’re right about the guitarist going loopy. He got kidnapped by that serial killer, remember? That’s gotta fuck you up, even if you’re the one who got away. Look, though.’ He tapped a column in the newspaper. ‘Duo Ex Machina’s on at Cherry Bar this weekend.’
‘Not-so-secret gig, hey? They used to be good. We should check them out.’
Frank shoved a twenty at the barista and didn’t wait for the change, but found he couldn’t open the door with his hands full.
Someone reached past him to pull the door inwards, allowing Frank to dash out onto Little Bourke Street. He meant to throw a ‘thanks’ over his shoulder, but the chivalrous stranger was following.
‘You’re Frank Capriano, aren’t you?’ said the barista.
Frank didn’t answer. The barista’s eyes lit up in definite recognition.
‘Yeah, you are,’ he said, pale skin flushing pink. ‘I’m a huge fan of you guys. I’ve got all your albums, even the Amsterdam ones from the early days. I love those. That’s Milo Bertolone on lead vocal in Let the Light In, isn’t it?’ The barista nodded back towards the café. Through the glass door, Frank could see the waitress’ lips moving as she sang along while wiping down the espresso machine.
‘Yeah,’ he admitted. ‘Milo wrote it.’
The barista beamed. ‘He’s sounding great. How’s he doing?’ He asked like a friend would; like someone who knew Milo.
‘Good,’ said Frank tersely, which wasn’t a lie exactly, but the truth wasn’t anybody else’s business.
‘It’s great. It’s great to hear you guys again. I’ve got all your albums, did I say? Even the studio album you did after the Ain’t Love Grand Tour went tits up. I mean, I know the critics said it was dark, not pop really, but I loved it. The new album’s terrific. Sink or Swim yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I love that track. So you’re at Cherry Bar on Sunday?’
Well, the cat had never been in the bag on that one. ‘Yep.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Great. I. Uh. Better get…’
‘No chance of an autograph?’
Frank lifted the trio of takeaway coffee cups still held awkwardly in his fingers. ‘Bit busy, mate.’
‘Shit, yeah, sorry. Better get those where they’re going before they get cold, eh? Next lot, on the house, eh? I’m Lachie. Ask for me and I’ll sort you, okay?’
‘Thanks. Lachie. I’d best–’
‘Yeah, all good. Have a top day, Frank. Can’t tell you how stoked I am you guys are performing again.’
Frank nodded and strode away. Foam spilled out of the narrow mouth of one of the lids, dribbling over his fingers. He kept walking and concentrated on breathing.
When he got to Hardware Lane he shouldered open the door at the corner and stalked to the lifts, then couldn’t work out how to summon it with his hands full. When knuckle, wrist and elbow failed to make an impression on the button, he lifted his foot and kicked the damned thing.
The fire door leading to the stairs opened as he did, and there stood Milo, eyebrows arched high. ‘I’m confident you have the best of motives for abusing our new office,’ he said, passing Frank to clear a letterbox opposite the elevator.
‘Always.’
‘Tell me how it offended you,’ said Milo gravely, ‘and I’ll set my stepdad onto it. Bet it's afraid of hardass ex-cops. Mum doesn't put up with much bullshit either.’
Frank huffed out a laugh. ‘Just grab one of these would you?’ He brandished the cups. Milo tucked the single letter he’d retrieved into his pocket, then took two of the cups from Frank. Frank was finally able to jab the button. The doors opened and he stepped in.
Milo stared into the little space. The mirrored back and sides didn’t give the illusion of space so much as of a too-shiny cage. Milo glanced back towards the fire door. Frank held the lift doors open.
‘I’ll take one of those lattes,’ Frank said, ‘and meet you on the first.’
‘Nah, I’m good,’ Milo stepped into the lift. ‘It’s only one floor.’ The elevator closed behind him before he could change his mind.
Then Milo noticed the residue of foam on Frank’s fingers. He let the lattes tilt precariously as he bent to lick and then suck at Frank’s skin. As distraction techniques went, it was very effective.
‘You can keep licking if you like,’ suggested Frank.
Milo waggled cheeky eyebrows at his boyfriend. ‘I’ll debauch you at home,’ he promised. ‘I don’t want to give our new work neighbours a floor show.’
‘We'll save it for the sex tape.’ Frank pressed his lips lightly to Milo’s just as the lift arrived on the first floor.
They passed the costume shop, walked down a dog-leg to the east side of the building, to a door which stood ajar.
Frank sipped his coffee as he looked around the new office. It consisted of this room and another through a door on the left, which opened, a woman popping out, a screwdriver in one hand and a metal sign in the other.
‘I bring Melbourne’s finest coffee, Tessa!’
‘Best boss ever!’ the woman declared. ‘Let me put this up first.’
Frank held the sign in place while Tessa affixed the sign.
‘Lazy beggar,’ Frank said fondly to the watching Milo.
‘Every artist needs an audience, and hanging signs straight is definitely an art form.’ Milo applauded appropriately when Tessa had finished. She held the door open so they could all admire it.
“The