Free Fiction: Freddie the Fence

A chapter from my unpublished novel Boardwalk Ice

Might delete later. Comments welcome. I’m looking for comps if any come to mind, please let me know. Thanks.

Sun collage by the author.

Boardwalk Ice: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Not Now: Age 9: Freddie the Fence

Context Note: Belladonna, a motherless child of a Jersey mobster, was born with psychic senses that are sparked by a touch.

#

Belladonna had grown taller since last winter. Her winter clothes were too short, now.

“You know where Freddie the Fence lives, right? Go to his house after school. He owes me money. You pick out all the clothes you want there,” her father said.

“Why do they call him the Fence? He doesn’t look like a fence.”

“Because he’s a fence, the kind that finds things that fall off the back of a truck. That’s how he stocks his store.”

“He sounds lucky. I never saw anything fall off a truck. Sometimes there’s shoes in the street, but they’re hardly ever in pairs. How does he stock a whole store?”

“Oh god. He used to be a truck driver, he knows where things fall, that’s all. Just go there and don’t be asking him or his wife your kid questions, okay? And don’t talk about me, either. Just go find some clothes.”

#

Everyone her father knew, every house she ever visited with him, had brickwork. Freddie the Fence’s house was no different. She asked her father about it once and he said it was because of the cousins. Every Italian has a cousin that’s a mason or a bricklayer.

Freddie the Fence had a lot of cousins. The brickwork on his house didn’t stop at the steps, or the bottom half of the house. It reached all the way to the roof.

Freddie wasn’t home, because of course, he must be watching for falling packages. His wife opened the garage door for Belladonna and turned on the lights.

“Girls clothes are over here, on this rack. Coats here. You need help?”

“I’m not sure what size I am. Is there a dressing room?”

“Behind the curtain, there. I’m in the middle of cooking. You just knock on the door when you leave, so I can lock this back up.”

“Are you going to leave the garage door open? It’s so windy.”

Freddie’s wife snorted. “Fine, I’ll close it. Come into the kitchen, that door,” she pointed, “when you’re done.”

She left through the same door, a rich, tantalizing smell of roasted peppers, hot sausages and simmering tomatoes with garlic, fresh oregano and basil escaping into the garage. Belladonna inhaled, wistfully.

Freddie had found not just an array of trendy clothes, but also circle racks and size tags. It was a full store inside the garage. She dragged a pile of clothes behind the curtain.

The fitting room had three large mirrors, tilted slightly towards each other, so you could see how you looked from all sides. She changed slowly into an outfit, pretending those other two girls were her triplets. They were all best friends.

The garage door opened and a man’s voice yelled, “In here, quick, in here.”

She peeked from behind the curtain. A truck was backed up within inches of the garage. Freddie pushed up the back of the truck as metal screeched.

Something was about to fall. It didn’t seem right, that she should be here. This was for Freddie alone to witness. He was the Fence, not her. She pulled the curtain back and closed her eyes for extra protection. She tried hard to unsee those two black odd-shaped lumps of garbage bags in the otherwise empty truck.

She heard a loud thud.

“God-damn,” said one of the men.

“We’ll deal with it later,” said Freddie.

Another loud thud.

Thuds were odd, there was no movement in a thud. She’d never thought about it before, but only objects thudded. People didn’t thud, unless they were dead, no longer people.

She peeked. The two men were looking down at the thuds, but the clothes racks obscured her view of the floor. Freddie turned the lights off as they left. There was a low roar of the garage door coming down, followed by the distinct crank of the handle and then a mini thud, a thump, as the lock set.

The truck started and drove away.

She waited in the darkness for her eyes to adjust. Timing would be everything. The quicker she got out, the more likely she could convince them that she left before the drop. She picked up the pile of clothes and snuck quickly to the door.

The lumpy thuds laid directly beneath the garage door handle. Carefully she slipped one foot then the other between the black bags, holding her breath as she struggled to crank the handle open. The clothes she held slipped as she strained and the lock thumped open so loudly, she almost lost her balance for a moment, but quickly put her foot down again, except now she wasn’t standing on concrete.

She’d seen a picture in her father’s magazine once. They called it a massage when a woman walked on your back. She’d wondered what that would feel like. Wouldn’t it hurt? Wouldn’t you have to get used to that? Now she knew the woman walking was the one with the skills, was a dancer balancing on a stage of muscle and bone, was a survivor, was so determined to live a different life that she could walk across backs to get there, was so brave it could make you cry or scream, or be as quiet as a good little girl.

As she raised the garage door it moaned on its steel wheels. That’s all it was, the loud moan of the door. The bright sunlight blinded her, she didn’t see, not clearly, when she bent to retrieve the clothes she had dropped, she didn’t see a rip in the plastic, what might be skin, she didn’t see, it was the sudden sun in her eyes seeing red, that’s all, the loud moan of the door, that’s all, as she pulled the door down and ran into the blinding sun.

#

“What’d you see at Freddie’s,” her father asked when he came home that evening, earlier than usual.

“Clothes. I took seven outfits and a coat.”

“You see Freddie?”

“No. His wife said he wasn’t home.”

“But did you see anything, besides clothes?”

“Besides clothes? Yeah. She puts sausage in her gravy. I saw that when I was leaving, through the kitchen.”

“She says she didn’t see you leave. You left your old clothes there, like you were in a rush.”

“The old clothes don’t fit me. I had enough to carry. She told me to go through the kitchen. She wasn’t in it when I left. What’s the big deal?“

“When you go to people’s houses, you gotta follow their rules.”

“I did follow their rules! Not my fault if she was off dealing with a crying baby. Why can’t I get my clothes in a regular store, anyway?”

“We’re not regular people,” he said it quietly, like a reminder of a fact.

“When I grow up,” she said loudly, to make sure he could hear, “I’m going to live in a regular neighborhood, with regular people and regular stores, where I don’t have to shut my eyes all the time. I’m going to look at whatever I want, wherever I want. I won’t be afraid to look at anything.”

“What did you see?”

“I shut my eyes. I didn’t see anything.”

He nodded, looking proud.

“Attagirl,” he said. “Now take off your sneakers and I’ll put them in the wash.”

She looked down and gulped, her hand trembling as she pulled the laces. “Sloppy Freddie’s wife was splattering sauce everywhere.”

“Sloppy, yeah, that’s the word. Freddie’s sloppy, too.”

When she handed him the shoes she let herself look in his eyes and he looked in her eyes, too. He pulled her close for a moment, just like a regular dad and she held on as tight as she could, just like a regular kid.

“You didn’t see nothing,” he said.

And in that moment, she saw his day. She saw everything.

* * *

This Is Not About is written by Ada Austen, the author of Better Late Than Never, a multicultural second-chance romance set on the beaches and boardwalks of the New Jersey Shore. It is the New Jersey Romance Writers 2021 Golden Leaf Winner - Best Book by NJ Author.