‘The Extra: Frankie Ray and the Blazing Anubis’ by Mel Anastasiou

Frankie had trouble getting the Model A started. She fiddled with the mix, got the choke and the ignition backward, and prayed that the engine wouldn’t flood. When at last it started, she hit a curb pulling out onto Sunset Boulevard, so that the back wheel slammed up and then down again with a shrill complaint of springs. The rumble seat popped open with a thunk. Adrenalin pumping, she rode the clutch the way Connie had taught her in the back alley at home in Vancouver, where chickens shrieked and fluttered out of the Model A’s way and not a garbage can in the neighbourhood was spared.
 
Both hands on the wheel, she steered straight along Sunset Boulevard. Monument Studios, with its formidable angels, appeared and then vanished on her left. She passed the brothel with its glowing yellow windows and safe, friendly air. More of Hollywood’s illusions.

She kept a heavy foot on the gas and sped through the shadows. She nearly missed the sign for Paradise Gardens, so that at the last second she skewed between two parked cars at a shockingly bad angle. Frankie decided that neither she nor Frank Achilles gave a cool nickel. She switched off the ignition, walked around the rear of the Model A, and slammed the rumble seat shut.

“All I have to do,” she muttered, “is find out whether Eugene tracked down the golden swimmer who loved Gilbert Howard. Then Eugene can tell the police. And I can go home to Vancouver.”

She would say thanks and farewell to Eugene and the Queen. Then she would find something she’d always heard of but never been inside — an all-night hockshop. She had something valuable that she might sell for gas money to get home. The diamond in her engagement ring was just a chip. “But the ring itself is gold. Fourteen-carat!” Champ had so informed her the first time he’d slid it onto her finger and asked her never to take it off.
 
She felt in her right pocket for her engagement ring. When she didn’t find it right away, she told herself not to panic, but her heart beat faster as she fumbled her way past the gun into the deepest area of her pocket. It was empty. Hastily, she felt the inside of her left-hand pocket, but found only a pinch of lint.

She growled, “Men have such a lot of pockets. It is entirely ridiculous over-tailoring!”

She fumbled her way through each pocket with no result at all. The ring was gone. The disappointment was too much to bear. And that was when somebody shone a bright light into her eyes.
 
She held up a hand against the glare. “Watch where you’re pointing that thing, buddy.”

A male voice invited her to step away from the car.
 
She reminded herself to keep her temper and her head about her. This was a free country, darn it all, and a citizen had a right to park on any public thoroughfare.
 
She said, “What’s it all about, Officer? Can a man about town help in any way?”

“We’ve got an investigation rolling, and I’m looking for witnesses. Do you live at Paradise Gardens?”
 
Frankie coughed. “Nope. What’s the case, Officer?”

“Can’t say, sir.” The policeman added, “We’re looking for a young, dark-haired, out-of-town girl. Seen any girls like that?”

“Can’t say as I have.” Inspired in perhaps equal measures by fury at the intransigent single-bloody-mindedness of the police and a wish to appear urbane and witty, she asked, “Out-of-town girl, is she? Have you searched out of town?”
 
“Look, you. No nonsense, please,” the policeman said. “I’ve got a report to write up in about ten minutes or the captain will hang my ears from his belt buckle. What’s your name and address?”

Frankie’s knees inside the grey suiting were none too sure of themselves.