Simone Kirsch 03 - Cherry Pie

by Leigh Redhead

  Curtis frowned. ‘Do you have to keep doing that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Flashing your boobs.’

  ‘I’m a stripper, hon, I flash a whole lot more than my boobs. I thought you liked it.’

  ‘When we’re home alone, but in public … it’s cheap.’

  Chloe rolled her eyes, Dillon returned with Curtis’s beer, and we all drank in a silence about as comfortable as a rectal exam. Chloe removed the straw and gulped her bourbon, slapping the empty glass onto the bar. Dillon was down the other end garnishing a daiquiri, so she asked, loudly, ‘Who’s a girl have to blow to get a drink around here?’

  I cringed and Curtis’s jaw tightened.

  Dillon was there in a flash. ‘That’d be me.’

  She ordered Australian sparkling and a clitlicking cowgirl, whatever that was, and after she’d tipped him she pointed at the rim of her champagne glass and pouted. ‘Where’s my strawberry, hon?’

  ‘Coming right up.’ He raced to the other end of the bar and bent over into the fridge.

  Chloe nudged me. ‘Check it out—arse you could bounce coins off. And those lips. Kinda like little pillows. I know where he could put those babies.’

  Curtis flushed red. I saw it crawl out his collar, up his neck and spread across his cheeks. His eyes narrowed and the vertical line between them deepened. He got in Chloe’s face.

  ‘Right, that’s it. I’ve fucking had it. Find someone else to be your lap-dog. I’m out of here.’

  Dillon came back with the strawberry and Curtis leaned over the bar: ‘Buddy, she’s not fucking worth it,’ then stormed out.

  Dillon looked at Chloe, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Boyfriends,’ she laughed. ‘Can’t fuck with ’em, can’t fuck without ’em.’

  Chapter Eight

  My plan for the evening had been generally sound, only I hadn’t figured on Chloe being in one of her moods.

  Normally she was gorgeous, a tough cookie, sure, but melted chocolate in the centre. Every now and then though, usually after a smoke and one too many drinks, she got a crazy glint in her eye and seemed determined to raise some hell. In half an hour she’d ordered every obscene shooter on the menu and flirted outrageously with Dillon. She’d also slapped the arse of a buff Italian waiter named Patrizio when he came to the bar to collect a tray of drinks, even after I told her he was definitely gay.

  ‘Chloe,’ I said, ‘you’re doing really great but you might want to tone it down just a tad.’

  She wasn’t listening. She’d swung around again to give the kitchen another flash. ‘Check it out.’ She nodded.

  Yasmin was facing the stainless steel bench holding a docket out to Trip and it looked like they were arguing. Trip ripped the paper out of her hand and studied it, his big, scarred hands shaking. Yasmin backed away. Trip grabbed the largest chef ’s knife I’d ever seen, a wicked, gleaming sweep of steel, wedged it between his teeth and leapt over the stainless steel counter into the restaurant. The din of conversation and cutlery ceased immediately. Everyone froze, watching, some with forks half raised to their mouths.

  Trip’s boots clomped on the polished wood as he strode toward a table of four: two couples, fat men in gaudy shirts with their pinched, skeletal wives. He grabbed an unoccupied chair and in one fluid movement slid it toward them and stepped up and onto the tabletop. The couples grabbed their wine glasses as the candle tipped over, its flame extinguished in a puddle of liquid wax.

  Trip transferred the knife from his mouth to his right hand, held the docket in his left and read from it, voice booming so we could hear him all the way out in the bar.

  ‘Goat cheese salad, hold the goat cheese, add cucumber and carrot, dressing on the side.

  ‘Porcini mushroom risotto with no truffle oil, butter or salt.’ He pointed the knife at each patron as he recounted their sins.

  ‘Whole fish of the day, no bones. And finally—’ the blade was dangerously close to the fattest guy’s nose—‘Export quality Wagyu beef, grain fed, marble score of seven, hold the Bordelaise, replace the celeriac mash with fries, cover with ketchup and cook … well done.’

  Trip raised the knife. My heart was beating fast. He let out the sort of guttural yell you’d expect to hear from a marauding Viking and hurled the knife into the centre of the table where it stood up, quivering. And then, no kidding, he crouched down like some kind of gargoyle and actually hissed in their faces.

  The foursome didn’t stick around to see what he’d do next. They scraped their chairs back, the women grabbing their bags, and ran. Trip pulled the knife out and straightened up, breathing heavily, sweat rolling down his temples. I wasn’t breathing at all. Would someone try to restrain him? Call the police? Would the diners panic and stampede for the exit?

  But it was Melbourne and the place was packed with foodies. A man started clapping. Someone else followed. Then another and another and people actually stood up, cheering, tapping wine glasses with knives and stamping their feet.

  Despite her affection for blackened steak smothered in tomato sauce, Chloe got into the spirit of things, stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Trip grinned, bowed like a musketeer, and yelled for Dillon to bring everyone champagne.

  Mad, bad and dangerous to know indeed.

  At midnight we were still sitting at the bar. The restaurant patrons had left, the tables had been reset and a crusty dishpig was swabbing out the kitchen. I was on my third lime and soda and Chloe possibly her thirtieth sex related shooter. Although she was pissing me off, the boys seemed taken with her. Dillon was flirting, leaning on the bar, and Patrizio, who’d instructed us to call him Patsy, was captivated, especially after she told him he ought to be a male stripper. The sous chef, a fat guy with a red face and orange hair, sat in a banquette surrounded by spotty apprentices, all drinking beer and sneaking looks at Chloe’s cleavage. Great that she was entertaining the troops, but none of them were gossiping about Andi’s disappearance.

  Yasmin stalked over. If she’d sucked her cheeks in any further her face would have collapsed in on itself. ‘I’m afraid we’re closing up, ladies, you’ll have to leave.’ Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Hell, it barely reached her lips.

  I was relieved. Time to cut our losses and skedaddle.

  Chloe was about to protest when suddenly I felt a shift in barometric pressure. I glanced up at the mirror at the back of the bar and saw that Trip was behind us.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere. I’m the boss and I say you can stay.’

  He’d removed his chef ’s jacket and wore a black Slayer t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He had arms like an AFL player. Chloe shifted stools so he could sit in between us and Trip told Dillon to pour him a shot of tequila.

  ‘Girls?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Shit yeah.’ Chloe bounced on her stool, then leaned forward and pointed at him. ‘You’re fucking crazy.’

  Trip shrugged. ‘Americans. What you gonna do?’ His voice had a vaguely English accent. ‘You know, I’m pissed off with you girls.’

  ‘Why?’ Chloe shrieked in the manner of women who have consumed their entire body weight in cocktails.

  ‘You didn’t try my food.’

  Chloe scrunched up her face. ‘Yeah, why didn’t we try the food, Si—uh, Vivien?’

  ‘Couldn’t get a booking. And we ate before we came.’

  ‘You want dessert? I have some clafouti left. It’s my signature dish.’

  ‘I’m stuffed.’ I patted my tummy. ‘Couldn’t fit another thing in.’ Man, I just wanted to get out of there.

  ‘I can fit a lot more in,’ Chloe smiled lasciviously. ‘A lot.’

  ‘Then I’ll make you some. Cream?’

  She licked her lips.

  He slammed back his shot, slid off his stool, then turned at the archway and pointed at her. ‘You remind me of someone. Have we met before?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Patsy. ‘It’s been driving me crazy all night. I’ve seen you somewhere.
’

  Chloe smiled and squirmed in her seat. Oh god, don’t blow it, babe, I thought.

  ‘Guess,’ she said.

  My plan had been a disaster. No one had said a word about Andi and it was only a matter of time before they figured out who Chloe was. She’d become a kind of Z grade celebrity after being kidnapped the year before and had even been on television: appearances on A Current Affair, hosting a program about Melbourne’s seamy side, and a bit part playing a lap dancer on a cop show. Once they knew who she was they’d see behind the conservative clothes and realise I was none other than Simone Kirsch, stripping detective.

  Trip strode off to the kitchen and I was just about to grab Chloe and drag her out when I heard bottles clattering behind me. I turned and saw the dishpig dragging two big green garbage bags toward the corridor where the toilets were. I’d worked as a kitchen monkey and knew dishies saw and heard everything, while remaining completely invisible to the naked eye. I’d have to act quick.

  ‘Just going to the loo,’ I muttered, sliding off my seat.

  The back of the restaurant was crowded with garbage bins and stacked milk crates and an ancient cobbled laneway separated the small concrete yard from the rear of a unit block. The backstreet Bangkok stench of rotting food invaded my nostrils and the air hummed with the sound of the cool room and extractor fans.

  I found the dishie sitting on an upturned milk crate behind a rubbish skip, scoffing food from a takeaway container. He was small and haggard, of indeterminate age, with a ten day growth spiking from his fissured face. Despite the cold he wore a laddered t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into black nylon tracksuit pants, and his head was covered with some sort of hanky.

  He flinched when he saw me. ‘You’re not supposed to be out here.’

  ‘It’s cool.’ I held out my hands. ‘Got sick of all those wankers in there, thought I’d come out the back for a smoke.

  You got a light?’ I’d filched one of Chloe’s Winfield Blues on the way out.

  ‘Yeah.’ He looked around slyly like it might be a trick, pulled out a pack of matches decorated with the Jouissance logo and held them out. I lit my ciggie. It tasted like shit without a drink to wash away the flavour, but I soldiered on bravely and scraped over a milk crate to sit on.

  ‘I used to be a dishie.’

  He looked dubious.

  ‘A while back. When I was going through uni.’

  ‘Don’t want a job, do ya? They’re looking for someone.

  Coupla days a week.’

  ‘No thanks. I know what you go through, man. Talk about overworked and underpaid. Jeez, the chef used to piss me off.’

  ‘Trip’s not such a bad bloke,’ he said, and I was surprised.

  ‘Gordon’s a prick though.’

  ‘Gordon?’

  ‘The second chef. Fat ginger bloke.’

  ‘Oh. You get on with the waiters? That Yasmin seems like a bitch.’

  ‘Shit yeah. Pole up her arse. Thinks she’s it and a bit, too high and mighty to clean food off plates. Patsy’s not bad but he’s a poo jabber so I watch out for him.’

  It crossed my mind that his rancid little arse was probably quite safe around even the most desperate homosexual, but I held my tongue.

  ‘Andi was the best. But she’s gone missing.’

  Hello. ‘Yeah, everyone was just talking about it in there. Weird, hey? What do you reckon happened to her?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Damn. ‘This restaurant was the last place she was seen. Imagine that. Walks down Fitzroy Street and just vanishes.’

  ‘Wasn’t Fitzroy Street.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nah. She left by the back way.’ He looked around. ‘With Trip and Yasmin. So they was the last ones that seen her.’

  Whoa. Yasmin told the police Andi had left via the front.

  Alone.

  ‘They usually all leave together?’

  ‘No.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s it to you anyway?’

  ‘Nothing, mate. Just making conversation.’

  ‘I gotta finish cleaning.’

  He sucked on the last of his cigarette, more butt than anything else, and scurried off. I ground mine under my heel.

  It was freezing and I could feel the hard plastic crate cutting diamond patterns into my arse. Time to go and drag Chloe out of there. I was just getting up when I heard a car coming down the lane and saw headlights moving across the brick walls. I didn’t want anyone to spring me out the back so I stayed put, hidden in the shadows, peeping out from behind the bin. Tyres crunched and a white one tonne van pulled up,

  ‘Doyle Food Group’ stencilled in cursive script on the side next to a picture of a trout leaping over a cheese wheel, just like the card. A solid looking guy in navy trousers and a matching nylon windcheater got out of the van. He had shoulder length dark hair and a goatee and he slid open the side door and stacked four boxes onto a small trolley.

  I heard the unmistakable clomp and rattle of motorcycle boots coming down the hallway and then Trip’s voice: ‘Hey, Gary.’

  ‘Trip.’

  They shook hands and the delivery guy handed Trip an invoice, which he shoved in his back pocket. He wheeled the stock into the restaurant while Gary leaned against the van, having a smoke. A couple of minutes later Trip was back with the trolley.

  ‘All there, mate?’ Gary asked.

  ‘Yep. See you tomorrow.’ He walked back into the building and Gary started up the van and reversed out.

  A restaurant where stock gets delivered in the middle of the night and the chef personally marks it off the invoice? Not in my lifetime. Adrenaline shot into my bloodstream the way it always did when a case picked up momentum, and all sorts of thoughts raced through my brain. Import, export, drugs …

  Maybe Andi really was onto something big.

  I rounded the skip, opened the back door, and ran straight into Trip Sibley.

  Chapter Nine

  Trip was holding a large white plate loaded with some sort of flan. Cherries oozed from the side, thick cream lolled over the top and the whole thing was sprinkled with icing sugar.

  He stepped into the yard and I was forced to back up.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ His smile looked like a threat.

  ‘Needed some fresh air.’ I realised how stupid it sounded as soon as I’d said it. We were surrounded by rubbish bins.

  ‘Been out here long?’

  ‘Minute or so. Guess I’d better be off home. Grab my friend.’ I went to walk around him but he sidestepped and blocked my way.

  ‘Not until you’ve eaten dessert.’ He spooned off a big chunk of pie and cream and advanced, backing me against the wall.

  ‘Trying to stay away from carbs.’ I patted my tummy. ‘You know, watching my weight.’

  ‘C’mon, live a little. I bet behind those glasses you aren’t quite as conservative as you look. Taste it. You know you want to …’

  The spoon zoomed closer, laden with sin, smelling as good as it looked. Fantasy food, the kind us hippy kids wished our mothers would bake while we choked down tofu and tahini.

  ‘My clafouti recipe’s a secret but I can tell you I fly the cherries in from California, use vanilla bean, clotted King Island cream …’ He pressed the cold metal against my lips and when I opened my mouth to protest he pushed it a little way in.

  Heaven hit the tip of my tongue. Buttery crust, cherries sweet and tart, silken cream. An involuntary moan started low in my throat and I shut my eyes and sucked off the lot.

  He dug out another chunk, hovered it near and when I opened up he jerked the spoon back a bit. Bastard. I grabbed his wrist and pulled it towards me, got the pie in my mouth and held it on my tongue to prolong the sensation. God. I hadn’t even finished this morsel and already I was wondering how long it would take to get my next fix. Normally I was a savoury girl, mad for cheese in all its forms. It was the first time I’d met a dessert worth selling your arse down Grey Street for.

 
; I chewed slowly, swallowing just a little at a time. Just as well my eyes were still closed ’cause I had a feeling they were rolling back in my head.

  Trip chuckled and I thought that he must really get off on being able to do this to people.

  ‘And you want to know the most important ingredient of all?’ he said. ‘Kirsch.’

  My eyes snapped open and I choked on pie. He smirked, eyes black and glinting in the low light.

  ‘Patsy finally figured it out when your friend asked him to work for her. Chloe. The stripper off the tele who got kidnapped and was rescued by her friend, fellow stripper and sometime PI Simone Kirsch.’

  He set the plate and spoon on top of a wheelie bin and reached for my face. I ducked but not fast enough. He plucked off the fake glasses, tossed them over his shoulder, then reached around and yanked off my clip so my hair fell around my shoulders.

  ‘Now you look like those pictures in the paper. Still got that sparkly red bikini?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  He just laughed. ‘After Patsy worked it out Yasmin remembered a call she’d had from a female private investigator.

  So the infamous Simone Kirsch is spying on me. It’s an honour.’

  ‘You can stop taking the piss, Mr. Sibley. I’m looking into Andi Fowler’s disappearance and it’s pretty damn weird that no one here seems concerned or will talk to me about it.’

  ‘People come and go all the time in this biz.’

  ‘Why won’t you answer questions then?’

  ‘That was just Yasmin. I’ll answer anything you like.’

  ‘When did you last see Andi?’

  ‘Staff party,’ he said without hesitation. ‘She left about two. Toddled off down Fitzroy Street to catch a cab.’

  Liar. But I didn’t let on. For the first time I noticed a scratch on his cheek, opposite side from the scar.

  ‘How’d you get that scratch?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it but I was bending over in the cool room to get some stock, and a fucking pineapple attacked me.

  I’ve got nothing to hide, darlin’. You want to check the rest of my body for suspicious marks? Maybe take a DNA sample?’ He moved his hands toward his belt, laughing at his own joke.