Simone Kirsch 03 - Cherry Pie

by Leigh Redhead

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I’m going now.’

  He didn’t try to stop me. Just stood there and ate the rest of the dessert.

  If I’d thought things were a disaster before, they were more so by the time I got back into the bar. Everyone was hammered and Chloe was making Patsy audition by giving her a lap dance.

  ‘That’s right, baby,’ she said. ‘Who’s your momma?’

  Yasmin was leaning against the bar, mouth pursed into a cat’s bum. She grabbed my arm as I walked past.

  ‘I told you not to bother us,’ she spat. ‘Now take your slut friend and get out of here.’

  I shook out of her grasp. ‘We were just leaving.’

  I marched over to Chloe. ‘Come on, babe, we gotta go.’

  ‘Just a sec.’

  Patsy, still sitting on her lap, said, ‘I have to ask, darling, are those fucking gazoongas real?’

  ‘Why don’t you have a feel and find out?’

  He put a breast in each hand and weighed them up. ‘They are too!’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Dillon. Chloe tipped Patsy off and marched over to Dillon, grabbed his hands and put them on her tits.

  Patsy suddenly gasped and clapped his hands to his mouth.

  ‘Oh my god, Dillon, you are sooo busted.’

  I followed Patsy’s gaze to the front door. A dark haired woman in her early thirties started pounding on the glass, a baby in a front pack and a pissed off expression on her face.

  Dillon’s hands recoiled but it was too late. Gordon, the fat sous chef, leapt up sneering and let her in.

  The woman stomped over to Dillon. ‘Just staying back for a couple of staffies, huh?’

  I grabbed Chloe and her handbag and dragged her toward the entrance. Gordon turned the lock as we approached and reached out his hands. ‘But I didn’t get to see if they were real.’

  Chloe giggled and I stood in front of her. ‘Party time’s over, mate, let us out.’

  I went for the lock and the prick made a swipe at my boobs so I grabbed his chubby hand and dug my fingernails into the palm until his eyes started to water. ‘Try it and I’ll slap a sexual harassment suit on you so fast your head will spin.’

  He looked me up and down, stood to the side and waited till I’d passed before he muttered, ‘Bitch.’

  Chloe stepped out the door and fell on her arse on the footpath. I put my arms around her waist and hauled her up.

  ‘Come on, babe.’

  She struggled against my grasp. ‘I’m going back in. I was having fun.’

  ‘No you’re not. I’m driving you to my place.’

  ‘Don’t wanna. Let go.’ She made herself floppy, like a kid chucking a tantrum at the shops, and slithered to the ground where she sat, legs stretched out, laughing.

  I’d really had enough. ‘Damn you, Chloe, you’ve fucked up my undercover operation, made a dick of yourself and pissed off somebody’s wife. Not to mention humiliated your own boyfriend. I’m not Curtis’s number one fan but that was awful.

  What the fuck’s wrong with you tonight? You’d better get your shit together because you’re fucking embarrassing.’

  Soon as I uttered the last word I regretted it.

  She picked herself up and stood in front of me swaying, one eye squinted. ‘You’re ashamed of me?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘You fucking hypocrite. It’s okay for you to be a stripper because you have to do it to save for your business. But me, who does it ’cause I like it, that makes me a dumb slut, right?’

  ‘I didn’t say—’

  ‘I’m so fucking sick of you, Simone. Ever since you started being a PI you take yourself sooo seriously. Ooh, I’m too good for jelly wrestling. Ooh, I can’t share an office with my tarty friend. Well I don’t fucking want you anyway. Fuck off. Just don’t forget where you came from.’

  ‘Screw you, Chloe. I don’t need this shit. You’re the worst sidekick a girl ever had.’

  She staggered towards me, pointing. ‘Ever thought that maybe you’re just my sidekick? Ever thought of that?’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  She slapped me. I raised my hand to slap her back.

  ‘Come on.’ She put up her dukes.

  I glanced inside the restaurant. Dillon was arguing with his wife. Patsy was passed out on a banquette. Trip and the other chefs were watching our bitch fight through the window, laughing and putting bets on who would win. I turned and walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  First thing I did when I got back to my one bedroom flat was open the fridge and reach for the wine. I wanted to obliterate the whole evening and thought a litre ought to do it. I grabbed the handle on the four litre box then paused. I’d gone all night without a drink, why start now? I could go to bed sober. It’s not like I was totally addicted to booze.

  I let go of the cask. I’d wake up early and have a run and be all fresh and sparkly and put the debacle at Jouissance behind me. The fight with Chloe was completely mortifying but I supposed the night hadn’t been a complete waste of time. I’d found out Andi left with Trip and Yasmin, and they’d lied about it.

  Now I just had to decide how to follow up on that information.

  I grabbed a couple of cheese singles, sat down at my computer with a cup of chamomile tea and googled the Doyle Food Group. It was a Sydney based company that owned a boutique hotel there called the Villa, a food importing business, a restaurant in Kings Cross and half of Jouissance. The CEO was a guy named Sam Doyle and I searched his name and discovered he was fond of yachts and horseracing. He was generally described as ‘colourful’ but I couldn’t find out why.

  It was two in the morning and my head was starting to pound again so I brushed my teeth, filled up a hot water bottle and tucked myself into bed. I knew the best way to achieve instant unconsciousness was by sorting myself out so I stuck my hand down my pyjama bottoms and tried to rustle up a romantic fantasy of Sean and me making mad, passionate love on a palm fringed beach.

  It didn’t work. As hard as I tried to concentrate on Sean, Trip Sibley kept popping up, leering and brandishing desserts.

  Damned if I was going to mentally cheat on Sean with a bloody celebrity chef. I gave up on the idea and kept my hands to myself. Simone Kirsch, sober, chaste, on the right side of the law. Alcoholic nympho my arse.

  Next morning I woke at nine thirty, drank two cups of coffee (no need to mainline the entire plunger when you weren’t hungover) and called the number on the card I’d found in Andi’s bin.

  ‘Doyle Food Group, Rochelle speaking.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Sam Doyle, please.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr. Doyle is not available. What’s it regarding?’

  ‘An employee of his has gone missing from the Jouissance Restaurant in Melbourne. I’m a private detective retained by the family. Could you get him to give me a call when he has the chance?’

  ‘Certainly. If you’ll leave your name and number.’

  ‘Simone Kirsch.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Kirsch. K-I-R-S-C-H. It’s German for cherry.’ Most people had a little chuckle at that but she didn’t laugh. I’d had about enough of bitchy broads but stayed polite and left my mobile number.

  I went through Andi’s address book, dialling every number.

  Some were disconnected, others, including her best friend Daisy, I left messages for, and the few who answered didn’t have a clue where she was. I got onto her ex-boyfriend, Liam, who also had no idea, but I asked if we could meet up anyway. He was a student at RMIT, doing the same course as Andi, and told me he could meet me there at one thirty. It was a date.

  Since I had a few hours to kill I pulled on my winter exercise outfit of black tights, faded Mickey Mouse t-shirt and grey hooded top, laced up my runners and jogged down the canal toward the beach. On the way I decided that I was absolutely not ringing Chloe to apologise after our first ever fight, she could call me, and I was going to spend the day finding out every
thing I could about a certain arrogant chef. I powered up the Elwood hill, calves aching, and checked out the bay as I leaned against the old wooden lookout, foot to butt, stretching out my quads. The water was choppy and steely blue and when I turned my head to look at the city skyline, I saw that the tops of the buildings were obscured by dark wispy clouds.

  I decided to stop for supplies on the way home, and by the time I ducked into the Ormond Road IGA, pellets of freezing rain were attacking my head.

  Bypassing the stuff I really wanted—crusty ciabatta bread, unsalted butter and frozen lasagne—I bought a cauliflower, homebrand tuna and a tub of cottage cheese. It was too cold for salad and I’d recently figured out I could mash the three ingredients together for a cheap, low fat, no carb dish that was just like tuna mornay. But not.

  I lived on Broadway, a wide, tree lined street with renovated bungalows on one side and a mixture of units, townhouses and thirties flats on the other. Rain pocked the surface of the canal as I crossed the bridge and a fishy smell rose from the water.

  There was no shelter under the bare branches and by the time I retrieved a couple of soggy bills from my letterbox, I was soaked and shivering. I’d just turned to walk up the path to the security entrance when I heard a voice behind me.

  ‘Simone.’

  I turned. Detective Senior Constable Alex Christakos stood on the footpath, rain pattering the fabric of his large, dark blue umbrella.

  Alex always looked good and that day was no exception.

  Thick dark hair swept back from his forehead, his eyes were their usual dark chocolate and his wide mouth was just plump enough to bite. A slight five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw even though he must have shaved only a few hours before. He wore a long charcoal wool coat, a well cut suit and navy tie with a subtle pattern of little squares.

  My hair was plastered to my scalp and water ran down my face.

  ‘Alex. Shit. Haven’t seen you for months.’

  ‘Been a while,’ he agreed.

  ‘You here about the court case?’ Alex and I were going to be prosecution witnesses in a major trial later in the year.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I can’t make a social call?’

  ‘Ha. Suzy wouldn’t let you.’ I blinked through the rivulets of rainwater running into my eyes. ‘You are still engaged, aren’t you?’

  ‘Wedding’s in November. Why don’t we go inside. You look like a soggy Chihuahua.’

  Thanks. ‘I warn you. Place is a mess.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’

  ‘This place is a shitfight!’ Alex hung his coat on the back of the door and surveyed the room with his mouth turned down.

  ‘It’s not that bad.’

  I switched on the gas heater, dumped my shopping bags on the kitchen counter and ran back in to the combined lounge/dining room to gather up newspapers, copies of Australasian Investigator magazine, and bowls encrusted with cauliflower mash. Alex was about to sit in the overstuffed armchair I’d found in the street on hard rubbish day, looked behind him and plucked something from the cushion. A pair of my oldest, daggiest knickers dangled from his index finger.

  Faded black, elastic peeping through holes in the fabric, not entirely clean. I snatched them off him so fast I nearly dropped the bowls.

  ‘It’s cold. I get dressed in front of the heater.’

  ‘I can see that.’ With one shiny black lace-up he nudged the flannelette PJs lying in a heap on the floor. He always wore nice shoes.

  ‘Sit,’ I said. ‘Stay. I’ll be five minutes.’

  I dumped the newspapers in the cardboard box I used as a recycle bin, chucked the bowls in the sink and ran to the bathroom, ripped off my soaking outfit, had a quick shower and dressed in jeans, an oversized man’s shirt and thick socks. I ran a comb through my wet hair and put on a little powder, mascara and lip gloss. Not that I was trying to impress him or anything.

  When I returned I found Alex had disobeyed my instructions and was rummaging around my kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers. It had last been renovated in the late eighties so the surfaces were all grey laminate with pink trim.

  ‘Got anything to drink?’

  I opened the fridge to display the cask and his top lip curled back.

  ‘I was thinking more like Jameson’s.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Is a bear Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

  I stuck on my white plastic kettle, rinsed out the plunger and pulled the coffee tin from the freezer. As I scooped grounds Alex went through my shopping bag.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  He held up the no name tuna. ‘You’re eating cat food now? Must really be doing it tough.’

  I snatched the tin. ‘Not cat food. People food. Check the can. Nowhere does it say unfit for human consumption.’

  ‘I tried to feed my cat this shit once, he wouldn’t touch it.’

  ‘You have a cat?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  I leaned back on the bench and studied him.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing. I just thought you’d be a dog person.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Need a pet that obeys.’

  ‘Shows how much you know. I like how cats are independent and don’t take any shit. Plus, you don’t have to walk them.’

  I stuck my cauliflower on to steam and we took our coffees into the lounge. Alex checked out my CD collection, picked one of the few jazz disks in a wall of alt country, and put it on.

  Miles Davis.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ I said as he sat back down.

  ‘Really into that country shit, huh?’

  ‘You’d better believe it.’

  I flashed back to the night I’d forced him to see Doug Mansfield and the Dust Devils at the Greyhound. We’d ended up in a laneway with his hand up my dress. He must have remembered too because he suddenly became very interested in his coffee cup, as though an image of Jesus had just appeared in the crema.

  Alex and I had gotten into a lot of passionate clinches without ever going ‘all the way’. I guessed we never would now that he was marrying fellow officer Suzy McCullers and I was going out with Sean, his best friend. It was just as well.

  I’d first met Alex at a strip club and I’m not convinced a relationship can ever work if the guy sees you naked within ten minutes of meeting you.

  ‘How’re the wedding plans going? Bet you’re excited.

  Been practising the bridal waltz?’

  He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You know I’ve been married before, when I was twenty-one? Big Greek wedding? Didn’t want to go through all that shit again so I thought we’d just do the registry office thing, then out to dinner with a few friends and immediate family. But she’s got her mother involved. Eight bridesmaids, as many groomsmen, flower girls, page boys. I ever tell you little kids in suits freak me out? Guest list’s blown out to over two hundred and, get this, she wants a carriage, with horses, and for us to dress up in poncy medieval gear.’ He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  ‘This fucking outfit she’s picked for me, it’s got, like, gold brocade. It’s got puffy sleeves.’

  I choked down a laugh. I knew it wasn’t nice, but Alex bitching about Suzy’s bad taste made me feel really good. She had punched me unconscious once so I felt entitled to a little gloating. I rearranged my face to look serious.

  ‘C’mon, Alex, let her have her princess fantasy. It’s every little girl’s dream.’

  ‘Not yours.’

  ‘No. In the unlikely event I ever get hitched it’d take place in Vegas with Elvis impersonators, strippers and a shitload of Bolivian marching powder.’

  Alex shook his head at the mention of drugs. He was so straight I was willing to bet he’d never even smoked a J.

  Unlike his best mate.

  ‘I could see Sean being in that. Heard from him lately?’

  ‘�
��Bout a week ago.’

  ‘Miss him?’ The question, coming from Alex, made me uncomfortable.

  ‘Of course.’

  Enough pussyfooting around. I tucked my legs under me, sipped my drink and rested the cup on the coffee table. ‘So spill, Senior Constable. Why are you really here?’

  He slid an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket, handed it over and I pulled out a stack of photos. The shots were grainy and it took me a moment to realise what I was seeing. Holy shit. It was me and Trip out the back of Jouissance.

  ‘Where did you get these?’ I asked, flipping through them.

  ‘Get these? I took the fucking things.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘From a unit block behind the restaurant.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You’re looking for Andi Fowler too?’

  ‘The missing waitress? Hardly. I’m fraud. We’ve been investigating Trip Sibley.’

  ‘What’s the fraud?’

  ‘Can’t talk about an official police case. What’s going on with the waitress?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I said. ‘Client confidentiality.’

  We stared at each other over the coffee table, a Mexican standoff. I tried to look inscrutable while my mind raced at a million miles. I was dying to know what Trip was being investigated for. It had to have something to do with Andi going missing. I couldn’t help myself and broke first.

  ‘It’s to do with the suss deliveries after midnight, isn’t it?’

  I blurted. ‘The ones courtesy of “colourful” Sydney businessman Sam Doyle.’

  Alex shrugged and put on a blank cop face that infuriated me so much I briefly considered slapping some expression into it. Instead I grabbed the empty coffee cups, marched into the kitchen, clattered them into the sink and turned off the stove. Alex followed and leaned against the slatted door of the pantry, wrinkling his nose at the farty, sulphurous smell.

  ‘I’m not stupid, Alex.’ I tonged the cauliflower into a bowl, picked up a fork and mashed it into a lumpy paste. ‘You’re obviously here to pick my brains, but you know how it works.

  I won’t give up shit unless you share information with me.’