Simone Kirsch 03 - Cherry Pie

by Leigh Redhead

  I asked him for a cigarette.

  ‘You don’t want one,’ he said.

  ‘Yes I do.’

  He opened the first three buttons of his shirt and showed me his chest. A pink scar, raised and ropy, slashed straight down his sternum. ‘Triple bypass. Never thought life’d catch up with me, but it did. Don’t do it.’

  ‘Good advice, but it might have more impact if you weren’t downing tequila and sucking the guts out of those Luckys.’ I reached across the table and grabbed the pack. Sam laughed. He seemed amused that I’d given him shit.

  ‘I have a proposition for you,’ he said.

  I really hoped he wasn’t trying to crack onto me. He didn’t seem sleazy, but I remembered what Chris Ferguson had said about him rooting all the dancers at the Love Tunnel. I lit the cigarette and drew back, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘Since someone’s doing away with my staff and trying to frame me, I ought to hire you myself.’

  I tried to imagine what my mum would do if I swanned back into her place and announced I was working for Sam Doyle. Probably drop dead of a heart attack. A perverse part of me considered it … briefly.

  ‘I can’t I’m afraid. Conflict of interest.’

  He raised an eyebrow that had a scar running vertically through it. Lines cut deep channels from his nose to his mouth.

  ‘I always pay above the going rate and if you’re investigating anyway, which you seem to be … how long you in Sydney for?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Nowhere at the moment. I have to find a hotel.’

  ‘Stay at my joint. Villa.’

  ‘A little out of my price range.’

  ‘It’s on me. Trip’s staying there.’

  Alex was too. It would be just like school camp.

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  I considered telling him it would be foolish to let him know exactly where to drop off the horse head, but said, ‘I’d just rather not.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I know you don’t believe me, but we’re on the same side here. Listen, think over the job offer, sleep on it, then call me in the morning.’ He took out a card, scribbled his mobile number and address on the back and handed it to me. I stared at him and he shook his head and laughed. ‘Look at you. You still think I’m a bad guy.’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. Someone’s had me under surveillance while I’ve been in Sydney. Following me, taking pictures.’

  ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘it’s not one of mine.’

  ‘And here you are being all friendly and offering me a job and a hotel room. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful but it’s a little odd. The people I investigate usually try to beat me up, or at the very least threaten legal action. Why are you doing this?’

  Sam leaned his elbows on the table and looked me in the eye. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m about, Simone. I’m a big fan of people who show a bit of get up and go, even though life wasn’t handed to them on a silver platter. Especially if life wasn’t handed to them on a silver platter. I’m keen to help them out, especially if they interest me. Christ, you wouldn’t believe how many boring fucking stuffed shirts I’ve had to deal with in the property business. It’s why I got into restaurants even though they’re shit from an investment point of view. It was a buzz and I met some real characters, same with the Cross. Of course round here’s nothing like it was twenty years ago. I blame your generation, so bloody straight. Forget live sex shows and cheap blowjobs, you all want lattes and wilted spinach.’

  I laughed and Sam smiled at me. ‘You shouldn’t be scared of me.’

  ‘I never was.’ The champagne had boosted my confidence.

  ‘Is that why you nearly knocked over your drink when you heard my name?’

  Damn, I thought he hadn’t noticed. ‘You have to admit, you’ve got a fucking terrible reputation.’

  He gave me a wry grin, pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Don’t believe everything you read.’

  ‘I liked that song you did, by the way.’

  He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked genuinely pleased. ‘You like country?’

  ‘Seriously dig it.’

  ‘Call me.’ He pointed to the card in my hand, then strolled away.

  I glanced at the stage as I finished my drink and cigarette.

  Trip was singing a Sex Pistols number, ‘Pretty Vacant’, thrashing around and swinging from a pole that must have been left over from the bar’s strip club days. The other patrons were looking faintly alarmed. I left him to it and walked down the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I knew I had to find a motel, get something to eat and buy supplies, but having a surprise encounter with Sam Doyle had left me a little hyped up and I needed another drink to level out. I bypassed the nightclubs with their swirling disco lights and chest thumping bass and ducked into the Goldfish Bowl.

  On the video jukebox Billy Idol sneered and sang ‘Forgot to Be a Lover’ and the bar was crowded with backpackers, dodgy looking dudes, working girls and trannies. My kind of place.

  I bought a champagne and took the only vacant seat, a stool by a bench facing a window that looked out onto Victoria Street. I was still reeling from the fact that Doyle wanted to hire me. There had to be more to it than his fondness for interesting people with a bit of ‘get up and go’, but I wasn’t sure what.

  I also didn’t know what the hell his connection to my mother and Joy was and it was driving me crazy. The only thing I could think of was they’d been radical feminists and he’d managed a strip club. Maybe there’d been some sort of run-in.

  I hoped it wasn’t too late to find a motel and I pulled my phone out of my bag to check the time. It was ten o’clock and I had one message. It was Andi’s friend Daisy telling me we could meet up the following afternoon at the Coopers Arms in Newtown, before her band played. She was a singer, apparently.

  My heart sank. Newtown was my old stomping ground and the one place I’d wanted to avoid while in town. I considered calling and asking her to meet me somewhere else then decided I was just being paranoid. It had been five years since I’d moved away and it was doubtful any of the old crowd still lived around there. Hadn’t property prices gone through the roof? And even if they did, surely they’d gotten over the whole thing by now? I ought to have, too. It was a long time ago, water under the bridge.

  I texted Daisy back, told her I’d see her at the pub at five, then realised my buzz was wearing off and drunkenness was setting in. I asked the bartender if he could recommend a cheap hotel and he said there was a whole bunch down Macleay Street. I left the pub and stopped by a 7-Eleven and bought a pack of cheese singles for dinner and a toothbrush and tube of paste. Deciding that my knickers wouldn’t dry by morning if I rinsed them out, I popped into a sex shop and bought the only pair of undies I could find that actually had a crotch: a black cotton G-string with ‘come and get it’ written on the front in red.

  As I wandered down Macleay humming ‘In My Hour of Darkness’ and admiring the trees and the architecture I passed a side street whose name I recognised. Wasn’t Doyle’s joint down there? It wouldn’t hurt to have a squiz. I wandered along for a bit and came upon a mansion with columns, turrets and sweeping verandas. A glowing sign out front read The Villa, Boutique Hotel, Restaurant and Bar. If Andi had indeed been in Sydney then she may have checked it out. I still had her photo in my handbag, so figured I’d flash it then retire to the hotel bar for a nightcap. A double Jameson’s would surely provide the knockout blow I needed to sleep the night through in whichever scuzzy motel I decided on.

  Entering the open gate I found myself in a modern take on a formal garden. There were hedges galore but they’d all been clipped to resemble rolling waves. Gravel paths snaked between the plants and terminated in alcoves where curved sandstone benches sat in pools of dim yellow light. Instead of a cupid peeing water, the fountain in front of the entrance consisted of t
hree large metal balls stacked on top of each other, water sheeting down the silver surface. A three scoop ice cream? The Michelin man? Abstract art wasn’t exactly my forte.

  I entered the marble reception area and approached the desk, black and s-shaped like the benches. The willowy young man standing behind it wore a crisp black suit with a mandarin collar and shook his head when I showed him the photograph, but told me I could find the bar to the right of the lobby.

  Gold curtains draped the walls, spherical light fittings hung low and the chairs were curved and upholstered in gold and black and red. Apart from the structure itself, the whole hotel had no straight lines and I was starting to feel kind of seasick.

  A few business types were scattered around and a white jacketed guy whose nametag read Jose was tending bar. I ordered a double Jameson’s that cost a whopping twenty bucks and showed him Andi’s photo. He studied it for a long time, which got my hopes up, then dashed them when he told me he’d never seen her before.

  I took my whiskey to a red couch, and when I swallowed the liquor it burned a satisfying path down my gullet. I leaned my head back. Theories spun around in my brain but I was too exhausted and tipsy for them to make any sense. It had been a hell of a day. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the heavy feeling in my limbs. I’d finish this drink, toddle off down the road, check into the first place I came to, and collapse on a saggy single bed which would have either a chenille spread or an ugly flower printed duvet. I was feeling so relaxed I almost fell asleep until I sensed a presence. My eyes snapped open and I groaned. It was Trip.

  He sat next to me, made a hand signal to the barman and stuck his arm along the back of the couch. I hauled myself forward so his hand wouldn’t brush my neck.

  ‘You take up Sam’s offer of a room?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Then you must be waiting for me.’

  Did the guy ever give up?

  ‘Thanks for finally telling me what happened that night, and introducing me to Doyle, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d just fuck off.’

  I’d hoped he’d get offended and storm out but he just grinned and raised those devilish eyebrows. ‘Hard to get, huh?’

  ‘For you? Impossible.’

  ‘Mr. Sibley?’ Jose set down a brass tray bearing a bottle of expensive looking tequila, sliced lemon and a salt shaker.

  Trip completed the lick, sip, suck ritual then placed his hand on my knee.

  I pushed it away. ‘Trip, piss off. I’m tired.’

  ‘I’ve got a king sized bed in my room …’

  Wanting to get out of there fast I finished my drink in a giant swig that burned my throat and brought tears to my eyes. Crunching through the last shards of whiskey flavoured ice I said, ‘This might be hard for you to accept, being in People magazine’s sexiest and all, but I just don’t fancy you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Let’s see. You’re arrogant, up yourself, violent. Do you want me to go on?’

  ‘Simone, that’s all an act. I’m different deep down. Why don’t you give it a chance, get to know the real me?’

  I snorted. That was almost as bad as this cop who’d once told me he knew how to make me feel like a woman. What did he think I felt like? A rhinoceros? A single celled amoeba? A bloke?

  ‘Call an escort if you’ve got the horn,’ I told him. ‘We’re in Kings Cross, shouldn’t be too hard to find a fuck.’

  Trip reached out his index finger and, before I could stop him, slid it down my cheek and neck and along my collarbone, a surprisingly delicate move for someone who had, half an hour earlier, careened around a pole like a frenzied chimpanzee.

  I shivered. A reflex action, but he saw.

  ‘Ha!’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘You sure? Kiss me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you about Andi …’

  ‘You already did. She was at your place and nothing happened ’cause her phone rang.’ I wondered if the cops had traced that call. Probably. Would they tell me who it was from?

  No way.

  ‘There was something else too …’

  ‘What?’

  He pointed to his mouth. ‘One little peck.’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’

  ‘No I’m not. I worked with her four nights a week. I think I have a fair idea what might have happened to her.’

  ‘And you’ll only tell me if I kiss you? That’s somewhere between sexual harassment and bribery.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. Unethical, possibly. Certainly sleazy. But I’m a chef, not a Catholic priest, so who gives a shit?’

  I finished my Jameson’s, reached over and sprinkled salt on the back of my hand, threw back a shot of tequila and sucked hard on the lemon. A shudder ricocheted down my spine. I looked at Trip. It’s not like he was hideous or anything. In fact, as much as I hated to admit it, People had been on the money. And it was just a peck. What was a peck if it led to the one clue I needed to find Andi?

  ‘So help me,’ I said, ‘if you’re lying …’

  He opened his eyes wide, attempting to look innocent.

  I repeated the process with the tequila, spat the lemon onto the tray, squeezed my eyes shut and said, ‘Okay, do your worst. But no ton—’

  Too late. He’d tilted my chin up, brushed the hair back from my face, and licked my bottom lip. The shiver returned.

  Not that I was keeping tally or anything but it had been four months, one week and five days since I’d kissed someone, and the aborted attempt with Alex didn’t count. I tried very hard not to feel anything, but my lips had started to tingle, not to mention everywhere else. Trip tasted like tequila and he smelled like sweat, but good sweat, the nutmeg and cinnamon aroma you got walking past a bakery.

  I started sinking back into the couch but he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me up. I touched his arm and felt a ridge of tricep. Gosh, he sure was buff. Probably strong enough to be able to actually lift me up and carry me around the room while he … I tried to block out the image. He pushed his tongue in, just a little way, not at all the arrogant thrust I’d imagined, and, well, I couldn’t just leave my tongue lying there like a dead slug. What if word got around that I was a lame kisser? So I kissed back, thought of Sean, briefly, but reasoned that kissing wasn’t cheating, not if the former president of the United States of America thought a blowjob didn’t count. And anyway, I wasn’t doing it for fun. This was for Andi, the greater good … and stuff …

  Trip slipped one hand up my back, tracing my spine, and rested it on my neck, fingers playing with my hair. I got even more tingly until I couldn’t help it and pressed myself up against him, hard, and then he pulled me onto his lap and crushed me into his chest and I was just thinking that being a chef, he probably wasn’t averse to getting his tongue around all manner of exotic fare, when I heard a sound from across the room, the sort of pissed off ‘harrumph’ that old farts make when they can’t handle people making out in public. The disapproving grunt flashed me back to Elsternwick, and the fat cop’s words. Alcoholic nympho … gets all her information rooting people. Holy shit. I’d been so indignant when he’d said it, but wasn’t that exactly what I was doing now?

  I wrenched my lips from Trip’s, turned my head away before he could lunge in for another pash and saw Alex standing under the archway between the bar and the lobby, glaring at us.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Let me in!’ I hammered on the door and pressed my ear against the wood. All I could hear was the sports channel, turned up loud. ‘Alex!’

  He’d turned on his heel after I’d spotted him, marched through the lobby and jogged up the sweeping staircase. I’d shaken Trip off and bolted after him but when he’d reached his second floor room he’d slammed the door and nothing I could say would make him open it. My stomach sank and tears pricked my eyes. What had I done? Would he tell Sean? If only I could explain that it wasn’t what it looked like. Christ, who was I trying to kid
? It was exactly what it looked like, probably worse since I was still feeling all breathless and trembly and more than a little damp in the knickers. I couldn’t decide if the sick feeling was real guilt, or just the shame of being caught.

  ‘Alex!’

  My banging must have woken the other guests, or perhaps Alex himself had summoned the security guard who was jogging toward me down the hall.

  ‘Open the door!’

  ‘Ma’am.’ The guard was an older guy in a beige uniform, keys jangling from his belt. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave the hotel, immediately.’

  I ignored him and thumped the door with my fist. The guard grabbed my upper arms and started dragging me backwards. I dug my feet in and took a deep breath in preparation for yelling louder. I really wanted Alex to hear what I had to say before the guard hauled me off.

  ‘You of all people have no right to disapprove of me! No fucking right!’

  The door opened inward and he stood there in his shirtsleeves. ‘Let her go.’

  The guard wasn’t sure. ‘You know her?’

  Alex nodded.

  ‘Sir, we can’t have this sort of carry on. If it happens again I’m going to have to call the police.’

  Alex nodded. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘It had better not.’

  Alex stood back and let me into a room with high, ornate ceilings, long gold curtains and a Juliet balcony. All the furniture was modern, moulded and curved like the seats in the bar, and multicoloured. A chaise longue was bright red, the kidney shaped writing desk purple. A feature wall behind the king sized bed had been painted aquamarine. I sat on the bed and stared at the enormous flat screen TV on the wall opposite. An AFL game by the looks of things, but it was hard to see through my watery eyes. I sniffed, determined not to cry in front of him again.

  ‘I decided not to go back to Melbourne. I went to Food Expo and saw Trip Sibley instead and then we ended up at the—’

  ‘Hot Rock. I didn’t think you’d leave that easily. I knew you’d come back to the Cross so I hung around. I saw you leave the bar thirty seconds after Sam Doyle. I followed you.’