Simone Kirsch 03 - Cherry Pie

by Leigh Redhead

  I couldn’t see what she was doing but soon heard the unmistakable chink and scrape of a platinum credit card on a mirror.

  ‘So what’s happening when Jouissance reopens?’ Trip bounced and I started to feel exceedingly claustrophobic.

  ‘Nothing. Too much heat.’ I heard her snort up a line.

  ‘How about when it blows over?’ He leaned over and did one himself.

  ‘With the Fraud Squad sniffing around?’ She talked like she had a head cold. ‘All business involves risk, but not that fucking much. The deal’s over, Trip.’

  ‘C’mon, they won’t get anything on us. Yasmin’s been great. The books balance and it’s impossible to trace all the cash going through a restaurant and bar.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. The police have some pretty sophisticated computer programs these days. Look, Don says no.’

  Don Davison? But wasn’t he ancient history?

  ‘What about the hotel?’

  ‘None of your beeswax.’

  ‘Pity. I was enjoying all the cloak and dagger stuff, as well as the extra money.’

  ‘I don’t think money’s going to be a problem for you, Trip. Once you’re on TV you’ll be a bona fide celebrity chef, not just a legend in your own lunchtime. You need extra cash just put out a glossy cookbook before Christmas, or endorse some instant meals.’

  ‘Bitch,’ Trip chuckled. ‘Rack me up another line.’

  She did and they both had another snort. After a minute or so of sniffing Trip said, ‘I suppose I should look on the bright side. I won’t have to keep lying to Sam.’

  ‘You’re hilarious. You’ll proposition his wife—’

  ‘Ex, almost.’

  ‘But you don’t want to lie to him. Listen, we didn’t lie, just omitted certain facts, and we couldn’t have told him. Both you and I know he’s totally lost it since the heart attack.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. He’s not feeble, or fucked in the head.

  It’s just, shit, having a near death experience, with the tunnel and the white light, that’d freak me out.’

  Rochelle scoffed. ‘That bullshit is caused by lack of oxygen to the brain, nothing more, and quite frankly I find his whole repentant act pretty hypocritical.’

  ‘Yeah, if I turn all holy roller just shoot me in the head. Guilt’s such a useless emotion, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘But I have to say, Gordon keeps weighing on my mind.’

  ‘Honey, I told you that was nothing to do with us. I was as shocked as you were. I swear I didn’t tell Don that Gordon had spoken to the police. Of course, Don does have connections, but look, it could have been an accident.’

  ‘Not the way Simone tells it.’

  ‘Simone …’ She laughed. ‘Nice work bringing her, by the way. I found out she’s not even interested in us, just wanted to know about her mother and obsessed with finding that fucking waitress. Shit, I’d like to find her myself and slap the silly bitch for disappearing and bringing all this heat. Can you believe she got a job at Jouissance just to go undercover and investigate Sam? Treacherous little cow.’

  Trip bounced on the bed another couple of times and sniffed. ‘Fuck, this coke’s gotten me horny.’

  ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘C’mon, Rochelle.’ He patted the bed next to him.

  ‘We’ve been through this before. I’m old enough to be your mother.’

  ‘And hotter than most chicks half your age.’

  ‘You’re very sweet.’ I heard her open the drawer and deposit the mirror inside. ‘Enough of this gasbagging. You’ve got to hit the road and I want to check the boatshed. They’ve been down there too long and I don’t trust Sam not to say something he shouldn’t.’

  ‘Like what?’ Trip said. ‘He doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘He knows enough.’

  I gave them a minute to get down the stairs then dragged myself out from under the bed. As much as I wanted to riffle around in Rochelle’s office drawers I knew I had to get out of there as soon as I could. I had a couple of minutes if she made it down to the boathouse, even less if she ran into pink shirt Perry and he told her I’d gone upstairs. I was halfway across the room, heading for the walk-in wardrobe, when I sensed something and froze in the middle of the room in my stretch pants and bra, bag in one hand, Rochelle’s top in the other. I slowly turned towards the French doors that led to the balcony.

  Perry was on the other side of the glass, standing perfectly still and staring at me.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Perry’s mouth stretched into the horribly insincere smile you see on game show hosts and people whose minds have been taken over by aliens, and a creepy feeling rippled across my flesh, like an egg full of spiders had just hatched in my hair and they were scuttling down my spine. He pointed from the bed to me and waggled his finger like I’d been a very naughty girl.

  Run, I told myself, but my legs refused to move and I was loath to turn my back on him. He reached for the doorhandle, pushed it down and the smile turned to a scowl. The door was locked. The neurons controlling my legs sputtered into life and I spun, dashed across the room, straight through the walk-in wardrobe and into the office.

  Perry ran along the balcony at the same time, and burst through the unlocked office door just as I popped out of the dressing room. I stopped so suddenly that my feet skidded out in front of me and I fell on my arse on the carpet. I flipped on my front, struggled to my knees and was about to stand when he grabbed my ankles and yanked them up like I was a wheelbarrow, so my face hit the floor. I clutched at the carpet as he pivoted my body and dragged me back into the dressing room. He threw my feet on the ground, closed both doors then loomed over me with his hands on his hips, the creeped out smile back on his face. I lay there, looking up at him, trying to get my breath back.

  ‘I knew you shouldn’t be left alone,’ he said. ‘Rochelle’s going to be pretty pissed off when I tell her you were hiding under the bed.’

  ‘I wasn’t hiding, I dropped something and …’ I couldn’t think of anything and the excuse petered out. Not that he would have believed me anyway. I tried a different tack. ‘My police friend, Detective Senior Constable Alex Christakos, knows exactly where I am and he’ll—’

  ‘The only note in the hotel was from the cop to you.’

  My god, he’d been in the hotel? What was going on?

  ‘I called him.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Yeah, I do. If you’d called him you wouldn’t have just bull-shitted about a note.’

  I suddenly remembered that I had texted Alex before I left the hotel, telling him I was going to spend the afternoon at the movies and that I’d be at the Coopers Arms in Newtown at five, figuring the truthful statement would cancel out the lie. Now it was too late.

  ‘Okay … well … I’ll scream.’

  ‘Who’ll hear you? Trip’s taken off. Sam’s passed out in the boathouse, the guests have gone and the walls are solid sandstone.’

  The bastard had a point.

  ‘So what happens now?’ I asked, propping myself up on my elbows and stalling for time. ‘You gonna kill me or can we make some sort of deal?’ While I spoke I was checking for a weapon out of the corner of my eye. Something, anything, that would give me some advantage against a strong, agile, six foot tall goddamn kickboxing champion.

  ‘It’s up to the lady,’ he said.

  Great. It seemed to me that anybody who had pissed off ‘the lady’ had come to a bad end. Like Gordon. I thought of the driver of the blue car. I’d only glimpsed him for a split second but he’d seemed tall, square jawed. Put a baseball cap and a pair of dark glasses on freaky pink-shirt Perry …

  ‘You ran over Gordon.’

  The grin stayed in place.

  ‘You ran over Gordon … you’re too big to be wheelie bin guy … The possum head. You do that too?’

  ‘Possum head? What are you talking
about?’

  ‘But I don’t think you kidnapped Andi. The way Rochelle was talking, it wasn’t you guys …’

  ‘Enough chitchat. I want you to get up, slowly, turn around and put both hands behind you.’ He dug about in his pants pocket and pulled out a couple of hard plastic ties, the restraint of choice for riot police and outback serial killers.

  With those on I’d be even more helpless than I already was.

  ‘And what if I refuse?’

  He dropped into a fighting stance and made a couple of fists. ‘Then you get a taste of the ancient art of Muay Thai.’ He pummelled his fists until they were a blur and kicked one leg into the air for emphasis. Poser. But I was still fucked. And the worst thing was, it was all for nothing. Sam Doyle wasn’t involved, and Rochelle? She was caught up in some crooked deal with the Don, probably ordered the hit on Gordon and might have had something to do with Melody’s disappearance, but not Andi’s. She’d seemed genuinely shocked that Andi had been undercover at Jouissance.

  ‘Stand up,’ he ordered.

  As I hauled myself to my feet I glanced at the dressing table and spotted the only items I could conceivably use as weapons, but Perry’s reflexes were a lot faster than mine and if I lunged he’d stop me before I got hold of them. There was only one thing I could do. No guarantee it’d work, but I had to try.

  ‘Now turn around,’ he said.

  I started to obey, but at the last second spun back around and launched myself at him, scratching, punching and kicking with all my might. As expected, he retaliated straight away, a sharp jab to the jaw that snapped my head back and clicked my teeth together, then a roundhouse kick in the ribs that sucked the air from my lungs and sent me flying. I crashed against the dressing table, slid along and flopped to the floor, sweeping all Rochelle’s makeup and hair products with me.

  Groaning and gasping for air I curled into a ball, assorted objects digging painfully into my bare torso.

  ‘Get up,’ Perry barked.

  I just moaned.

  He nudged me with his trainer. ‘Get the fuck up. That was nothing. I hardly touched you, you stupid bitch.’

  I didn’t move, just continued to whimper until he was forced to lean over and grab my arm to try and pull me to my feet. As he rolled me around to face him I held out the canister of hairspray I’d been gripping beneath me and squirted it right in his eyes. He bellowed and staggered back and I dropped the spray, seized the metal makeup box by its handle and swung it into his temple. He fell backwards onto his butt and I jumped up and leapt over him, heading for the office door, but he grabbed my ankle and I tumbled to the carpet. I kicked back as hard as I could and struggled free. Knowing he wouldn’t be down for long I sprinted through the office, out the door and headed down the hallway for the stairs.

  I was on the landing, hands on the banisters, about to propel myself down, when I saw Rochelle on her way up. She looked at me, screeched something unintelligible and I turned and bolted back into the office. Perry was staggering out of the walk-in, swearing and holding his fists against his eyes, and I ran straight out the French doors onto the balcony, looking around wildly. I briefly considered jumping into the pool, but it was so far away I would have splattered on the terracotta tiles before I got there.

  A couple of metres beyond the balcony, on the master bedroom side, a palm sprouted, tall as the house. No time to think, I ran toward it, clambered over the railing and launched myself at it, holding out my arms and squeezing my eyes shut.

  I slammed into the tree face first and slid jerkily down, pants tearing and belly scraping painfully against the rough bark, until I fell in a heap at the bottom. I wobbled into a standing position, didn’t stop to look around and took off down the side of the house, ran up the stone steps and tried the gate.

  Locked.

  The sandstone wall was at least eight feet high but I was powering on adrenaline. I took a few steps back, ran and jumped, scrabbling up, fingers searching the crevices, nails breaking, boots scuffing the rough stone. As I rolled over the top I saw Rochelle and Perry run from the house. I wouldn’t make it. They’d get me in the lane. I dropped, overbalanced, hit my knee on the uneven footpath and got up. I wanted to scream for help but my lungs were straining so badly I could hardly breathe, and all I managed was a strangled cry.

  Looking up the lane I saw a white Tarago twenty metres away, parked half on the footpath, engine idling, rear doors open. One of the guys from the jazz band was loading equipment into the back. I heard Rochelle’s heels clicking on the stone steps, knew it was only a matter of moments before they burst through the gate, so I dashed toward the van, pushed past the muso, jumped in and lay flat on my back behind a PA.

  ‘What the—?’ The guy scratched his white beard, astonished that a wild haired, half-dressed chick had just leapt into the wagon.

  ‘Would you believe I’m a groupie?’

  The guy in the rear passenger seat, also sporting a beard but no moustache, put his arm on the back of the seat and turned around. ‘We’re a middle aged jazz band, we don’t have groupies.’

  ‘Okay, I’m a PI and someone’s trying to kill me. Drive!’

  They looked even more dubious.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I rasped, tears sprouting into my eyes. ‘Look at me. Just get me out of here, please.’ The musos exchanged a glance and I heard the gate open down the street and Rochelle’s heels click on the asphalt. I hunkered down and closed my eyes reasoning, like an ostrich, that if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. Rochelle’s voice was calm and bright.

  ‘Hi. Just wanted to thank you again for the show. It was fabulous. Uh, you didn’t happen to see anyone come past here, did you?’

  The old guy scratched his beard again. ‘No, but fuck me if I didn’t just see some chick with only a bra on run down to the opposite end of the street.’ And he slammed the door and got in the van.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The jazz band wanted to drop me at the Balmain police station but I told them I was meeting a cop in Newtown and they were happy to drive the few extra k’s. It wasn’t every day a half-naked PI jumped into the back of their van and they were so excited they started flapping around like a bunch of chooks.

  White-hair dude lent me his dress shirt and beard-with-no-moustache gave me a bottle of spring water. The driver wanted to know what had happened. Middle aged was pushing it. He had liver spots on his tufty scalp and was seventy if he was a day.

  ‘Client confidentiality.’ I gulped water and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Can’t tell you.’

  ‘Or you’ll have to kill us, eh?’

  They all laughed and I smiled politely, like I hadn’t heard that one before.

  We spent the rest of the twenty minute drive listening to Louis Armstrong and I answered general questions about PI work and delighted them with graphic descriptions of peeing into funnels on stakeout. Chatting with the guys helped me calm down but I still shuddered every time I thought about those restraints. The little plastic strips were somehow more threatening than handcuffs and rope combined.

  They pulled up on King Street, outside the Coopers Arms, and even from inside the van I could hear a whining guitar and feel the muffled thump of drums reverberate in my chest cavity.

  I got out and asked the guy how I could return his shirt and he waved me away. ‘Keep it. I’ll be dining out on this for years.’

  I slid the van door until it slammed, waved them off and looked around. The late afternoon sky boiled with puffy grey clouds but there was no rain, only an expectant wind swirling exhaust fumes and food smells. How long since I’d been in Newtown? Four, five years? I’d expected huge changes but King Street was pretty much the same, dirty, narrow and crammed with buses, cars and taxis, all with tail lights flaring crimson in the dusk. Ancient terrace buildings leaned into each other, their ground floors housing Thai restaurants, cafés, bookshops and record stores. Some fancy looking bistros and expensive clothing emporiums had sprung up in a
nod to rising real estate prices, but Clem’s Fried Chicken still stood on the corner across from the 7-Eleven, crisp mountains of golden wings and drumsticks warming in the display case, filling the air with a moist, salty scent. Good to see the place was still ministering to the desperately hungover, and sending the National Heart Foundation a cheerful ‘fuck you’.

  I stepped into the pub and was hit by a wall of jangly surf-rock and the yeasty tang of beer. The Coopers Arms had once been the Shakespeare, an early opener full of vinyl-jacketed drug dealers and shuddery old men, and when they’d changed the name they’d done it up, but not much. The walls and wooden tables were uniformly brown, orange pillars held up the ceiling and a flat screen TV fixed high on the wall opposite the entrance broadcast rugby league. The only decoration was a mural of King Street painted on the wall behind the stage, if that’s what you called the raised triangle in the corner where a punk chick was thrashing around in front of a drummer and a couple of squished guitar players.

  Daisy wore fishnet tights, tartan hot pants and knee high leather boots. Her long black hair was streaked purple, blonde and blue and her net top showed off the bright red bra underneath. She bent over the mike growling a Cramps song,

  ‘Dames, Booze, Chains and Boots’, a grungy little refrain that made me want to stomp my feet and bang my head.

  I scanned the rest of the crowded room. Locals, students, backpackers and dishevelled dudes I took to be old Sydney rock dinosaurs. Alex sat at the bar, drinking some sort of imported beer and thankfully not wearing his entire cop suit.

  He’d teamed the black pants with a chocolate top, the sleeves pushed up, but his slicked back hair and shiny shoes still looked too neat for Newtown. Being a suave, piano bar kinda guy the music and grungy surrounds must have pained him, but he seemed to be taking a certain amount of solace in Daisy’s skimpy outfit, and the way she was grinding her pelvis against the mike stand. He didn’t notice me until I was standing right next to him.