Simone Kirsch 03 - Cherry Pie

by Leigh Redhead

  ‘An alley.’ She sidestepped me and staggered off on white, spike heeled ankle boots, her pantyhose sagging so I could see the cotton gusset drooping out below her tiny skirt.

  ‘Which alley?’

  ‘I don’t fucking know the name of it,’ she muttered over her shoulder, then tried to hail a taxi coming down Goulburn Street. It didn’t even slow down.

  ‘Can you take me there? Please, Renee, stop.’

  She slowly turned around, swaying slightly. Pink blusher striped her face in the general direction of her cheekbones and arcs of blue shadow decorated her lids. She narrowed her eyes and licked her bottom lip. ‘How much is it worth to ya?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, I gotta fix before I get sick. So if you don’t have any money—’ she shrugged—‘I hafta go make some.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Hundred.’

  I crossed my arms. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. You can easily fix for a fifty.’

  She shrugged and held out her hand. I shook my head.

  ‘No way. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Dwayne doesn’t like strangers.’

  ‘Then we’ll tell him a stranger’s just a friend he hasn’t met.’ I pulled out my wallet, showed her the fifty then slipped it back in.

  ‘Whatever.’ She thrust her arm up, a taxi actually stopped and I jumped in after her.

  Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of a block of ugly brick flats in Rushcutters Bay and I paid the driver. Renee talked into an intercom at the security door and we were buzzed inside. We climbed two flights of carpeted stairs, smelling cabbage and bacon, walked down a corridor and knocked on a door. A man with dark curly hair peered through the crack, unhooked the chain, looked up and down the passageway and let us in.

  Dwayne wore a silky tracksuit and his hair was long at the back and short on top. His furniture was upholstered in squeaky black vinyl, his coffee table made from pine and the air was opaque with cigarette smoke. I handed Renee a fifty and she paid him and immediately started fixing up with a spoon, lighter and syringe he had thoughtfully provided. I wasn’t freaked out, I’d seen it all before. As far as I was concerned, junkies were far more frightening when they hadn’t shot up.

  She found a vein, plunged in the spike, loosened the belt, slid out the needle, pressed the puncture with her finger and sank back on the couch.

  Dwayne was offering me a deal, a small square envelope made from the page of a glossy magazine.

  I shook my head. ‘No thanks, mate. Trying to cut down.’

  ‘How long you and Renee been friends?’ He leaned forward and the gold chain around his neck swayed.

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘You work?’ He didn’t mean nine to five.

  ‘Nah, up from Melbourne. Holiday.’

  ‘You should go to Darling Harbour. They’ve got an aquarium there. Or get a ferry to the zoo. Or Manly. Manly’s nice. How about a bridge climb? Did you know you can climb right to the top of the Harbour Bridge? Pretty expensive, but.’

  I smiled politely. Renee had nodded off on the couch holding a lit cigarette in her hand and the ash was getting really long.

  ‘Renee,’ I nudged her. ‘We gotta go.’

  ‘What?’ She raised her thin brows but her lids remained half closed.

  Smack. Such an unattractive look. I couldn’t believe it had been trendy back in the nineties.

  ‘We’re going to find that alleyway.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Dwayne stuck his hand out. ‘Nice to meet you.

  Remember, Darling Harbour. It’s ace.’

  We walked back up to the Cross, stopping every now and then for Renee to light a cigarette. It was three o’clock now and more shops were opening up. I was so starving that even the chickpea curry would have looked good, but I wanted to get this business over and done with before I ate. We hit Darlinghurst Road and I pointed across the street to the karaoke bar.

  ‘You use the card at the Hot Rock?’ I asked.

  ‘Fuck no. I’m good at a lot of things, but singing ain’t one of them. Haven’t been in that joint since it was the Love Tunnel.’

  ‘The what?’ I stopped short outside an ice cream parlour.

  ‘The Love Tunnel. Used to be a strip joint but, you know, with extras going on out the back.’

  Now it was making sense.

  ‘Can I have an ice cream?’ she whined, pointing to the waffle cones.

  I bought her a double scoop boysenberry ripple with chocolate sprinkles on top and we continued on our way, passing the McDonald’s where a group of bikies leaned against their Harley Davidsons.

  A fat one with bits of Chicken McNugget in his beard grabbed at me as I passed. ‘How much, sweetheart?’

  I looked him up and down and wondered briefly if he was the one who’d chased me and Andi down Parramatta Road all those years ago. They all looked the same to me.

  ‘I don’t go with guys who need their mates to hold their dicks,’ I said, shaking him off.

  They catcalled as we walked on and Renee looked at me, eyes wide and pupils pinned. Impressed or horrified I couldn’t tell.

  ‘You should be careful, darl. You shouldn’t talk to them like that.’

  ‘The shit I’ve been through I’m not scared of guys who have to hang out in groups of ten and dress alike. Talk about insecure.’

  She abruptly hung a left down a side street, then a right, and we were in an alley full of bins and one giant rubbish skip. The air smelled of rotting food and the ground was littered with syringes and used condoms. A cockroach scuttled by, big as my mobile phone.

  She pointed to the back door of a restaurant. ‘The bag was there, on the step. Black backpack thing. I took the cards out and left it.’

  It wasn’t there anymore.

  ‘When did you find it?’

  ‘This morning. Early. Anyway, I’m getting back to work.

  Thanks for bailing me out and the ice cream and the smack.’

  She threw the last pointed scrap of cone over her shoulder.

  ‘You know, I might have chucked the bag in that skip there.’

  I tied my flannie around my waist, hitched up my baby backpack, climbed onto an upturned milk crate and peered over the edge of the giant bin. Oh goody. Rancid food, more condoms and syringes, and shit, was that a dead cat? Below me, underneath a mouldering cabbage leaf, I thought I saw a leather strap. I pulled a pen from my bag and hoisted myself up so my hips rested on the lip of the dumpster, then I bent at the waist, trying desperately not to overbalance and holding my breath against the stench. I extended my arm and strained my fingers until I’d looped the strap over the pen, hooked it and then swung back up in gymnastic fashion, like I was taking a turn on the uneven bars. I lowered myself down to the crate. Nice work, if I did say so myself.

  A low whistle from the corner of the alley made me turn.

  Two of the bikies stood with arms crossed, watching me. The one who’d asked ‘how much?’ was more than fat. He was a land whale. The other was wiry with straggly blonde hair and a ferret-like quality. I knew they’d expect me to shriek and run so I climbed down from the crate real casual and dropped the bag behind me. My hands had gone trembly and I stuck them in the back pockets of my jeans so it wouldn’t show.

  ‘Hey, guys. What’s up?’

  The skinny guy said, ‘Macca didn’t like what you said to him.’

  Macca shook his head. Under the beard I could see some chins wobble.

  ‘Can’t he take a joke?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s not exactly renowned for his sense of humour.’

  ‘Well, sorry if I offended you, man.’

  They moved forward. I stood my ground and sighed like this was all just too boring.

  ‘What do you want? My wallet?’

  ‘We’re not after money.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t want to do anything stupid. I’m a cop.’ I flashed my PI license. I’d had it in my pocket since the police station.

  ‘Th
at’s not a police badge.’

  ‘PI. Same diff.’

  ‘Bullshit. You don’t even carry a gun.’

  They took a couple more steps forward. My heartbeat cranked up like a lawnmower. I could run down the alleyway behind me but it turned a corner and I didn’t know what I’d find there. Maybe it doubled back to Darlinghurst Road, and maybe it was an isolated dead end where nobody could hear me scream. Why had I never learned karate? Or kickboxing?

  Or fighting with a sword?

  ‘I wouldn’t come any closer.’ I pointed to a security camera mounted above the restaurant’s back door. ‘They’ll get you on CCTV.’

  Macca took a length of chain from inside his vest, wrapped it around his fist and swung it at the camera, which shattered and fell off the mounting. Ferret man grinned. So much for that.

  I said, ‘Well, if you wanna rape me, fine, whatever, but I should warn you I have herpes.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Macca finally spoke, and I wished he hadn’t.

  I glanced at the alley behind. Did it lead to freedom or would I be trapped like a rat? Maybe the rest of the bikies were down there, waiting for me. I’d seen those sixties bikie films with Peter Fonda and Bruce Dern. I didn’t want to be anyone’s momma.

  I thought of one more tactic before bolting into the unknown. It was a long shot but anything was worth a try.

  ‘Listen, guys, I know you bikies get a bad rap about the drug dealing and the gang banging and bombing each other’s clubhouses, but it’s all a media beat-up, isn’t it? Just one more example of how people who are a little different from the rest of society are constantly marginalised, right? Marginalised …and criminalised … and … and … even demonised, don’t you reckon? Well, I say we shouldn’t take it anymore. Let’s dispel the myth, reject the stereotypes and, like, together we can work toward a better future, not just for us, but for our kids …’ I was really babbling by the end. So much so that it took me a while to notice they were staring at me strangely, and actually backing away.

  ‘You’re right,’ nodded ferret man, walking backwards, palms out in front.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ Macca mumbled, eyes downcast.

  I couldn’t believe it had worked. Maybe Dr. Phil was right. No matter who they were, people just wanted to be accepted. Communication, that was the name of the game.

  ‘Give peace a chance,’ I yelled after them, and let out a long breath. Damn. Close one. I turned to pick up the handbag and came face to face with the barrel of a gun.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I yelped like a seal pup and hopped backwards before I realised the hand holding the weapon belonged to Alex Christakos. He smiled at me, slipped the piece back into his shoulder holster and returned his police ID to his coat pocket.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ I asked when I’d regained enough composure to speak. I’d gone all sweaty and my t-shirt was stuck to my back.

  ‘Saving your arse.’

  ‘I didn’t need saving. I was fine.’

  ‘I have herpes? Give peace a chance? Yeah, that was really working for you.’

  I glared at him.

  ‘I was right,’ he said, smug look on his face. ‘I knew you’d go after Doyle.’

  ‘I am not going after Doyle,’ I said, and Alex raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m just hanging out in a skanky alley. Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Out the back of one of his restaurants?’ Alex pointed to the doorway with the smashed security camera.

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Uh-huh. La Petite Courgette.’

  ‘Fuck,’ I said. Then, ‘Seriously. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you came all this way to save me.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, babe, I’m up here for the fraud case, liaising with the Sydney guys.’

  ‘The same time I’m here? What a coincidence.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I was just leaving the police station when I saw you cruising up Darlinghurst with that tragic hooker. I knew nothing good could come of it.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well I got Andi’s bag.’ I dangled it in his face and he recoiled at the smell.

  ‘Sure it’s hers?’

  That was a point. I crouched down and went through it.

  The wallet was empty of cash, her credit and key cards and her driver’s license, but her Medicare and student cards were still there. I flashed them triumphantly, then frowned. ‘Her bag is dumped out the back of one of Doyle’s restaurants, her credit card was used at the Hot Rock Karaoke Club, which used to be the Love Tunnel, and I just found out the article she was writing was about a girl who went missing from the club in the eighties. Doyle was a suspect. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  He nodded. ‘Let’s take the bag to the police station and I’ll call Detective Duval and let him know what’s going on. It’ll be enough for him to send someone or come up here himself.’

  ‘Won’t you get in trouble for hanging out with me?’

  I smiled sweetly.

  ‘Probably, but I’d say he’ll be more pissed off with you.’

  Alex looked me up and down then pressed his lips together like he was trying not to smile. ‘And don’t take this the wrong way, but I think grunge officially died with Kurt Cobain.’

  After handing over the bag and giving a statement we left the police station and walked out into the square, which I had discovered was called Fitzroy Gardens.

  ‘You busy right now?’ I asked Alex.

  ‘Nothing till tomorrow.’

  ‘Hungry?’ I was starving. It was almost four and I hadn’t eaten since the rubbery soy cheese.

  ‘Sure.’

  There was a café adjacent to the police station, but I was a bit over the Cross.

  ‘I know somewhere,’ I said.

  The Sydney Oyster Bar was at the east end of Circular Quay, not far from the Opera House and opposite the historic Rocks area and the Museum of Contemporary Art. From our outside table we could see the Harbour Bridge stretch across the water to North Sydney and the towering hotels and skyscrapers that made up the city skyline. The late afternoon sun had turned the clouds apricot and the harbour was lavender, reflecting the sky. Huge ferries navigated in and out of the quay sloshing water against the old stone parapet and a warm breeze ruffled my hair so it tickled my shoulders.

  I fancied I could smell summer in the air: salt water, coconut oil and tropical flowers.

  Alex took off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves and leaned back in his chair to admire the view. ‘Wow.’ He sipped his schooner.

  I had to smile. It was pretty damned impressive. I’d come here every now and then when I lived in Sydney and feel like a millionaire for an hour before scurrying back to my inner city hovel.

  ‘Not bad, huh?’ I had a glass of champagne in front of me that cost the same as an entire four litre cask and had ordered a platter of oysters. So much for my cheap and cheerful Sydney weekend.

  It was strange to see Alex drinking a beer by Sydney Harbour. He was so far out of his natural habitat it was like running into a wallaby on the arctic tundra.

  ‘How long you here for?’ I asked.

  ‘Couple of days.’

  ‘Where you staying?’

  ‘The Villa.’

  ‘Sam Doyle’s hotel? For your investigation?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ I said.

  ‘What’s wrong with your mum’s?’

  ‘Where do I start? They’re on a detox and there’s no mini bar, bathrobes or little shampoos. Plenty of chickpeas and guilt trips though.’

  The oysters arrived and I ordered another champagne from a waiter whose eyes flicked from my flannie and boots to Alex’s suit and tie. I hadn’t been able to decide on natural oysters, those topped with caviar, neufchâtel and dill, or the ones with wakame seaweed and soy, so had ordered a combination of all three. Alex and I had gone to dinner once and I knew he liked them. I hoed straight in, sucking the little morsels straight from the shells, practical
ly having food orgasms and squirming in my seat.

  He was a little more reserved, but did let out a low moan when he tasted the first one. ‘I forgot how good they are. It’s been too long.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Suzy can’t even stand the look of them. I made her try one once and she spat it straight out.’

  An incredibly crass remark about oral sex entered my mind and I stuffed another oyster in my mouth before it could escape. Talking about head jobs could be construed as making a move and I’d promised I wouldn’t. Easier said than done. To stop myself flirting after two glasses of champagne was so against the natural order of things I would have had more luck commanding the sun to rise in the west.

  I lowered my gaze from his eyes to his shirt. This was not such a good move as he’d opened the top button when he’d loosened his tie and I made out a small v of chest hair. I gulped some champagne and turned to stare at an old sailing ship, moored across the cove in front of the Park Hyatt.

  ‘So how come you’re back on the case?’ Alex asked. I’d expected him to scold me but he just sounded resigned.

  ‘I tried to drop it, honestly, but I just couldn’t get it out of my head. I’m no good with unfinished business. You don’t have to worry though, no one knows I’m in Sydney and I’m not doing anything dangerous, just following up a few leads, you know, to pass on to the cops. Haven’t told Joy or my mother yet.’ All the oysters were gone and I picked up a lone sliver of seaweed and popped it in my mouth.

  ‘You wanna order more?’

  ‘Nah, Mum’s having a barbecue. I should go soon.’

  I didn’t want to though. I wanted to stay there with Alex and drink champagne and eat oysters and pretend I was on holiday. I suddenly realised how crap my existence was: working all the time, squirrelling away money, going home alone to a cold, empty flat. Some people had fun lives and did shit like this all the time. What the hell was wrong with me?

  I took a tiny sip of champagne knowing that as soon as the glass was finished I’d have to leave.

  ‘So that was weird, Suzy asking me to be a bridesmaid,’ I said.