Cherry Pie (10 page)

He flipped his tea towel up over his shoulder, crossed his arms and screwed up his cute Leo DiCaprio features. ‘Let me guess,’ he sneered, ‘macchiato? Ristretto?’

I could have gone a short black but knew Kezza would loathe it.

‘Cup of chino thanks, mate. Extra froth.’

Dillon made the cappuccino, watched me spoon in five sugars, shook his head and turned his back to start juicing limes.

I decided to punish him for all his smirky looks.

‘So, mate, good place to work?’

He sighed. ‘It
is
one of Melbourne’s best restaurants.’

‘Been here long?’ I sipped the coffee and nearly gagged.

Froth got up my nose.

‘Six months.’

‘Good job, aye, bein’ a waiter?’

He stopped juicing and his shoulders tightened. ‘I’m not a waiter, I’m bar manager. And when I’m not here I’m an actor, and an auteur.’

‘Like a writer?’

‘Like a film maker.’

‘Struth, an actor, aye? You been on TV?’

He turned, leaned back on the bench and tossed his head, flipping hair out of his eyes. ‘Pepsi ad, Hungry Jack’s, Kahlua, small parts in
Secret Life of Us
and
Blue Heelers
.’

‘
Blue Heelers
? That was a top show. Which one were you?’

‘Drunken B&S ball guy number three.’

‘You’re famous. Whatcha doin’ workin’ here?’

Dillon sighed, displaying infinite patience and vast annoyance both at the same time. Maybe he
was
talented.

‘Do you know how hard it is for good actors to forge a career in this country? The state of the industry’s abysmal. Reality TV has absolutely decimated Australian drama. If you want to get anywhere you have to move to the US, which I plan to do, but in the meantime I’m making a short film, being proactive, showcasing my talents. I’m going to enter it in Tropfest.’

‘Whatfest?’

He stared at me then turned back to his limes.

‘You should go on
Big Brother
.’

His arm flinched. I hadn’t had so much fun in weeks.

The back door banged and I heard the jangle of motorcycle boots coming down the hallway. I swivelled on my stool.

The apprentices stopped laughing and hunched over their benches, heads down. Gordon’s face flushed redder. The door to the corridor swung open, slammed against the wall and everyone’s shoulders jumped.

Trip stood there in his usual ripped black jeans, speed metal shirt and a motorcycle jacket, holding a waxed vegetable box in front of him. With his long hair and earring he looked like a cross between Michael Hutchence and a pirate on the cover of a romance novel. A pissed off pirate.

‘Trip, sweetie.’ Yasmin dropped the ice queen routine, ran up to him on tiptoes and tilted her head for a kiss. I hadn’t realised they were on together. Interesting.

Trip ignored her, strode into the kitchen and slammed the box down on the bench next to Gordon. Small round leaves scattered everywhere. ‘This fucking tatsoi is shit,’ he growled, English accent coming through.

‘Mate,’ Gordon shrugged, palms up, ‘I have tried every supplier from Gippsland to Queensland. It’s the rain. It’s the best we can get. Over there—’ he nodded in my direction, eager to change the subject—‘applying for the dishpig job.’

Trip looked at me. It was make or break time and my legs felt weak and pins and needles buzzed my palms.

‘You. Come here.’

Slinking from the stool I shlepped over, playing with a belt loop on my jeans.

He grabbed a handful of leaves and waved them under the brim of my cap. ‘What do you reckon, pig?’

A couple had tiny brown speckles you’d never notice if you weren’t looking for them.

‘S’alright. I’d eat it.’

‘ “I’d eat it”,’ Trip mimicked. ‘You’d probably eat plastic cheese too, huh?’ He turned his back on me and rooted through the contents of the box, hurling most of the leaves over his shoulder onto the floor.

I’d failed the test and was obviously being dismissed.

Great. I’d screwed up my undercover job before it’d even begun. Maybe Alex was right.

I’d started creeping out of the kitchen when I realised Trip was speaking. To me.

‘Eight bucks an hour. Cash. It’s a good deal. You can still collect the dole, or sickness benefits, or whatever the hell you’re on. Two days a week and on call when our regular dishie doesn’t show. I hope you scrub pots better than you select produce.’

When I didn’t reply he whirled around, eyes black and glinting. ‘Comprende? You fucking hear me?’

I nodded.

‘You’re on trial, starting now. Bad Boy’ll show you the ropes.’

Bad Boy?

Trip pointed to the corner of the kitchen hidden from diners. There, by the bins and sinks, half concealed behind a commercial dishwasher, lurked the dishie I’d talked to the night before. He gave me a shy smile. He didn’t have many teeth.

One of the apprentices, a sallow youth with Tweetie Bird boxers sticking out of his low slung chef ’s pants, sniggered.

‘Look, Bad Boy’s got a girlfriend.’

There was a slight pause, then Trip’s mood flipped one eighty degrees. Laughter exploded from his mouth and he doubled over, helpless. The other chefs glanced at each other then joined in. It was great how I could amuse so many people, all in the one day.

Trip straightened up, clapped the apprentice on the shoulder and the kid beamed. The tension was broken.

‘Fuck me,’ said Trip, wiping his eyes and pointing at me.

‘I didn’t even realise that was a chick!’

Bad Boy handed me a stained white apron and an old tea towel and I was immediately elbow deep in a filthy brown soup. I’d forgotten how awful dishpiggin’ was. It sucked alright.

It sucked the big one and the huge dishwasher didn’t make it any easier ’cause you still had to scrub everything before you put it in the machine. I’d seen relatively mild mannered chefs pick up a plate and go ballistic upon finding a hardened speck of cheese, so Trip’s reaction would probably make the Arab–Israeli conflict look like a hippy love-in.

I spent the first few hours scouring burnt food off pots and pans, then plates, cutlery and glasses entered the mix as the restaurant started to fill. After the first ten minutes I was soaked with perspiration. The sweat never managed to dry, becoming a breeding ground for bacteria, and after an hour the smell that wafted up from my Garfield sweater was a heady mix of football locker room and teenage sports shoe. It mingled with Bad Boy’s personal odour, a kind of bum/old man funk with hints of jail tobacco and top notes of rancid tin cans.

Since I had to smell him he could at least have been helpful, but Bad Boy had taken it upon himself to be a kind of executive dishpig, in much the same way that Trip was executive chef. He leaned against the wall, telling me I was stacking the dishwasher wrong, and kindly pointing out spots of food I’d missed, before disappearing out the back for a smoke. Whenever a plate landed on the sink with a significant amount of food still on it, Bad Boy would scrape the remains into a plastic takeaway container he kept hidden on a shelf.

In between washing dishes I snuck looks at Trip. It was hard not to. Just as some movie actors light up the screen, he certainly drew the eye. I’d always thought the whole idea of ‘auras’ was so much new age bullshit but you could practically feel the energy waves pulsing off him, and if I’d had to describe the colour I would have said scarlet.

He stalked the kitchen like a jungle cat, pulling from a vodka and Red Bull, praising the staff when they did well, berating them loudly and obscenely when they messed up. He particularly had it in for Gordon, his second in command. At one stage Trip stuck his finger in one of Gordon’s sauces, tasted it and threw the whole lot in the sink. The apprentices flinched but kept their heads down.

‘What the fuck do you think this is, an RSL bistro?’

Ouch. Gordon didn’t react but his face reddened and his pale blue eyes glazed over like reflective glass.

As the night wore on the washing-up turned to lipstick smudged coffee cups and dishes smeared with cherries and cream. I remembered the sharp, lush sweetness when Trip had forced the spoon into my mouth and almost licked one of the plates before the thought of hepatitis and cold sores stopped me.

The apprentices cleaned their work spaces, Trip ripped off his black chef ’s jacket so we could all admire his bi’s and tri’s, Yasmin and Patsy set the tables and everyone but the dishpigs repaired to the bar for knock off bevvies. Ah, hospitality. It was where I’d learned to drink like a particularly thirsty Oliver Reed.

Bad Boy grabbed his takeaway container, the entire menu slopping around in its plastic confines, pointed to a laminated sheet next to the dishwasher that explained what was required at the end of the night and muttered something about having to leave for a while to ‘see a man about a dog’. The instructions were pretty much what you’d find anywhere.

Sweep, mop, empty bins, drain dishwasher, except at the bottom of the page bright red letters warned: NO ONE EXCEPT CHEFS TO ENTER COOL ROOM AT ANY TIME NO EXCEPTIONS THIS MEANS YOU!!!

I knew a lot of restaurants had problems with theft. At a joint I worked in Sydney a kitchen hand once got busted with a whole lobster down his pants. And personally, I wouldn’t have trusted a dodgy mother like Bad Boy as far as I could kick him … but it still seemed a bit extreme.

I swept, getting right under the stove and benches, and was just filling a rolling bucket with hot water and detergent when I saw Trip leave the bar and stride out towards the back. Maybe he was just going to hang a leak but I knew it was delivery time.

My heart picked up the pace and started thudding.

Yasmin left the bar and crossed the restaurant floor just as Trip came back carrying four boxes. He plonked his cargo on one of the padded chairs, grabbed her around the waist, pulled her to him and ground his pelvis into hers. Subtle. He whispered in her ear.

‘Trip!’ She giggled and shook her head.

He took her hand and placed it on his groin.

‘You have to unpack the deliveries,’ she protested.

‘After. I’ll be quick.’

Not the sort of line that ever worked with me, I have to say, but Yasmin seemed amenable.

‘I’ll just pop to the ladies then I’ll see you in the office.’

‘Nah, stay in the dunny, I’ll meet you there.’ He licked her neck.

He picked up the boxes, headed to the cool room in the far corner of the kitchen, opened the door and placed them inside on the floor. I kept my head down and pushed sudsy water around with the mop and he hardly seemed to notice I was there. Soon as he left for his rendezvous I scuttled to the cool room and pulled on the door. There was a bit of suction, like with a giant fridge, so I yanked harder and the seals popped and it opened. All in the wrist. I slipped inside.

The room was dimly lit and the size of a small garden shed.

Jars and plastic containers, cheeses and meats and every conceivable gourmet foodstuff jammed the metal shelves lining the walls. The sharp scent of basil and coriander mixed with parmesan, raw meat, salty oysters and olive brine. Cold air chilled my damp clothes and after a few seconds the hairs on my arms stood on end.

The cardboard boxes sat stacked on the floor in front of me, sealed with clear packing tape. Damn. How to peek inside without leaving any evidence? With the door seals and the hum of the cooling fan I realised I wouldn’t be able to hear anyone approach. Trip had told Yasmin he’d be quick. What did that mean? Ten minutes? Or one premature grunt and a mess on her skirt?

I looked at the boxes, heartbeat thudding in my ears. I had an idea. I flipped the first one over. Tape wrapped right around, but at the bottom join, where the box folded together, the cardboard depressed when I pushed. I stuck my fingers in the gap and wiggled them around. Crumpled newspaper and cans, by the feel of things. What if there were drugs in the cans? I pushed the cardboard in further and it ripped slightly. Hopefully Trip wouldn’t notice. I pulled out a small can labelled broad beans and shoved it in one of my ugly pockets. The bulge was way too obvious so I stuck it down my knickers where it was hidden by the sloppy top. I used the same manoeuvre with the next box and from the squishy coldness I could tell it was duck breasts, as the label suggested.

In the third I felt cheese wheels, and perhaps some pate. My heart beat harder. How long had I been in there for?

The fourth and final box was wide and shallow, lighter than the rest. My knuckles scraped the cardboard as I forced my fingers in. Immediately I touched something plastic wrapped and hard, ridged slightly at the edge and a little larger than a pack of playing cards. I scissored my fingers around the object and pulled.

Shit.

It was money. A thick sheaf of vacuum wrapped fifty dollar notes and the box was full of them. I snapped a couple of shots with a small digital camera I’d stashed in my jeans pocket, hoping the door seals would hide the flash and praying that Trip’s quickie had turned into a longie. Then I shoved the cash back into the box and had just restacked the final carton when the door whumped open and bright light spilled in.

Trip roared, ‘The fuck?’

Trip grabbed me by the back of my Garfield sweater, lifted me up and out of the cool room and hurled me into the kitchen.

I hit the mop and bucket, tipping them over, skated briefly on the suds then slipped and hit the ground, landing on my arse with a splash. Trip towered over me, face twisted, spitting and screaming. Panic pinballed through my body, bounced around my head and shot down to my toes, forcing them to spasm and curl. I suddenly understood why small dogs shake and wee when confronted with more ferocious beasts.

The rest of the staff raced from the bar, some with drinks in hand, to see what the commotion was. Trip hauled me to my feet by the scruff of my neck and I hoped my wig wouldn’t fall off or the can slide down my leg and roll across the floor. So much for being invisible. I kept my head down, hidden by the brim of my cap, and prayed my fabulous eyebrows weren’t showing through.