Cherry Pie (12 page)

‘No, Fitzroy.’ Curtis was subletting Sean’s place, the downstairs of an old terrace converted into a flat.

‘She tell you we had a fight?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well, I’m waiting for her to apologise.’

Curtis laughed and laughed, then he laughed some more.

‘Like that’s gonna happen. Just bite the bullet and tell her you’re sorry. I did. It’s the only way.’

‘After what she did the other night? You may be willing to let her walk all over you but I’m not.’

‘Hey. She’s not walking all over me. I thought it was the best thing to do under the circumstances. Have you noticed she’s been acting weird lately?’

‘Weird is her middle name.’

‘I’m serious. Violent mood swings. Much worse than usual.’

‘She smoking more dope?’ I asked.

‘Not possible—there are only so many hours in the day.’

‘Stronger shit, like hydro?’

‘It looks and smells like the same old weed to me.’ Then he twigged: ‘So what are you after? You never call unless you want something.’

‘I need to find out about Sam Doyle. Colourful Sydney businessman, runs the Doyle Food Group and co-owns Jouissance with Trip Sibley.’

‘What’s the big juicy story, babe? C’mon, you don’t get nothing for nothing.’

It drove me crazy the way he tried to tough-talk, like a character in a forties film. If Curtis thought he could get away with wearing a hat that had a press card stuck in the band, he’d do it.

‘Missing waitress.’

‘The one whose poster Chloe’s sticking up all over Melbourne?’ I heard him yawning on the other end of the line.

‘Maybe you could do an article about her,’ I suggested.

‘Get some publicity.’

‘What’s the angle? She also a model working part time as a call girl? Left behind a blood splattered uniform? Having an affair with a high powered government minister?’

I couldn’t tell him about the suspected money laundering so I said, ‘There isn’t one.’

‘Then forget it.’

‘What about Sam Doyle?’

‘Name rings a bell, but that’s all.’

‘Could you find out?’

‘Shit, Simone. If you didn’t know, I’m writing a very long, very complex true crime book here and I have a deadline. Do your own research. What are you, lazy?’

‘No. It’s just that time’s running out. If I don’t find her soon she might die.’

‘And that affects me how?’

I hung up on him, stewed for a while then had an idea.

Doyle owned a Kings Cross restaurant and the library book that had disappeared,
All That Glitters
, was about Kings Cross too. I rang all the local bookshops to see if they had a copy and struck paydirt at Chronicles on Fitzroy Street. I drove down there, bought it, and took it to the café next door. I ordered a coffee and flipped straight to the index. Doyle, Sam. There were three entries. Damn I was good.

Chapter
Sixteen

By the time I got home my stomach was baying for food so I set to fixing an omelette, roughly chopping spring onions, red capsicum, zucchini and mushrooms then flipping them around in the nonstick pan, mulling over what I’d read.

Sam Doyle had been a fixture at the Cross in the seventies and early eighties, starting as a bouncer at illegal gambling joints. He was employed by some of the big-time crooks of the day and worked his way up, managing a restaurant, then a strip club, before getting into property development and the hospitality industry and becoming respectable. A black and white photo from seventy-nine showed a lean man out the front of the Love Tunnel wearing an open necked bodyshirt, a gold chain, and a shit eating grin. He had intense eyes, big sideburns, a nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice, and a ton of dark hair boofed up Elvis style. A pretty handsome dude, compared to the rest of the shifty eyed crims in the photos. Of course it had been taken a quarter of a century ago and he was probably a bloated old fat cat these days.

I beat four free range eggs with a little salt and cracked pepper, poured the mixture into the pan and turned the gas right down so the bottom would set. If he was delivering boxes full of cash then maybe he wasn’t quite the respectable businessman he appeared to be. I wondered if the author, Ferguson, had any more information on Doyle and slung him an email using the address Canning had given me. I wasn’t sure if it’d get to him but it didn’t hurt to try.

As I waited for the omelette to cook I wondered how to find out about Andi leaving Jouissance with Trip and Yasmin.

I briefly considered contacting Gordon, as he didn’t seem to like Trip much, when it hit me. Patsy, the gay waiter. He was the friendliest of the lot, had stood up for poor old Kezza and I knew that Chloe had his phone number. She’d got it while trying to recruit him as a stripper. That meant I had to call Chloe, but it was about time one of us broke the ridiculous standoff anyway. We’d been giving each other the silent treatment for two days now. Time to kiss and make up.

I took the cordless phone into the kitchen so I could keep an eye on my brunch, leaned back on the laminated counter and dialled her number. I was stupidly nervous, like when you call a guy for the first time, and felt relief when her answering machine kicked in. It wasn’t quite midday. She was probably still in bed.

‘It’s Simone,’ I spoke into the machine. ‘Can you give me a call? I need Patsy’s number. The buff waiter from the other night?’ I thought about tacking on a quick apology and stopped myself just in time, thank god. I wasn’t the one who had behaved like a complete psycho and saying sorry would only condone her behaviour. I finished with a clipped ‘thanks’ and hung up.

Using an egg flip I scraped the omelette back a little from the pan. The bottom was golden brown and the top was still runny. Every time I tried to turn an omelette it morphed into scrambled eggs so I fired up the grill. I switched on the gas, crouched down, waved a match around and turned my head away, eyes half closed. Flames whoomped out, sucked back in and my heart galloped. I’ve never gotten used to those things.

I scavenged in the fridge for cheddar but all I came up with were singles so I unwrapped four and lay them on top, admiring the way they glistened in the morning light, shining like no cheese had a right to.

My phone rang. It was Chloe.

‘Oh three one one two three six three three four.’ Her voice was flat.

‘Wait, lemme get a pen.’ I raced to the lounge room, found a pen and picked up my notepad from the dining table.

‘Shoot.’

She repeated the number.

‘Thanks. Look, even though I’m searching for Andi I’m still available for shows. What you got this weekend?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve already got dancers booked.’

‘What about a last minute, or if someone calls in sick?’

‘Got three girls on standby already. Oh, hang on, there is one spot I haven’t filled. You want it?’

‘Shit yeah, what is—’

‘Jelly wrestling.’ Her smug tone infuriated me and I slammed down the phone. What the fuck was her problem?

Why was everyone being so mean?

I rang Patsy and he answered straight away.

‘Despite the debacle of the other night I’m still investigating Andi’s disappearance,’ I told him. ‘I know Yasmin and Trip don’t want to speak to me about her but I was wondering if you would.’

‘Of course, darl. I’m so worried. Anything to help.’

My shoulders loosened and my chest expanded. Finally.

‘Thank you so much. And you won’t mention this to anyone else at Jouissance?’

‘I won’t if you won’t. Yasmin’d fire my arse. I’m just on my way to the gym, but why don’t we meet after, say, one?’

‘Sure, where?’

‘Lobby at the St Kilda Sea Baths Fitness Centre.’

‘See you then.’

I became aware of a chemical, burning smell. Shit. The omelette. I pulled the pan out to find the top a blackened mess of blisters, swollen and bursting, like buboes from the plague.

I chucked the pan on the side of the sink, let it cool and then dug out a bit with my fingernails. It was probably highly carcinogenic, but the bubonic cheese tasted great.

The Sea Baths were sandwiched between the beach and Jacka Boulevard, opposite the Espy. The big white Esplanade hotel had been built at the turn of the century and if a pub was a person she’d be one of those old women you meet in bars, with the dyed hair and drawn-on face, wearing leopard skin and drinking a martini, once glamorous and beautiful, now ravaged and only just keeping it together. Exactly how I imagined myself at seventy. The Espy held a lot of memories for me. It was where I’d seen Doug Mansfield and the Dust Devils for the first time, picked up one of the best roots of my life, and been kicked out for an impromptu striptease at the tail end of a drinking binge. Not all on the same night. At least I’d have stories to tell when it was my turn for animal print and gin.

The baths, also alabaster and grand, had been built around the same time as the pub. They’d fallen into disrepair and had been done up a few years back. Now the complex had a state of the art gym and a new pool, and restaurants and cafés sprouted round the perimeter like mushrooms at the base of a tree.

I entered the foyer and sat opposite the reception desk, looking around. It was ritzy alright, everything shiny and new, and you had to flash your membership to the door bitch before he’d let you up the stairs to the gym. I picked up a brochure on the table beside the designer couch but it didn’t mention the cost. I guess you couldn’t afford it if you had to ask. I imagined annual fees would cover ten years’ membership at my no frills fitness centre with enough left over for a couple of weeks at a Thai spa. The patrons coming and going were better looking here too. No sagging singlets, no back hair and definitely no guys in those awful nylon running shorts that ballooned so you could see their jocks, if they were wearing any. Just lots of tight, tanned, polished flesh.

Speaking of which, I spotted Patsy trotting down the stairs in immaculate tracksuit bottoms and a tight white t-shirt that hugged his segmented chest and straining biceps. His thick black hair was brushed back off his tanned face, his eyebrows were better than mine and I could just picture him in a tiny red G-string and fireman’s helmet, six pack undulating as he bucked a hose suggestively between his legs. He waved, exchanged a few words with the buff dude at the front desk and approached, offering his hand. It was warm and slightly damp from the shower and he smelled sweet and musky. I recognised the upmarket deodorant my brother modelled for. The ads always cracked me up: Jasper draped limply over an expensive couch, his shirt open, pouting and making bedroom eyes.

Patsy suggested one of the cafés downstairs and we ended up under an orange canvas umbrella at a wooden table outside, him ordering a protein shake and me a beetroot, carrot and apple juice. Although it was a week day people were everywhere, eating, drinking, strolling the promenade. First day of warmth and sunshine and Melbourne goes gaga.

‘Nice gym. Expensive?’ I asked.

‘Shit yeah. But I train people there in the mornings so I use it for free. My tips are good but not that good!’

‘Must keep you busy. Training and Jouissance.’ Small talk.

Since I had no cop-like powers of persuasion it helped loosen witnesses up.

‘Sure does. I have to tell you though, I’ve had it with waiting tables. All the yes sir, no sir shit. I’ve been a waiter for, god, too long and I want to get out of it for good. I’m saving to set up a lunch place in the CBD. Kind of like fast food but really healthy—low carb, low fat, low GI, you know? I go into town and you can’t get anything that’s not on bread. I mean, all I want is a fucking chicken breast!’

I held up my hand. ‘You’re preaching to the converted. Sounds great. I’d be there in a shot.’

The waiter, a blonde in tight faded denim and an orange t-shirt to match the brolly, set down our drinks. We both watched his arse as he left.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’m seriously thinking of taking Chloe up on her offer. I need some extra money.’

‘You’d make it. Male strippers get paid more than females.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Maybe ’cause there’re fewer around. Supply and demand?

Maybe it’s danger money. Male audiences are mostly well behaved, they know the rules. Women tend to go a bit mental.

Kind of attack the guy, scratching with their nails, grabbing for his bits.’

‘Really?’ Patsy’s eyes went wide and he paled some under his tan. He changed the subject for me. ‘So what did you want to know?’

‘Anything you can tell me about Andi. Everything you can tell me about the staff party, since that’s the last place she was seen. Any gossip you can dredge up. I want it all.’

‘Gossip, huh?’ Patsy grinned wickedly. The cute waiter was on his way past with a couple of Turkish pizzas for the next table. Patsy flagged him down. ‘Oh, fuck it.’ He touched my arm. ‘I’m having a Corona. Want one?’

‘I’ll pass.’

‘I try to be good ninety percent of the time so I can be naughty the rest,’ he said. ‘Everything in moderation.’

‘I don’t know what the word means. I’m an all or nothing kind of girl.’

‘Star sign?’

‘Scorpio.’

He nodded sagely. ‘So’s my ex. I know all about you people.’

His beer arrived and he pushed a slice of lemon in the top. Sunlight glinted off the bottle. I really wanted one, but then I’d want another, which would lead to champagne, whiskey, seeing a band, snogging some random guitar player, and then it’d be morning and my brains would feel like they were spilling out of my head as I extricated myself from underneath aforementioned random guitar player’s hairy arm, sick with guilt after cheating on Sean. I knew myself too well.

Patsy swigged his beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Andi’s great. I really miss her. Your friend Chloe reminds me of her, actually.’

My eyes must have been bugging out of my head ’cause he quickly said, ‘Not physically or anything. But for all her feminine wiles, Chloe’s a tomboy, am I right?’

I nodded. Underneath the big tits and blonde hair I sometimes thought she was just a flannelette wearing, bong smokin’, fifteen year old boy.