Cherry Pie (21 page)

You can stay there until this is all over. It’s for the best, considering the circumstances.’

‘Sam Doyle circumstances?’

They just stared at me. Mum gulped more wine.

‘Soon as I mentioned his name the two of you scurried off. Will you just tell me what’s going on instead of treating me like I’m ten? You know him from the Cross, don’t you, and you’re scared of him. Why? What happened?’

Silence.

‘Couple of great fucking feminists you are. The chick PI can’t do it ’cause she might get hurt. Leave it to the big strong men with guns. Leave it to Alex.’

He appeared at my shoulder. ‘You should listen to your mother, Simone. Joy’s taken you off the case and Homicide are onto it. Just let it go.’

‘Homicide are only onto it because of my information.

Andi’s in danger and just as I’m getting close to finding her everyone tells me to drop it. And you’re all lying to me. Even you, Alex. I don’t know where the Sydney Fraud Squad’s located but I doubt it’s in the Kings Cross police station. What the fuck is going on?’

‘No need to get paranoid,’ he said.

The other guests were craning their necks and peering through the kitchen window, trying to see what all the commotion was about.

Mum drained her wine and turned to the fridge to refill her glass. ‘Nothing’s going on, Simone. It’s just that I’ve heard some bad things about Sam Doyle, and I don’t want you getting involved with him.’ She turned back and tried to smile, but it came out wobbly. ‘Now let’s calm down and have something to eat. The plane doesn’t leave till eight forty-five.’

‘I don’t think so. Since I’m not welcome here I may as well fuck off now.’ I picked up the wall phone and started dialling a cab.

Mum looked at Alex.

‘I’ll take you,’ he said.

I was going to tell him to piss off but I had an idea. ‘Fine,’ I said.

Alex and I didn’t speak at all on the drive, and when he dropped me off I checked in, passed through the metal detector and went straight to the departure lounge. I waited half an hour, in case he was loitering outside, then strolled through the exit, out of the terminal and into a cab.

‘Darling Harbour,’ I said.

Sydney’s annual Food Expo was being held in the exhibition centre at Darling Harbour, the precinct on the western edge of the CBD home to the casino, aquarium, Maritime Museum and lots of large, loud restaurants and four star hotels. I paid twenty bucks and hurried through the enormous aircraft hangar of a space past a village of little booths displaying samples of everything from gourmet vinegar to instant mashed potatoes.

They’d given me a map with my ticket and the ‘Chef of Steel—Live’ stage was at the far end of the building. It had been scheduled to start over an hour earlier and I was hopeful they’d still be filming, but when I got there my heart sank. The rows of seats were empty and a lanky janitor with a scraggly ponytail was vacuuming the stage. Great. Trip was gone and I had no way of finding him. I sank down into a chair at the front and the janitor looked up.

‘You’re a bit late, babe, missed a good show. The young chef was really giving some shit to the older guy. They almost got into a fight.’

‘Suppose the young chef ’s long gone, huh?’

‘Nah, he stuck around to chat up these two promo chicks, hey? Last I saw he was over by Lickety Split Gelato.’

The guy pointed and I was out of my seat like a shot, heading for a booth with a giant ice cream cone sticking out the top. Rounding the corner of the stand I saw the two promo chicks behind a counter, one blonde, one brunette, both wearing hotpants and tight tshirts with a picture of a tongue and the slogan
Lick It
screenprinted over the breast area. It was like Sexpo, but for the digestive rather than the reproductive system.

‘Oh my god,’ the blonde was stage-whispering to the brunette. ‘He’s crazy. I think he’s on something. He tried to get me to go into the toilets and when I wouldn’t he bent down and licked my shirt.’

‘No way,’ said the brunette.

‘Way.’ She held out the fabric. ‘You can see the wet spot.’

‘That would be sooo gross if he wasn’t famous and hot.’

I cleared my throat and they looked over and plastered big smiles on their faces. ‘Cup or cone?’ asked the brunette.

‘Neither. Trip Sibley. The shirt licker. He still around?’

They looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.

‘He left, like, two seconds ago,’ said the blonde. ‘See that door? It goes to the car park.’

I turned and bolted out of a glass exit door, flew down a set of concrete stairs and into a low ceilinged car park. I heard a motorbike start up but couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from so ran to the exit and planted myself in front of the boom gate, breathing hard. Seconds later the Ducati came roaring toward me and stopped with a yelping skid. Trip hadn’t bothered with a helmet.

‘Simone fucking Kirsch. What are you doing here?’

‘Gee, let’s see. Someone tried to run me over right after they killed your sous chef. I was wondering if you knew anything about that?’

‘I heard it on the news. Shame, hey? Never liked the guy but no one deserves that.’

‘And I think Andi’s being held in Sydney. You’re in Sydney. Your mate Sam Doyle’s in Sydney. I found her bag behind his restaurant. Give it up, Trip. I know you’ve been lying to me. It won’t be nearly as bad for you if I get her out of here alive.’

He started laughing and shaking his head. ‘Man, I do not know what the fuck you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, I think you do. Remember the possum head?’

He laughed so hard he doubled over the handlebars. After a minute he swiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Remember the—am I just out of it or was that a really trippy thing to say?’

‘Have the police interviewed you about Gordon and Andi yet?’

‘This dude rang from Homicide. Duval or something. I haven’t called him back yet.’

‘ ’Cause you’re guilty?’

‘ ’Cause I’m on acid. Think I wanna hang out in a cop shop and ruin my trip? No thanks, darlin’. I’ll talk to them tomorrow when I’ve straightened out.’

‘This is serious. Andi’s in big trouble. If you know anything at all …’

A car drove up behind him and revved its engine.

He glanced back. ‘I may know something.’

‘What?’

‘Look, I’m late to meet someone. Jump on the back, I’ll tell you when we get there.’

‘Tell me now.’

The car behind beeped.

‘Sorry, babe, I gotta go. Jump on.’

‘With a suspected murderer?’

He sighed and pointed to the security camera mounted above the boom gate. ‘If I was a murderer do you think I’d abduct you on candid camera? Christ, give me some credit.’

Getting on a bike with an LSD fuelled criminal was definitely a risk, but my only other option was to go straight to the airport, hide out in a crap motel on my own for a week and probably never ever find out what was going on.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Trip said.

The driver was leaning on the horn now, and another car had pulled up behind him.

‘Helmet? I don’t have a death wish.’

He pulled one out of his side saddle, thrust it at me and I jammed it on and hopped on.

‘You’re gonna fucking dig this, darlin’,’ he shouted, cranking the throttle and going straight for the wooden bar.

Was he insane? I squeezed my eyes shut and at the last minute he dipped his weight and we slipped past, so close I felt it rush by my shoulder and then we were cresting the ramp and speeding through Darling Harbour, coloured lights reflecting off the water, the tang of food and barnacles in the air.

Ten minutes later Trip parked the bike on Darlinghurst Road. Neon pulsed, music throbbed and the footpaths teemed with clubbers, junkies and wide eyed couples out to dinner. Touts in black suits shouted from strip club doorways, trying to coax roaming buck’s parties and embarrassed tourists inside. I dismounted, slipped off the helmet and shook my hair out, heart fluttering and legs so shaky I could barely stand.

Trip grabbed the helmet, tore off his chef ’s jacket and stuffed both into the bike bag. Underneath he wore a sleeveless Metallica shirt, and his triceps looked cut, as usual.

‘Tell me that didn’t get you hot,’ he growled, ‘speeding through the night with nine hundred and ninety-six cc’s of premium Italian engineering throbbing between your legs.’

He was right. Tearing through the city on the big red bike with my arms wrapped around Trip’s muscular mid-section had given me a serious thrill, but he didn’t have to know that.

I put my hands on my hips and attempted a school marm expression. ‘Riding without a helmet, exceeding the speed limit and disobeying the rules of the road is not exciting or clever. It’s just plain immature.’

Trip blew me a raspberry, turned and headed for a doorway. I followed and suddenly realised we were entering the Hot Rock Karaoke Club, and I hadn’t even mentioned Andi’s card being used there. I clutched the back of his black t-shirt and pointed to the sign.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘Darlin’, we must have a breakdown in communication ’cause I don’t get half of what you say.’

Upstairs tiny red and orange bulbs twinkled in sequence around archways, the bar and the edge of the stage. The catwalk was covered in multicoloured squares, just like the dance floor in
Saturday Night Fever
, and round tables filled with a mix of Asian and Caucasian clientele dotted the room.

I followed Trip to the bar as a man in his early sixties climbed the stage, grabbed a mike and sauntered out into the red spotlight, trailing the lead behind him. He had thick dark hair and sideburns, was dressed all in black and started belting out ‘In My Hour of Darkness’ with a deep gravelly baritone that sounded a lot like Johnny Cash.

Trip ordered a beer and two tequila shots for himself and a glass of champagne for me and we took the drinks to an empty table at the back of the room. I didn’t know what the hell we were doing there, so decided to play it casual and act like I spent every other night hanging out in karaoke bars with possibly murderous, drug crazed chefs. Inside I was hyped up and as vigilant as the meerkat who stands guard while the others do their digging. At least we were in a public place, with heaps of other people around.

‘Gram Parsons.’ I sipped my drink and nodded toward the stage. ‘Good song.’

‘If your taste is in your arse.’ Trip knocked back a shot of tequila, yowled like a dingo and slammed the glass down.

‘So what are we doing here?’

‘I thought you wanted my help.’ He slugged another and this time clucked like a chicken, tucked his arms in and flapped.

‘I want the truth. Why the Hot Rock? Is Andi here somewhere?’

‘You’ve heard of sex slaves? Well, that’s sooo early noughties. Latest thing is karaoke slaves. We’ve got her chained out the back with a bunch of chicks from Thailand and Eastern Europe and we force them to sing “Hotel California”. It’s depraved.’

The guy onstage wrapped up too loud applause and a tiny Asian woman got up and belted out ‘Respect’, sounding just like Aretha Franklin. I’d always thought karaoke would be the same as the first round of
Australian Idol
, but these people were good.

‘Stop fucking around, Trip. Tell me what you know.’

‘In a sec. I want to introduce you to someone.’

He was looking over my shoulder, grinning, and I turned my head to see the guy from the stage standing behind me.

He was handsome for an older bloke, a little thick around the middle, but by no means fat. His slightly weathered features made him look like an ageing Hollywood star playing a grifter in a noir film.

‘Meet Sam Doyle,’ Trip said.

I started, bumped my champagne and caught the glass just before it fell. Doyle sat down and when he offered his hand I reached across the table and shook it. The palm was warm and dry and he had an effortlessly strong grip. I’d momentarily forgotten to breathe and my voice came out all strangled.

‘Simone Kirsch.’

‘Kirsch, hey?’ His voice was low and raspy and he drew out my surname, savouring it like the liqueur. ‘So you’re the young lady set the Homicide Squad onto me.’

‘What?’

He took a pack of Lucky Strikes from the breast pocket of his black shirt and lit one with a book of matches. ‘Detective Duval paid me a visit this evening, asking questions about a dead sous chef and a missing waitress. Seems Andi Fowler wanted to write an article about me, and he thought I might’ve taken offence.’

My stomach flip-flopped but I tried to appear nonchalant.

‘Duval said it was me?’

‘No, but young Trip here told me about you a few days ago. It wasn’t too much of a stretch.’ He turned to Trip. ‘You talked to the Melbourne coppers yet?’

‘No.’

‘Well you’re doing it tomorrow, before the party. I’ll have my QC mate sit in. Now get me a tequila.’

‘Yes, Dad.’ Trip held his hand to his head in a mock salute and sauntered off to the bar.

‘Dad?’ I asked.

‘He’s taking the piss.’ Sam draped his arm over the back of the chair. His sleeves were rolled up and I saw a faded tattoo on the inside of his forearm. Looked like a horse, maybe a mustang. ‘We’re just friends and business partners. He’s a mad fucking bastard, as I’m sure you know, but that’s what I like about him. Everyone’s so well behaved and sanitised these days, and I’m too old to raise any hell. Someone needs to grab the baton.’ He took a deep drag and ashed his cigarette.

Sam hadn’t tried to kill me yet, or even do anything remotely nefarious, so I relaxed a little but didn’t entirely drop my guard.

‘What exactly did Trip tell you about me?’ I asked.

‘That you were sniffing around Jouissance, looking for Andrea Fowler. I did the rest of my research on the internet.

From what I saw you’d be almost as crazy as he is.’

‘Don’t believe everything you read,’ I said, and sipped my champagne. A candle flickered inside a bobbled red vase in the middle of the table.

‘Trip also said you thought he had something to do with it. Why’s that?’

‘Because he lied.’