Cherry Pie (6 page)

‘Lime and soda,’ I said, and Chloe almost fell off her stool.

I shrugged. Those cops were wrong. I so wasn’t an alcoholic.

‘Double bourbon and Coke and a cocksucking cowboy,’ Chloe smiled.

‘Now that’s more like it.’ He winked.

I felt a draft of icy air and turned towards the door. Curtis was coming towards us.

Chloe offered her cheek and he kissed it, leaned against the bar and nodded at me. ‘How many librarians died to make your outfit?’

At home I’d changed into a knee length skirt with a sober, polo neck jumper and flat shoes. My hair was slicked down, clipped rather severely at the back of my neck, and I’d accessorised with a pair of wire framed glasses I kept for when I did the ‘stitched up secretary who lets down her hair and becomes a total hornbag’ show. I’d wanted to fade into the background.

‘And which Carlton gangster’s wardrobe did you raid for that ensemble?’

When I’d first met him Curtis had been a mullet and flannie man. A combination of moving to Melbourne and hanging with Chloe had styled him up but he’d started taking it a little too far.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ He stroked his shiny black shirt and silver tie.

Dillon returned with our drinks and grinned winningly from beneath his floppy brown hair. Chloe paid and told him to keep the change. Curtis ordered a Stella. Chloe slammed back the shot then slowly spun on her stool like I had, not so much to have a look at the place but to ensure everyone got a look at her.

She stopped short, growled like a cat on heat and Curtis and I turned to look through the arch.

Trip Sibley stood at the grill, cleverly positioned so he was in the middle of the kitchen, facing out towards the restaurant.

While the rest of the staff wore white outfits with hats and neckerchiefs, his black jacket was open at the neck and his long hair was tied back with a red bandana. He towered over the other chefs, who were all kind of chunky, and the leaping flames and swirling plumes of smoke and steam created the illusion that he was standing in the middle of a raging inferno.

When he raised his arched brows and smiled in our direction, I fancied that below the stainless steel bench his legs were hairy and goat-like, with hooves of the cloven variety.

‘So … hot …’ Chloe murmured and slowly unzipped her jacket. Trip said something over his shoulder and four chefs looked up from what they were doing and stared into the bar.

I couldn’t help staring either. Underneath the jacket a tiny silver singlet with spaghetti straps made her breasts look even bigger than normal. Trip’s grin expanded. Chloe winked, swung back to face the bar, picked up a coaster and fanned herself.

Curtis frowned. ‘Do you have to keep doing that?’

‘What?’

‘Flashing your boobs.’

‘I’m a stripper, hon, I flash a whole lot more than my boobs. I thought you liked it.’

‘When we’re home alone, but in public … it’s cheap.’

Chloe rolled her eyes, Dillon returned with Curtis’s beer, and we all drank in a silence about as comfortable as a rectal exam. Chloe removed the straw and gulped her bourbon, slapping the empty glass onto the bar. Dillon was down the other end garnishing a daiquiri, so she asked, loudly, ‘Who’s a girl have to blow to get a drink around here?’

I cringed and Curtis’s jaw tightened.

Dillon was there in a flash. ‘That’d be me.’

She ordered Australian sparkling and a clitlicking cowgirl, whatever that was, and after she’d tipped him she pointed at the rim of her champagne glass and pouted. ‘Where’s my strawberry, hon?’

‘Coming right up.’ He raced to the other end of the bar and bent over into the fridge.

Chloe nudged me. ‘Check it out—arse you could bounce coins off. And those lips. Kinda like little pillows. I know where he could put those babies.’

Curtis flushed red. I saw it crawl out his collar, up his neck and spread across his cheeks. His eyes narrowed and the vertical line between them deepened. He got in Chloe’s face.

‘Right, that’s it. I’ve fucking had it. Find someone else to be your lap-dog. I’m out of here.’

Dillon came back with the strawberry and Curtis leaned over the bar: ‘Buddy, she’s not fucking worth it,’ then stormed out.

Dillon looked at Chloe, eyebrows raised.

‘Boyfriends,’ she laughed. ‘Can’t fuck with ’em, can’t fuck without ’em.’

My plan for the evening had been generally sound, only I hadn’t figured on Chloe being in one of her moods.

Normally she was gorgeous, a tough cookie, sure, but melted chocolate in the centre. Every now and then though, usually after a smoke and one too many drinks, she got a crazy glint in her eye and seemed determined to raise some hell. In half an hour she’d ordered every obscene shooter on the menu and flirted outrageously with Dillon. She’d also slapped the arse of a buff Italian waiter named Patrizio when he came to the bar to collect a tray of drinks, even after I told her he was definitely gay.

‘Chloe,’ I said, ‘you’re doing really great but you might want to tone it down just a tad.’

She wasn’t listening. She’d swung around again to give the kitchen another flash. ‘Check it out.’ She nodded.

Yasmin was facing the stainless steel bench holding a docket out to Trip and it looked like they were arguing. Trip ripped the paper out of her hand and studied it, his big, scarred hands shaking. Yasmin backed away. Trip grabbed the largest chef ’s knife I’d ever seen, a wicked, gleaming sweep of steel, wedged it between his teeth and leapt over the stainless steel counter into the restaurant. The din of conversation and cutlery ceased immediately. Everyone froze, watching, some with forks half raised to their mouths.

Trip’s boots clomped on the polished wood as he strode toward a table of four: two couples, fat men in gaudy shirts with their pinched, skeletal wives. He grabbed an unoccupied chair and in one fluid movement slid it toward them and stepped up and onto the tabletop. The couples grabbed their wine glasses as the candle tipped over, its flame extinguished in a puddle of liquid wax.

Trip transferred the knife from his mouth to his right hand, held the docket in his left and read from it, voice booming so we could hear him all the way out in the bar.

‘Goat cheese salad, hold the goat cheese, add cucumber and carrot, dressing on the side.

‘Porcini mushroom risotto with no truffle oil, butter or salt.’ He pointed the knife at each patron as he recounted their sins.

‘Whole fish of the day, no bones. And finally—’ the blade was dangerously close to the fattest guy’s nose—‘Export quality Wagyu beef, grain fed, marble score of seven, hold the Bordelaise, replace the celeriac mash with fries, cover with ketchup and cook … well done.’

Trip raised the knife. My heart was beating fast. He let out the sort of guttural yell you’d expect to hear from a marauding Viking and hurled the knife into the centre of the table where it stood up, quivering. And then, no kidding, he crouched down like some kind of gargoyle and actually hissed in their faces.

The foursome didn’t stick around to see what he’d do next. They scraped their chairs back, the women grabbing their bags, and ran. Trip pulled the knife out and straightened up, breathing heavily, sweat rolling down his temples. I wasn’t breathing at all. Would someone try to restrain him? Call the police? Would the diners panic and stampede for the exit?

But it was Melbourne and the place was packed with foodies. A man started clapping. Someone else followed. Then another and another and people actually stood up, cheering, tapping wine glasses with knives and stamping their feet.

Despite her affection for blackened steak smothered in tomato sauce, Chloe got into the spirit of things, stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Trip grinned, bowed like a musketeer, and yelled for Dillon to bring everyone champagne.

Mad, bad and dangerous to know indeed.

At midnight we were still sitting at the bar. The restaurant patrons had left, the tables had been reset and a crusty dishpig was swabbing out the kitchen. I was on my third lime and soda and Chloe possibly her thirtieth sex related shooter. Although she was pissing me off, the boys seemed taken with her. Dillon was flirting, leaning on the bar, and Patrizio, who’d instructed us to call him Patsy, was captivated, especially after she told him he ought to be a male stripper. The sous chef, a fat guy with a red face and orange hair, sat in a banquette surrounded by spotty apprentices, all drinking beer and sneaking looks at Chloe’s cleavage. Great that she was entertaining the troops, but none of them were gossiping about Andi’s disappearance.

Yasmin stalked over. If she’d sucked her cheeks in any further her face would have collapsed in on itself. ‘I’m afraid we’re closing up, ladies, you’ll have to leave.’ Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Hell, it barely reached her lips.

I was relieved. Time to cut our losses and skedaddle.

Chloe was about to protest when suddenly I felt a shift in barometric pressure. I glanced up at the mirror at the back of the bar and saw that Trip was behind us.

‘You’re not going anywhere. I’m the boss and I say you can stay.’

He’d removed his chef ’s jacket and wore a black Slayer t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He had arms like an AFL player. Chloe shifted stools so he could sit in between us and Trip told Dillon to pour him a shot of tequila.

‘Girls?’

‘No thanks,’ I said.

‘Shit yeah.’ Chloe bounced on her stool, then leaned forward and pointed at him. ‘You’re fucking crazy.’

Trip shrugged. ‘Americans. What you gonna do?’ His voice had a vaguely English accent. ‘You know, I’m pissed off with you girls.’

‘Why?’ Chloe shrieked in the manner of women who have consumed their entire body weight in cocktails.

‘You didn’t try my food.’

Chloe scrunched up her face. ‘Yeah, why didn’t we try the food, Si—uh, Vivien?’

‘Couldn’t get a booking. And we ate before we came.’

‘You want dessert? I have some clafouti left. It’s my signature dish.’

‘I’m stuffed.’ I patted my tummy. ‘Couldn’t fit another thing in.’ Man, I just wanted to get out of there.

‘I can fit a lot more in,’ Chloe smiled lasciviously. ‘A lot.’

‘Then I’ll make you some. Cream?’

She licked her lips.

He slammed back his shot, slid off his stool, then turned at the archway and pointed at her. ‘You remind me of someone. Have we met before?’

‘Yeah,’ said Patsy. ‘It’s been driving me crazy all night. I’ve seen you somewhere.’

Chloe smiled and squirmed in her seat. Oh god, don’t blow it, babe, I thought.

‘Guess,’ she said.

My plan had been a disaster. No one had said a word about Andi and it was only a matter of time before they figured out who Chloe was. She’d become a kind of Z grade celebrity after being kidnapped the year before and had even been on television: appearances on
A Current Affair
, hosting a program about Melbourne’s seamy side, and a bit part playing a lap dancer on a cop show. Once they knew who she was they’d see behind the conservative clothes and realise I was none other than Simone Kirsch, stripping detective.

Trip strode off to the kitchen and I was just about to grab Chloe and drag her out when I heard bottles clattering behind me. I turned and saw the dishpig dragging two big green garbage bags toward the corridor where the toilets were. I’d worked as a kitchen monkey and knew dishies saw and heard everything, while remaining completely invisible to the naked eye. I’d have to act quick.

‘Just going to the loo,’ I muttered, sliding off my seat.

The back of the restaurant was crowded with garbage bins and stacked milk crates and an ancient cobbled laneway separated the small concrete yard from the rear of a unit block. The backstreet Bangkok stench of rotting food invaded my nostrils and the air hummed with the sound of the cool room and extractor fans.

I found the dishie sitting on an upturned milk crate behind a rubbish skip, scoffing food from a takeaway container. He was small and haggard, of indeterminate age, with a ten day growth spiking from his fissured face. Despite the cold he wore a laddered t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into black nylon tracksuit pants, and his head was covered with some sort of hanky.

He flinched when he saw me. ‘You’re not supposed to be out here.’

‘It’s cool.’ I held out my hands. ‘Got sick of all those wankers in there, thought I’d come out the back for a smoke.

You got a light?’ I’d filched one of Chloe’s Winfield Blues on the way out.

‘Yeah.’ He looked around slyly like it might be a trick, pulled out a pack of matches decorated with the Jouissance logo and held them out. I lit my ciggie. It tasted like shit without a drink to wash away the flavour, but I soldiered on bravely and scraped over a milk crate to sit on.

‘I used to be a dishie.’

He looked dubious.

‘A while back. When I was going through uni.’

‘Don’t want a job, do ya? They’re looking for someone.

Coupla days a week.’

‘No thanks. I know what you go through, man. Talk about overworked and underpaid. Jeez, the chef used to piss me off.’

‘Trip’s not such a bad bloke,’ he said, and I was surprised.

‘Gordon’s a prick though.’

‘Gordon?’

‘The second chef. Fat ginger bloke.’

‘Oh. You get on with the waiters? That Yasmin seems like a bitch.’

‘Shit yeah. Pole up her arse. Thinks she’s it and a bit, too high and mighty to clean food off plates. Patsy’s not bad but he’s a poo jabber so I watch out for him.’

It crossed my mind that his rancid little arse was probably quite safe around even the most desperate homosexual, but I held my tongue.

‘Andi was the best. But she’s gone missing.’

Hello
. ‘Yeah, everyone was just talking about it in there. Weird, hey? What do you reckon happened to her?’

‘Dunno.’

Damn
. ‘This restaurant was the last place she was seen. Imagine that. Walks down Fitzroy Street and just vanishes.’

‘Wasn’t Fitzroy Street.’

‘What?’

‘Nah. She left by the back way.’ He looked around. ‘With Trip and Yasmin. So they was the last ones that seen her.’