Cherry Pie (35 page)

I downed the champagne in record time, ordered another, and when the band launched into a song called ‘Standard Time’, about the very pub they were playing in, I squeezed through to the front of the stage and thrashed about, even though no one else was dancing. Knowing I wasn’t actually going to be alive the next day gave me an incredible feeling of freedom and although people were staring and probably laughing at my overenthusiastic boogie, I really didn’t care.

I tossed back another couple of champagnes and whiskeys, hoping they’d play ‘She Dances on Tables’ so I could do as the song suggested. I’d danced on a table while seeing the Dust Devils at the Greyhound with Alex and he’d become so alarmed he’d literally picked me up and carried me, kicking and screaming, out of the pub. The memory made me smile, then it made me hurt, so I quickly downed another couple of drinks to flush away the pain.

Soon after, Doug announced that the band was taking a break and I decided it was time to make my move. After eight drinks in an hour I should have been falling over but I was raring to go. It was now or never and tomorrow, literally, wasn’t going to come. I tracked Jack to the bar and tugged on his shirtsleeve.

‘Hey.’

He turned around, a Melbourne Bitter stubby in his hand. He was six foot, give or take, and I had to look up at him.

‘Simone. I read about you in the paper. You alright?’

‘Right as rain. Can you come outside for a sec? There’s something I’ve got to ask you.’

He looked around, like he really wasn’t sure.

‘Please?’ I said. ‘It’s important.’

He nodded, finally, and followed me into the covered beer garden, chill despite gas heaters. We leaned against a brick wall and I smiled, noticing that his hazel eyes were fringed by surprisingly long lashes. He looked a little nervous and I couldn’t work out why, since he’d always been the one asking me out for a drink.

‘I’ve been following the story,’ he said. ‘Missing waitress, shooting in Sydney. What happened?’

I really didn’t want to talk about it and gave him the edited version. ‘Apart from trouble following me? Not much. I pissed off some bad guys but it was all for nothing ’cause it turns out the waitress topped herself. They found her car out bush, near Wattle Glen, wherever the fuck that is.’

‘Northeast of the city.’ I looked at him and he shrugged. ‘Used to go camping in a national park near there with my parents, years ago. It’s an old goldmining region.’

Whatever. I wasn’t interested in conversation, just wanted to lose myself in his moist, beer flavoured mouth.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ He swigged his Melbourne.

‘The last good kiss.’ I tilted my head in what I hoped was an enticing manner.

‘The novel by James Crumley?’

Damn guitar players, always au fait with noir fiction.

I shook my head. ‘Not the book. The real thing.’

I stood on tiptoes, parted my lips and kissed him. He jerked back, just like Alex had in the car.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

He looked at his feet and a faint flush rose to his cheeks.

‘Simone, this is very flattering, and if it had happened a few months ago … but, I’m here with someone.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I should get back to the bar … sorry.’

He left and I leaned against the wall. So I’d missed my chance. Great. It just confirmed that my life was one enormous fuck-up and I decided there was no point sticking around for the band’s second set.

The ladies was decorated with gilded mirrors and dim light emanated from candle shaped wall fittings. Very Melbourne.

After hanging a leak I stood by the sink popping downers out of the blister pack and tossing them into my mouth. I cupped my hands beneath the tap, filled them with water and swallowed the pills. Showtime, but as I walked toward the door it burst in and slammed against the tiled wall. I jumped back.

A platinum haired pocket rocket stood in front of me with her face twisted up and her lips snagged into a snarl. Chloe.

Chloe rushed into the bathroom, chucked her bulging shoulder bag on the floor, screamed and barrelled into me, pitching me against the sink. I realised I was still holding the Xanax pack and shoved it behind my back. Too late. She reached around, pried it out of my hand and examined it.

Tears trembled on the surface of her wide blue eyes.

‘What the fuck have you done?’ She waved the empty packet in my face before flinging it to the floor.

‘Nothing, I …’

She stepped back and I was relieved for a second, until I saw her push up the sleeves of her baby-pink quilted jacket and set her mouth in a grim, determined line. She wouldn’t …

Oh yes she would. I turned and bolted for one of the cubicles but she was right behind me, shouldering the door.

It hit my back and I bounced off the opposite wall, then turned and slapped both hands in her direction, fighting like a girl. I didn’t stand a chance. I was weak and more than a little tanked and although Chloe was tiny she’d spent her teenage years brawling much tougher bitches than me in the pool halls and sports ovals of suburban Frankston.

She grabbed a fistful of hair—classic scrag fight move—dragged me around and kicked the back of my legs so my shins smacked the tiles and I was kneeling in front of the toilet. She yanked my head back and when I saw her other hand coming toward my mouth I tried to jerk away, but was forced to stop as my hair started tearing out from the roots.

Chloe pushed her fingers between my lips, long acrylic nails scratching my palate. I gagged and she thrust them further, into the back of my throat. My esophagus shuddered and my stomach heaved and she pulled her fingers out just in time for me to fling myself over the toilet bowl and spew out a watery soup of tablets, booze and foaming green bile. No food. Not even a chunk of carrot.

I choked and coughed and finally sat back, eyes watering and sinuses on fire. I heard Chloe wash her hands, then the whine of the air dryer, pulled myself up using the wall for support and stumbled out of the cubicle. After rinsing my mouth and spitting down the sink I leaned back on the wall breathing heavily and feeling sobriety descend like a thick, depressing fog.

‘You selfish bitch.’ Chloe picked her bag off the floor and slung it over her shoulder. ‘How could you do that to me?’

‘Nothing to do with you.’ I wrenched paper towel from the dispenser and wiped my face.

‘No? I found your fucked-up note.’ She walked over, clutched the lapels of my fluffy jacket and shook me. ‘I’ve been looking for you, thinking I was gonna find a body. I drove here on the off-chance … fuck, how could you?’

When I didn’t answer she shook me harder until my head banged into the wall. Why wouldn’t she just leave me alone?

I shoved, hard, and she reeled back, bag slipping off her shoulder, notes and papers slithering out across the floor. The bathroom door opened, letting in a waft of plaintive pedal steel and a red lipsticked woman who ignored us, locked herself in a cubicle and pissed loudly. Chloe hugged herself tight, her whole body shaking.

‘I’m sorry.’ Each time I uttered the phrase it sounded more pathetic than the last. I crouched to gather up the papers and stuff them in her bag. A glossy brochure slipped out of an A4 notebook, advertising a gleaming burgundy four wheel drive. I plucked it off the floor and stared. I’d seen exactly the same vehicle somewhere before.

‘Why do you have this?’ I held the brochure up.

‘What do you care?’

I didn’t reply and eventually she said, hiccupping,

‘A neighbour of Andi’s called up about my poster a couple of days ago. He’d been away for the last week. He’s one of those bike freaks that go riding really early in the morning and the day Andi disappeared a car like that was parked in his street and tore out of there so fast it nearly knocked him down. I didn’t know if it was a clue or not, but I got hold of that picture and put it with all the rest of my stuff.’

‘He get a numberplate?’

She sniffed and shook her head. ‘No. But he says that’s the exact colour and model. Oh, and it had a baby-on-board sticker on the back.’

I looked up. ‘What did you say?’

My hand was trembling. A feeling surged inside me, temporarily washing away thoughts of suicide and diluting some of the guilt. A feeling I hadn’t experienced for a long time. Hope.

‘It’s Dillon’s car,’ I said. ‘I saw it when I interviewed him. My god. Maybe Trip was right. Maybe they were having an affair …’

‘But why would he kidnap her …?’ Chloe started jigging up and down.

‘I don’t know why, but there’s a chance I know where. You ever heard of a place in the country called Kangaroo something-or-other?’

‘No.’

‘Got a street directory in the car?’

‘Caught a cab.’

The woman came out of the loo, glanced over and veered towards the sink furthest away from us.

‘Excuse me—’ I tried to keep my tone well-modulated because my words were going to sound insane—‘do you know of a place in country Victoria called Kangaroo something-or-other? A town? A region?’

She shook her head and hightailed it out of there without bothering to dry her hands.

‘Shit, someone’s gotta know.’

I headed for the band room, Chloe right behind me, tiptoeing on her spike heeled boots. I scanned the pub. It’d take forever if I asked each punter individually. There had to be a better way. There was.

The band was playing ‘She Dances on Tables’ but for once it was the furthest thing from my mind. I pushed through the crowd, jostling people and spilling their drinks as I headed for the tiny stage. When I waved my arms at the band they eyed me warily then exchanged glances as they continued to play. Perhaps sobriety hadn’t completely descended because as I stepped up onto the stage I tripped over a mike lead, narrowly missed Doug Mansfield and careened into the drum kit, cymbals falling on top of me with a brassy clash.

The music petered out and I crawled to the front of the stage, picked myself up and grabbed Doug’s mike from the stand. He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow, took a packet of Winfield Red from his shirt pocket and lit up. The pub had gone silent. People crowded in from the front bar and the beer garden to see what was up, staring expectantly. Being Fitzroy natives they probably assumed I was performing some really awful fringe theatre.

‘Sorry for the interruption.’ Feedback whined as I spoke into the microphone and everybody winced. I saw the barman signal to a bouncer over by the front door and realised I didn’t have much time. ‘I have a very important question, it may be a matter of life and death.’

‘Get off, you crazy bitch,’ yelled a guy with a goatee wearing a long leather coat. ‘Who do you think you are?’

‘I’m a private investigator, now—’

‘It’s that stripper,’ one of the women pointed and squealed.

‘Take it off!’ called another dude. I ignored him. The bouncer was in the band room now, maneuvering his bulk through the crowd.

‘There’s a place in Victoria called Kangaroo something.’

I raised my voice. ‘Kangaroo Land? Kangaroo Place? Anyone heard of it or know where it is? Anyone?’

People turned to each other and chattered, but no one came up with an answer. Bloody inner city types. Probably thought Preston was the outer limits.

‘Have you tried looking up your own arse?’ Leather-coat shouted. Goddamn hecklers.

As the bouncer approached the stage Chloe leapt in front of him and started waving her hands around like Elvis during his karate phase. Not surprisingly, it had absolutely no effect, so as he pushed past she launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck, dangling like a baby monkey and swinging from side to side as he attempted to dislodge her.

‘Please,’ I pleaded, ‘someone must know where it is.’ I felt a tap on my shoulder and whipped my head around. Jack stood there, bass guitar strapped low.

‘Kangaroo Ground,’ he said. ‘It’s where we used to go camping. Five minutes from Wattle Glen.’

Soon as the bouncer hustled us out into the cold, narrow laneway I borrowed Chloe’s phone and called Detective Sergeant Duval. He wasn’t there so I left a message telling him what I’d found out, then rang the switch and was put through to another officer whose name I didn’t quite catch. I repeated what I’d said on Duval’s voicemail and told him they had to search the Kangaroo Ground property as soon as they could.

He urged me to come into the station the next morning and I muttered something noncommittal and hung up.

‘They gonna look for her?’ Chloe’s breath came out in misty puffs.

‘Shit, I hope so. But I can’t see them doing anything till tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow might be too late! Have you heard the radio? It’s gonna be the coldest night all year. They reckon it might snow!’

I pulled my jacket tight around my neck. Andi had to be dead. A week in the bush, undoubtedly injured, no food, temperatures close to freezing. But what if she wasn’t? The same hope I’d felt when I saw the picture of the four wheel drive bubbled up and my mind flooded with images from every amazing survival story I’d ever heard: a guy lost in the Himalayas with a Mars bar, the plane crash in the Andes where a football team ate each other, dudes trapped under rocks sawing off their legs with pocket knives, people pulled from rubble weeks after earthquakes and terrorist attacks. Andi was a tough chick and if anyone had the will to survive it was her.

I imagined how I’d feel if the police found her a few hours too late and I thought of the look on Joy’s face if we discovered Andi alive. If there was the smallest chance that one good thing could come out of all the hideousness …

‘Let’s go get her.’

We had to find the address of the place first. Chloe tried Trip’s home and mobile numbers, to no avail, then had directory assistance put her through to Jouissance. I listened in, hopping from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm.

‘I’d like to speak to Trip Sibley, please.’ Chloe used her best telephone voice. She could be quite polite and well spoken when she wanted to. ‘I realise that, but it’s urgent. I’m sure he won’t mind speaking to—it’s none of your business who I am—listen you slack moll, put him on or I’ll come around there and stick the frigging phone up your—’ She looked up, surprised. ‘Bitch hung up on me.’