Cherry Pie

By Leigh Redhead

Allen & Unwin

Copyright © 2007 Leigh Redhead
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-74114-736-0
CHAPTER 1

Two days earlier

I kicked off denim hotpants with flames appliquéd over the arse, shook my long dark hair and shimmied in a red spangled bikini. A Warrant song blasted from the pub speakers and a bunch of tradies and smattering of lunchtime suits bellowed along with the chorus.

The Royal was on Punt Road, opposite the Richmond Cricket Ground and not far from the MCG. With its multicoloured carpet and topless barmaids the hotel was delightfully retro and I wondered why all the inner-city thirty-somethings hadn’t discovered its ironic joys, the way they had lawn bowls.

I swung my hips exaggeratedly to the left, then right as the lyrics suggested, unclipped the back of the bikini top and held the fabric to my breasts, squishing them together to create a cleavage. Not that I had a hell of a lot to work with.

‘Take it off!’ yelled a guy in dark blue King-Gees.

It was a strip show. That was the general idea.

The crowd formed a rough circle, perching on stools, lounging in vinyl armchairs, leaning against the bar. I went to each guy in turn, flashed a nipple and they stared, mesmerised, pupils dilating. Amazing what the sight of a B-cup could do to a grown man. Still, I wasn’t complaining. Those puppies were financing the Simone Kirsch detective agency. I twirled the bra around my head and flung it onto the stage. One of the suits waved a ten buck note so I sashayed over and danced close. Every little bit counted.

Although it was a cold September day the pub was heated and I felt a line of sweat snake from the nape of my neck to the small of my back. The suit, balding and pasty, sat in one of the low chairs with his legs apart and I rested my red platform stiletto on the arm and indicated he should put the money in my garter. Thick fingers fumbled in the sequinned elastic as I ground my pelvis in time to the beat. I had just turned my head to smile at the other punters so I didn’t see the sneaky fucker reach for my pussy until it was too late. Still swaying to the music I whipped my leg down, grabbed his hand and moved in close, holding it to my chest and resting my knee lightly on his crotch.

The other blokes thought I was a top sheila, pressing myself against the guy and letting him cop a feel of my tits while I whispered sweet and dirty into his ear. What they didn’t know was, I had his middle finger bent back at an unnatural angle and was increasing the pressure of my knee on his balls as I said, ‘Sweetheart, you try that again and I’ll snap this thing off and shove it up your arse, understand?’

His face flushed puce and he nodded, vigorously, so I let go and skipped off.

I hadn’t always been such a tough chick. There was a time when I might have giggled sweetly and told him to stop being so naughty, but a year of various scumbags trying to waste me with assorted weaponry meant I wasn’t going to take any shit from a smarmy suit with wandering digits.

A pissed guy with plaster dust in his hair was doing a little dancing of his own. I grabbed him and we fell into a sloppy waltz, got a laugh, then it was onto the stage to squirt Nivea on my boobs, unclip the g and pretend to take it off a couple of times before finally removing it with a flourish. In the last thirty seconds of the song I got down on my fluffy white rug for what some girls delicately referred to as floor work, but I liked to call the money shot.

Over the other side of the bar a punky looking girl with chopped-up short brown hair and a pixie face was ordering a beer. She wore a red sleeveless ski jacket over a black and white striped top and I was sure I knew her but couldn’t figure out where from. She grinned when she saw me looking and gave me the thumbs up. My first instinct was to respond by crossing my eyes and sticking my tongue in the side of my cheek but I suppressed it, maintaining the illusion that humping a carpet offcut in front of a bunch of baying drunks seriously got me off. Professional.

Inside the change room a young blonde in a school uniform was tying her hair into bunches with plastic bobbles.

‘Cool song,’ she said, ‘what was it?’

What was that song? Only the most famous stripping anthem of all time.

‘”Cherry Pie”. You know, Warrant?’

She stared at me blankly as I pulled on black lace knickers and a matching bra.

‘Cock-rock pseudo metal band? Big hair, tight trousers? C’mon, they were huge in the eighties.’

She laughed. ‘I wasn’t even born till eighty-eight.’

‘Holy shit, what does that make you — five?’

‘Eighteen, silly. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

She slapped her dainty hands on her cheeks. ‘That’s almost …’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Wow.’ She turned back to the mirror, knotted the white shirt under her boobs and adjusted the blue and red striped tie. ‘No way I’ll still be stripping when I’m that old. I’ve got a five year plan, gonna open my own day spa.’

She must have caught my look in the mirror. ‘Not that you look old. You could pass for, like, twenty-six. Easy.’

‘Thanks.’

I quickly dressed in jeans, boots and a black v-neck sweater, shrugged into my denim jacket and wound a scarf around my neck. Hefting my bulging backpack over one shoulder, I told the blonde to have a good show and pushed through the door into the bar.

The chick in the striped top was still sitting on a barstool. From that side I could see she wore ripped black jeans with a studded belt, and was tapping her red Converse High-Tops to some internal rhythm and drumming her fingers against her glass. Her skin was tan and her eyes were big and brown, fringed by long dark lashes. She had a snub nose, a wide mouth and when she smiled at me again I saw a gap between her small white teeth. Where the hell had I met her?

I asked the topless redhead behind the bar for my usual and sat on the stool next to the girl. ‘Let me guess, the Shaft peepshows?’

She shook her head, gulped her beer and wiped a froth moustache from her upper lip.

‘Buck’s parties for Kelvin’s Extreme Promotions?’

‘Way off. No one would want to see my hairy bush.’

‘You’d be surprised.’

The barmaid handed me a glass of cheap champagne and my pay from the jug strip. Seventy bucks. I wouldn’t be retiring in a hurry.

‘I give up. How do we know each other?’

She turned to face me. ‘Andi Fowler. Joy’s daughter? Our mums are mates. We all shared a house in Potts Point years ago.’

I slapped my forehead. Of course. After Dad shot through in the late seventies Mum had gotten involved in the women’s movement, met Joy and we’d all moved in together. My brother Jasper wasn’t born then, he had a different father, so it was just us girls, and a steady stream of militant feminists assembling in our decrepit terrace, making up slogans and preparing placards for the demonstration de jour. The last time I’d seen Andi was at a barbecue at my mother’s eight years before. Just after Mum moved back to Sydney from northern New South Wales to teach women’s studies at Sydney uni.

‘Remember that barbie?’ Andi asked. ‘Bored shitless by all those old farts talking politics so we locked ourselves in the bathroom and did half a gram of speed, then stole that hundred dollar bottle of shiraz and skolled it in the park?’

‘Uh-huh. Saw a band at Max’s Petersham Inn, turfed out ’cause you decided to stage dive, ended up at a pool hall …’

‘Totally kicking arse until we got into a fight with that bikie over the two shot rule. He chased us down Parramatta Road and we had to duck into a brothel to escape!’

‘Jesus,’ I said, ‘just as well we never hung out more. Maybe you should leave, before we get in trouble again.’

‘Nah, I’m straight now,’ Andi said, motioning for another beer. ‘Mostly. You?’

‘Except for this.’ I picked up my glass and clinked it against hers. ‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I moved to Melbourne last year. Finally got into journalism at RMIT. I’m still waitressing but I’m so fucking over it. You know I called you when I first moved down but you never got back to me.’

I vaguely remembered the message, and meaning to ring, but …

‘Sorry, I —’

‘Yeah, I was really cut.’ She frowned and stared into her beer but I knew she was just messing with me. The glint in her eye gave her away. ‘Wanna make up for it?’

‘How?’

‘I need a detective. I want to hire you for a job.’

‘You need a detective?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Why?’

‘Until we’ve got a contract all I can tell you is it’s to do with an article I’m working on. I need some surveillance. I’d do it myself but I’m flat out with uni and working and the people involved might recognise me. I hear you’re good at that sort of shit. Been reading about you in the paper.’

‘Ordinarily I’d jump at the chance, but I’m saving to open my own agency and what with surveillance equipment, a new car and an ad in the Yellow Pages I’m gonna need at least twenty grand. It’s footy finals this month and I’m so damn busy the only thing I’ve got time to investigate is my bikini line, for ingrown hairs. I can recommend someone for you …’ I thought of my old boss, ex cop Tony Torcasio.

‘I’ve rung around but they’re all so expensive. I make good tips but not that good. I thought maybe you could do me a deal, sort of like …’

‘Mates’ rates? Give me a break.’

‘C’mon, Simone. We go way back. Remember when you were three and I was four and I used to pull you round the concrete yard in that little red wagon? Remember how you cried when your mum got you Tonka trucks for Christmas, and I gave you my Baby Alive?’

‘You repossessed her on Boxing Day.’

‘And wouldn’t it be a good idea to get back on the horse before you open your business? I reckon you’re sick of stripping. You seemed a little bored out there.’

And I’d thought I looked orgasmic. Stripping was funny. When I didn’t do it I missed it. When I did it gave me the shits.

‘Is this what they teach you at journalism school? To pester someone till they give in?’

‘I call it persistence.’

‘I can’t accept the case if I don’t have a clue what it’s about.’

Andi glanced left and right, like we were dodgy Cold War spies, and whispered, ‘I reckon I’ve got something big on someone in the hospitality industry. Pretty explosive stuff. Can only tell you on a need to know basis. Aren’t you dying to find out?’

‘Not really, but I’ll help you ’cause I feel bad about not returning your call. Maybe I can slot in the surveillance between shows.’

‘Fantastic.’ Andi skolled her beer, burped loudly and checked her watch. ‘Shit. I’ve got to get to work. Meet me tomorrow at four and all will be revealed.’ She scribbled her mobile number and an address in Elsternwick on the back of a coaster and looked at me, head tilted like a bird. ‘Your mum ever talk to you about the old days?’

‘Not really, thank god. Don’t think I could face another lecture about how it’s impossible to be a good feminist while flashing one’s gash. Why?’

‘No reason.’ She slid off her seat and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Good seeing you, Simone.’

‘Which bit?’ I asked.

CHAPTER 2

‘Jelly wrestling.’

‘What?’

‘Phoenix called in sick for jelly wrestling this arvo, could you …?’

Chloe clutched my arm and bounced up and down, boobs nearly spilling out of her white crocheted bikini top. We were on the aft deck of the River Princess, gliding underneath the Bolte Bridge, industrial wharves on our right, the shiny new high-rises of the Docklands complex on our left. This was Chloe’s first annual Footy Fever Boob Cruise and she was freaking out.

‘Babe, you know I don’t do that shit,’ I said.

‘It’s an emergency. Just this once.’

‘Uh-uh. Rolling around in a wading pool of lime jelly. It’s ridiculous. What if some future client saw me?’

‘You don’t mind people seeing you naked.’

‘Yeah, but that’s erotic. That’s art.’

‘And this is a sport. You can’t be against sport. What are you, un-Australian?’

‘Forget it. Besides, I’ve got to meet someone this afternoon for my real job.’

Chloe pulled her mobile out of her bikini bottoms, punched some numbers and talked rapidly into the phone while I stood there in my bikini and thigh high boots, shivering as the sweat cooled, finishing off my champagne and the cigarette I’d nicked. All the guys were in the cabin clustered around a big screen TV, watching the game.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Brandy will come and do the wrestling but you’ll have to take over her shows. There’s a half time strip over in Richmond and another in Moorabbin at the end of the game.’

‘Chloe, I —’

‘Please. If I can’t come through with the girls I get a rep for being unreliable and Chloe’s goes down the tubes. Just change your appointment. I’m that desperate I’ll even let you keep all the money. Five hundred bucks for an afternoon’s work.’

I thought about it. That was a mini spy camera, half a vehicle tracking device, a tenth of an ad in the Yellow Pages. And I was the one doing Andi a favour. She could wait.

‘Okay. I’m in.’

Below deck I got changed and called Andi. ‘Something’s come up, I can’t make it. How about tomorrow?’

‘I have to fly to Sydney tomorrow.’

‘How about when you get back?’

‘If you don’t want to do it, just tell me.’ She sounded pissed off.

‘No, it’s just …’ We’d docked at Crown and Brandy’s driver was waiting, ready to whisk me to Richmond. Chloe was busy setting up the wading pool on the rear deck and I got a waft of synthetic lime. The guys roared as someone scored a goal. It was hard to hear. ‘Look, I’ll call you or you call me, okay?’ I couldn’t tell if she hung up on me or the connection was lost.

I had Monday off and spent it sleeping in, exercising at my gym — a no frills place above a chicken shop on Glenhuntly Road — and poring through spy equipment catalogues, circling pinhole cameras and directional mikes. I got a little restless in the evening and could have gone out, but that would have meant spending my precious business savings. I’d become the world’s biggest tightwad in the previous four months, but it hadn’t been such a bad thing. I’d saved twelve grand and my hangovers were virtually nonexistent since I could only stomach a couple of glasses of cheap four litre cask wine. And without indulging in my usual hobby of seeing bands, getting fried and flirting with guitar players, I’d even managed to stay faithful to Sean.

Sean was my boyfriend, if that’s how you referred to someone you’d spent two weeks shagging and dodging bullets with. He was also the most unlikely cop I’d ever met, a red haired, chain smoking, vodka swilling vegetarian from Scotland who loved jazz, made me laugh, danced like a dream and spoke eight languages, so was very very good with his tongue. The perfect man. Except for a Virgoan tendency to alphabetise his CD collection and go mad at me for leaving wet towels on the floor, which I was sure we could work out. He’d been on an exchange in rural Vietnam for four months, with two more to go, and I hadn’t even kissed another man. Chloe was convinced pod people had taken over my brain.

I checked my email. Ads for Viagra and penis enlargements, but nothing from him. That was okay. Internet access was a little touch and go where he was. I sent him one anyway, grabbed a couple of cheese singles and lay down on the couch to watch a Russ Meyer DVD, Beyond the Valley of the Ultra Vixens. It was great seeing those babes go, and nice to live vicariously for once. I’d had enough excitement earlier in the year to last me a lifetime. Things were quiet now. I was glad.

Tuesday I went for a run by the canal, did a lunchtime jug show at Hosies Tavern in the city, then an afternoon strip at the Clifton in Kew. After going home and showering I met Chloe at the Elwood Lounge, a groovy little hole in the wall just around the corner from my one bedroom flat. She’d called earlier and said she had a business proposition for me. Coming from her that was a frightening thing.

The pool tables were occupied so I found her by the window overlooking the 7-Eleven and the Catholic church, sitting at a scratched laminex table with a bottle of champagne and a plate of dips. I kissed her cheek, smelling her usual aroma of Paris perfume and bong smoke, then pulled up a mismatched vinyl chair.

She’d gone for a bit of a winter wonderland look that day, billowing platinum hair, tight white jeans and a white PVC jacket with fake fur around the collar and cuffs. Her platform boots were silver and spike heeled. She hated being short and I had a sneaking suspicion she couldn’t actually wear flat shoes anymore, kind of like Barbie.

‘How were the shows?’ She poured me a glass of champagne.

‘You know. Same old shit, different day.’

(Continues…)Excerpted from Cherry Pie by Leigh Redhead. Copyright © 2007 Leigh Redhead. Excerpted by permission of Allen & Unwin.
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