Cherry Pie by Leigh Redhead

and crossed the restaurant floor just as Trip came back carrying four boxes. He plonked his cargo on one of the padded chairs, grabbed her around the waist, pulled her to him and ground his pelvis into hers. Subtle. He whispered in her ear.
    ‘Trip!’ She giggled and shook her head.
    He took her hand and placed it on his groin.
    ‘You have to unpack the deliveries,’ she protested.
    ‘After. I’ll be quick.’
    Not the sort of line that ever worked with me, I have to say, but Yasmin seemed amenable.
    ‘I’ll just pop to the ladies then I’ll see you in the office.’
    ‘Nah, stay in the dunny, I’ll meet you there.’ He licked her neck.
    He picked up the boxes, headed to the cool room in the far corner of the kitchen, opened the door and placed them inside on the floor. I kept my head down and pushed sudsy water around with the mop and he hardly seemed to notice I was there. Soon as he left for his rendezvous I scuttled to the cool room and pulled on the door. There was a bit of suction, like with a giant fridge, so I yanked harder and the seals popped and it opened. All in the wrist. I slipped inside.
    The room was dimly lit and the size of a small garden shed.
    Jars and plastic containers, cheeses and meats and every conceivable gourmet foodstuff jammed the metal shelves lining the walls. The sharp scent of basil and coriander mixed with parmesan, raw meat, salty oysters and olive brine. Cold air chilled my damp clothes and after a few seconds the hairs on my arms stood on end.
    The cardboard boxes sat stacked on the floor in front of me, sealed with clear packing tape. Damn. How to peek inside without leaving any evidence? With the door seals and the hum of the cooling fan I realised I wouldn’t be able to hear anyone approach. Trip had told Yasmin he’d be quick. What did that mean? Ten minutes? Or one premature grunt and a mess on her skirt?
    I looked at the boxes, heartbeat thudding in my ears. I had an idea. I flipped the first one over. Tape wrapped right around, but at the bottom join, where the box folded together, the cardboard depressed when I pushed. I stuck my fingers in the gap and wiggled them around. Crumpled newspaper and cans, by the feel of things. What if there were drugs in the cans? I pushed the cardboard in further and it ripped slightly. Hopefully Trip wouldn’t notice. I pulled out a small can labelled broad beans and shoved it in one of my ugly pockets. The bulge was way too obvious so I stuck it down my knickers where it was hidden by the sloppy top. I used the same manoeuvre with the next box and from the squishy coldness I could tell it was duck breasts, as the label suggested.
    In the third I felt cheese wheels, and perhaps some pate. My heart beat harder. How long had I been in there for?
    The fourth and final box was wide and shallow, lighter than the rest. My knuckles scraped the cardboard as I forced my fingers in. Immediately I touched something plastic wrapped and hard, ridged slightly at the edge and a little larger than a pack of playing cards. I scissored my fingers around the object and pulled.
    Shit.
    It was money. A thick sheaf of vacuum wrapped fifty dollar notes and the box was full of them. I snapped a couple of shots with a small digital camera I’d stashed in my jeans pocket, hoping the door seals would hide the flash and praying that Trip’s quickie had turned into a longie. Then I shoved the cash back into the box and had just restacked the final carton when the door whumped open and bright light spilled in.
    Trip roared, ‘The fuck?’
     

Chapter Fourteen
    Trip grabbed me by the back of my Garfield sweater, lifted me up and out of the cool room and hurled me into the kitchen.
    I hit the mop and bucket, tipping them over, skated briefly on the suds then slipped and hit the ground, landing on my arse with a splash. Trip towered over me, face twisted, spitting and screaming. Panic pinballed through my body, bounced around my head and shot down to my toes,