Free Thrill City by Leigh Redhead

something unintelligible. I kicked my shoes off and sprinted, faster than I thought possible, running like hell through the back streets of Abbotsford.

chapter ten
    I t was four pm on Christmas Day, and I was lying on a striped banana lounge on Chloe’s back deck a little away from the party, partly hidden behind a cocos palm. I was kitted up in a denim mini, off-the-shoulder embroidered peasant blouse and a sombrero, and drinking what might have been my sixth margarita—I couldn’t be exactly sure.
    Our ‘orphans’ Christmas’ had a south-of-the-border theme which explained the papier-mâché chilli-peppers, giant inf latable cactus and donkey piñata dangling from the washing line. It was also the reason Ricky Martin was warbling through the speakers. Earlier, Sean had put on a disc of an obscure but highly respected authentic Tijuana mariachi band, but the majority of the party, Chloe and most of her strippers, had booed, rolled their eyes and made gagging sounds, so we were stuck with a vaguely Latino party mix: Ricky, J-Lo and whoever the bastards were who had inf licted ‘The Macarena’ and ‘Mambo Number Five’ upon the world.
    Chloe, despite her advanced state of gestation, was shaking her bon-bon in a hot pink bikini and heels, and Curtis, assisted by a few of the dancers’ boyfriends, manned the barbecue, beer in hand. Sean was over by the makeshift bar in faded jeans, Converse sneakers and a Speedy Gonzales t-shirt, simultaneously mixing margaritas and sharing a joint with my journalist friend Andi.
    Andi was part Maori, small, dark and punky looking with a pixie crop, a wide, white-toothed grin and big brown eyes. Her cut-off shorts showed off her new prosthetic leg that attached at the knee. She’d got us all to scrawl lewd graffiti on it while telling us all about amputee-love websites she’d discovered on the internet.
    A few other people I knew had drifted in and out during the day, on their way to and from family do’s, including Tony Torcasio, my old boss and trainer from the Australian Security Academy, and Hannah, the hippy massage-parlour owner I’d helped out. Reg, a sixty-year-old sailing instructor who’d lent a hand taking down some bad guys what seemed an aeon ago, had turned up with shortbread in a tartan tin and a bewildered look on his face. We’d even had a visit from Trip Sibley, who looked and acted like a rock star but in reality was a celebrity chef. I couldn’t actually recall Trip leaving and, knowing him, it was a fair bet he was holed up in Chloe’s bedroom with a couple of strippers and a selection of Class A narcotics.
    I lifted the paper plate up from the ground next to me and bit into a soft taco filled with barbecued prawns, coriander and spiced black beans. I’d been trying to resist pigging out but damn, it was just too good. If Sean and I hadn’t been able to save the music at least we’d rescued the food. Chloe’s idea of party catering was a couple of boxes of Mexican-f lavoured Shapes, corn chips and dip, and an economy pack of supermarket sausages spiked with paprika and labelled Hot ’n’ Spicy. Not to mention a bottle of cheap mescal with one of those worms that always put me in mind of a tiny severed penis bobbing around in formalin.
    Sean and I had spent the previous day scouring The Essential Ingredient and the Prahran and South Melbourne markets for ripe avocados and obscure chillies, Monterey Jack cheddar, tins of tomatillos, bright green, hot as hell picante sauces, and overpriced limes. We’d spent the morning side by side in my little pink and grey kitchen, mashing, juicing and chopping, marinating chicken and beef strips for fajitas, and cutting up red, green and yellow capsicums. Necking Coronas wedged with lime, we’d performed abbreviated salsa moves, bumping hips and occasionally stopping to snog against the bench.
    Seeing as how the couple of days he’d wanted to stay had somehow extended into six weeks, Sean knew his way around the