Monty washed down his last bite of kebab with the ginger beer and settled at an empty table of a street cafe. After a wary waiter had taken his cappuccino order, he rocked back on his chair to observe the pantomime of the street.

There was much amicable chattering and giggling going on among the women. Perhaps they were office girls on a night out—a bevy of beauties or a fishnet of prostitutes? He smiled as he pondered the appropriate collective.

Still no one moved to cross when the lights changed again. A group of scruffy young men in uniform baggy jeans and baseball caps pushed past the girls with a surprising absence of comment. One was wobbling on his feet, supported by another. The knee-length crutch of his sagging jeans forced him to affect a penguin waddle, further hampering his efforts at walking. Monty caught the whiff of cheap bourbon as they staggered by, but the girls didn’t seem to be interested, they were after fatter fish.

The waiter brought Monty his cappuccino. He took small sips to make it last, having no idea how long it would take to find out if they were on the game. He leaned back in his seat and watched.

It didn’t take long. A shiny black Mercedes pulled up at the lights and a visible ripple of anticipation shivered through the girls. The tinted window glided down. One of the girls stepped forward and words were exchanged. She turned back to her companions who responded with nods of encouragement. By the time the lights turned green again she was settled in the front seat.

The remaining three stepped back from the intersection and regrouped under the awning of Monty’s cafe, standing just out of earshot from the other customers, no doubt discussing the next stage of the night’s operations.

Now was as good a time as any.

Monty got up from the table and limped towards the threesome. ‘Hi,’ he said, his smile showing just the right amount of discomfort.

The girls assessed him with distaste. One in particular, a girl with hair as colourful as an exotic parrot, looked at him as if he was something on the bottom of the birdcage.

‘Well, what do you want?’ Polly asked, the slight hook of her crinkling nose adding to the avian effect.

‘I’d say it was kinda obvious what he wants,’ her peroxided companion said with a giggle.

Just then the waiter passed. ‘Hang on, mate,’ Monty said to him, ‘I’ll pay for my coffee now, thanks.’ He produced a hundred-dollar note from his pocket. ‘Sorry, haven’t got anything smaller.’

The waiter turned away with the money and Polly nudged the girl in the coat. It was as if a heater had been turned on in a cold room.

Feeling the sudden warmth, the girl parted her coat, flashing Monty with her pointy pink nipples and a neatly waxed landing strip. He swallowed and looked away.

Polly whispered to her companion.

The coat squeezed his upper arm and gave him a salacious smile. ‘You’re supposed to ask how much. I say, what do you want, mister? You tell me your requirements and I give you my price.’

The waiter reappeared with Monty’s change and scowled at the girls. ‘You girls clear off. I don’t want you hanging around my cafe.’

‘Tosser.’

‘Who put the hair up your arse, then?’

Monty decided to jump in before the fireworks started. With a nervous swipe at his mouth with his jacket sleeve, he said, ‘How about we talk some more over there?’ He pointed to a dark service lane between the cafe and the boutique next door.

Clacking heels followed him, whispers and a high-pitched laugh. When they were congregated at the mouth of the alley, Monty said, ‘I’m looking for a girl.’

‘Oh duh,’ Peroxide said, failing to hold back a giggle.

‘So which one of us do you want?’ The coat’s smug expression suggested she’d figured her earlier performance had clinched the deal.

Monty looked from one to the other of them and hesitated. ‘You’re all gorgeous. I’ll come back for you some other time, but tonight I’m in the mood for Champagne Charlie.’

He reached into his pocket and produced a fistful of notes. As he did so, a sachet of chilli powder fluttered to the pavement. Polly eagerly picked it up. Her face fell when she sniffed the innocent contents, then she exploded into a squawk of a sneezes.

Monty said, ‘Bless you,’ and put the sachet back into his pocket. He started to shuffle the notes in his hands into numerical order.

‘No offence, mister,’ Peroxide said, her eyes not wavering from the money, ‘but you’d be in much better hands with one of us than with Charlie. She’s been around the block a few times if you know what I mean.’

Coat added, ‘Past her use-by date by a few years I reckon.’

Polly sneezed again.

Monty dealt a ten-dollar note to each of them. ‘Where can I find her?’

Peroxide shoved the note into her cleavage. ‘I don’t know if she’s even working tonight.’

The woman in the coat eyed the remaining notes in Monty’s hand then glanced at her companions. ‘Saturday night? Course she’s working.’ She put her hand out to Monty. ‘She hangs around outside the train station in Wellington Street.’

He slipped her another ten. ‘She work alone?’

As if not wishing her professional sister to come away any richer, Peroxide added, ‘She’s a bit wacky, no one wants to stick with her, though sometimes her pimp hangs around. You need to watch him. Don’t try any funny business, he doesn’t miss much.’

Monty handed her another note.

Polly sneezed again. He handed her one, too. ‘Bless you.’

***

He found her in a bus shelter, just down from the railway station. A nervous-looking middle-aged couple hovered just beyond the shelter, not wishing to get too close to the feral-looking woman curled up on the bench. They clasped matching green grocery bags, his with milk and orange juice; toilet paper peeked over the top of hers. Monty glanced from one to the other of them.

‘She was like this when we got here. I think she’s just asleep. She’s not sick or anything.’ The man sounded as if he was expecting to be accused of leaving the woman to die.

Monty moved over to the bench, brushed back strands of knotted hair and felt for her carotid. ‘She’s okay.’

The whoosh of a bus’s air brakes masked any sigh of relief the couple might have uttered.

‘This is ours,’ the woman said, waving a hurry-up to her partner and diving for the opening door of the bus. The driver shrugged his question at Monty. He shook his head and the bus took off from the curb, leaving him alone with the woman on the bench.

He shook her shoulder. ‘Champagne Charlie?’

She moaned. Without opening her eyes she said, ‘Whadayawant?’

‘I want to buy you a coffee, have a chat.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Just a chat, Charlie.’

‘Fifty will get you a blow job.’ She was on automatic, still hadn’t opened her eyes.

‘That’s not what I want. I want to talk to you. It’s about my daughter, Lorna Dunn. I’ve been told she was a mate of yours.’

At the mention of Lorna’s name, a pair of bleary brown eyes opened. Charlie pulled herself into a sitting position, filling the air with an unpleasant musky odour as she attempted to focus on Monty.

‘You look like her, it’s the...’ She pointed to her own hair and made pinching gestures with her fingers, as if trying to pluck lost words from the air.

‘That’s right, red hair’s a family trait.’

Monty tried to assess Charlie’s physical and mental condition. Stick-like legs were curled under her body in a position unique to the female sex. Above her legs, concealing little, she wore a strip of red micro skirt. There was no doubt in his mind the sleeves of her black vinyl jacket hid a highway of track marks. Under the streetlight the pupils of her sunken brown eyes were as big and round as eight balls. He was beginning to wonder if she was worth the effort when she finally spoke again. ‘I’m hungry.’