Mattress Actress (8 page)

Around this time, Joe introduced me to one of his nephews, Marc. He was very handsome, with black wavy hair and piercing blue eyes. We began dating because Joe wanted to see us together. All of a sudden the doormen stopped barking at me and the girls offered to make me coffee instead of demanding that I make it for them. The strippers stopped hassling for things they knew I wasn’t allowed to grant them, like advances on pay, extra gigs, and shorter sets. I had become untouchable.

The pecking order at the Cross was very serious. Joe and Jim were akin to God, immediately followed by any direct relative of either of them, which included Marc. Even their right-hand men came before Nico and Spiro, then came Nico and Spiro and Nico’s and Spiro’s relatives and henchmen. The man who sold coffee ranked higher than the strippers and pros. Scraping the bottom of the barrel were the doormen.

Thanks to my contrived set up with Marc, I was now socialising with all the important people of Kings Cross but never understood what any of them did for a living. They just seemed to sit around all night drinking coffee and playing scratchies. Whatever they did it must have paid well, because they all drove Porches, Jaguars and Mercedes.

There were a lot of illegal activities going on in the clubs that I wasn’t aware of straight away. One of my jobs was to pay the police. Every second night I drew four stars at the top of the page and paid the police $200. I never asked questions and they never spoke to me.

I was selling alcohol illegally to people watching the show, but I didn’t see it that way – I was simply told to run a grocery errand and I did it. After all, this is what I was trained to do on my first night by the doorman and Spiro’s right-hand man, Frank.

A guy named Steve walked in one night demanding to see Spiro about getting his old job back. He was a real sleaze and had just got out of prison on a drug charge. Because there was no hourly rate for the doormen, why should Spiro say no? So Steve donned the tie and commenced work. The other men resented his presence and the additional competition; he was showy, loud and not Greek.

Steve escorted an attractive young girl up the stairs, hoping to entice her to pay $15 to see the shows, but he was sadly disappointed when she looked me fair in the eye and said in the softest voice, ‘Are there any jobs available?’ Steve knew pursuing her for cover charge would prove fruitless, so with a roll of his eyes he retreated back downstairs.

I told her to take a seat and assured her that the boss would be back soon. Apart from managing the joint, which really I did, Spiro had no responsibilities, so it wasn’t unusual for him to spend hours away gambling across the road. She sat there quietly, obviously deep in thought. She didn’t cross her legs, her head was stooped, her eyes focused intently on her chewed and dirty fingernails. She was definitely carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

After an hour and a half Spiro still hadn’t returned, so I called around again. No one knew where he was, but I was firmly told not to let her out of my sight. The poor girl still sat there looking really upset and distressed and I kept expecting her to break out in tears at any moment. Why was she waiting so long? Then I realised—she didn’t have any other options; she was cold, homeless, penniless, tired and hungry. Steve kept asking her if she was OK and whether she wanted to eat something. She politely refused and went back to staring at her fingers. I also tried to talk to her, but it was a Saturday and I had little spare time.

I went to make myself a coffee and thought I’d offer her one as well, but she was gone. I expected she would be back in a few minutes, so I made her a tea with milk and sugar, but it never got touched.

Spiro finally returned, having received a message about a new girl. This always excited him. He would make jokes about having to ‘test drive all the new girls’. It wasn’t long before Joe also came to see the new meat. As the owner of all the clubs, he had the ultimate say on who worked where.

As well as the young girl leaving, the other doormen reported that they were a man short on the door and it quickly became apparent that Steve was missing. Upon severe questioning, one of the other doormen volunteered that he’d seen Steve leaving with a young girl. Spiro was hopping mad, and exclaimed, ‘That fucking malaka, he’s pulled this shit one too many fucking times.’ He and Joe wanted an explanation, and it was clear they held me largely responsible for not keeping my eye on her.

I think they had been taking coke, as they were all hyped up. Spiro was frantically pacing the floor, yelling at people for no good reason and ordering me around rudely, which he had never done in the past.

‘Did you see Steve go?’

‘No, sir, I had to leave the desk on occasion to get fresh soap and fold towels, but I didn’t see who she left with.’

‘Did Steve come in for his pay?’

‘No, sir, between, doormen, customers, strippers and the girls, some details skip my observation,’ I said defensively.

‘Goddamn malaka, I’ll cut his balls off!’

The room was rapidly filling with all the big men on the strip and their henchmen. Rumour had spread that rules had been broken and payback was on the cards.

They knew I didn’t speak Greek so anything they didn’t want me to hear was always spoken in their native tongue. I didn’t need to understand Greek to see what they were planning. Severe recriminations were about to go down, and I didn’t want to be around when it happened.

Finally Steve came bounding up the stairs.

‘Hey, Spiro, Nico, Joe, how are we tonight, gentlemen? Sorry I missed you coming in, my woman, she’s always busting my balls, you know how it is.’

Nobody said a thing, just shook their heads silently and exchanged disappointed looks.

‘Where did you take the girl who came for the job, Steve?’ spat Spiro.

Steve looked directly at me like I had been the one to betray him. ‘No way, gentlemen, when I left she was still here, that’s all right, simple misunderstanding, no hard feelings.’

‘Hey, koukla, go get some Greek coffee for us, the men need to talk, efharisto.’

Being completely naive I thought ‘go get coffee’ meant go get coffee. Why didn’t they just tell me to go lose myself for half an hour? That I would have understood. That way I could have avoided witnessing the most brutal bashing I could ever imagine.

Ten minutes later, loaded up with a tray of Greek coffees, I returned. Joe was hammering into Steve with his walking stick, while the other men kicked into him repeatedly, or restrained him when he tried to escape. Joe tired, but the younger and fitter ones of the group were still enjoying themselves too much to stop and show some mercy to the now barely moving Steve. Steve crawled down the stairs on one hand and an elbow, dragging his legs behind him. His face was covered in blood. The top of his head was matted with blood and I couldn’t even make out what colour his shirt and pants were.

There was blood everywhere. There was blood on the walls and Joe was sitting there rubbing his knuckles with a rag. Inside, Steve’s attackers were all laughing and gloating about who had drawn blood first or produced the most painful blows. They were all elated and self-congratulatory, with the exception of the odd, ‘Fucking prick got blood on my new pants’, or ‘That cunt’s got a hard head, I think I busted my knuckle.’

Joe turned to me and said, ‘Clean up this mess, please.’

Where was I going to start? The club was still open—when was I going to find the time? I had already neglected buzzing two girls because I was playing waitress. I madly tried to clean the place up, but getting bloodstains off red velvet wallpaper, shag carpet and a beige sofa can be a little difficult.

Just before closing time, Steve returned from the hospital with bandages all over his head, only one eye visible, a cast on his entire left leg and an arm in a sling. He was accompanied by two police officers, and limped with a certain air of confidence. At this point I was on my hands and knees up to my armpits in bloodied water. Blood was still visible everywhere you looked.

I had never said more than two words to these police officers any other night. I just handed over cash and they left.

‘How are you, Annika? Hope they’re not overworking you?’ said the larger of the two men in blue.

I could tell by Steve’s expression that he was wondering how they knew my name, but he was too stupid to put it together. He demanded that I phone Joe and everyone else who had been involved but there was no need. Spiro, Nico, Joe, and the henchmen were standing in the doorway. The Kings Cross grapevine is faster and safer than the phone.

One of the police officers addressed Steve. ‘Where did this supposed assault take place, sir?’

Steve waved his good arm wildly in the air. ‘Have a fucking look around, where do you reckon?’ He demanded the police charge Joe with assault.

The police said, ‘We don’t see any evidence of an assault, sir. Are you sure you weren’t hit by a speeding car, that shit happens all the time?’ In other words, walk away, otherwise you will end up under a speeding car, but Steve just stared blankly at the police officers.

‘What do you mean there is no fucking evidence of a fight? There is blood all over the goddamn place and have a good fucking look at his knuckles,’ Steve pleaded. ‘Ask anyone here, they all witnessed it, fuck that—they all helped beat the shit out of me.’ He stood there genuinely confused, but during the longest silent pause, and staring at a room full of confident expressions on the faces of his attackers, the light was starting to go on for poor deluded Steve. The police asked if anyone had witnessed a fight. No one said a thing. We simply stared at him, like you would a condemned man.

Steve limped out mumbling something about ‘stupid police’, but by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs he was moving as fast as his crutches would allow.

Joe gave the police a couple of hundred dollars each, and not with the typical two-handed Kings Cross handshake. He was showing off that he owned these officers; it was almost like he was taunting us—
See what happens when you try to fuck with me or my boys
.

The police left after about an hour, saying, ‘Thanks for the hospitality, Joe, but we got to get back to work.’

I played bartender to everyone for the next few hours.

‘This is only one example, Annika, you should have been here last year when we caught a girl ripping us off. Wasn’t that a good time had by all?’ said stupid Spiro. I really didn’t want to hear any more, but the stories went on for hours and everyone was having a good old laugh about it.

Less than two weeks later, one of the girls told me that Steve had killed himself by jumping in front of a train. I believed her right up until each and every one of Joe’s gang made sarcastic jokes about tripping over train tracks on crutches. I never heard anyone say they had killed him but it was most definitely implied.

The police were not just good mediators, they also proved to be a veritable well of information. They were especially helpful if there was going to be a bust of any sort. We always got a phone call half an hour beforehand, to give us plenty of time to get the underage workers out of there, as well as all the alcohol, bongs, pipes and ledgers. I was immune to the raids as it was common knowledge that I was not working in any sordid sense. Just your common door/kiosk girl, but underage none the less.

I know it’s wrong to laugh, but it did become comical, seeing the same police officers come rushing in, flaunting their badges, just to spend an hour there and come out empty-handed. They knew the place was riddled with underage girls, it was hardly a secret as their photos were all over the walls leading down to the strip club in one metre by one metre proportions in boastful frames.

Two hours after each raid some similar faces would reappear in the back rooms for a very quiet drink with the big boys. A few nights later the same thing would happen, one of the men’s pagers would ring, he would simply nod then say, ‘You have fifteen minutes, get moving. Fucking pigs, when will they realise I am smarter than them?’

Everyone would groan as if to say here we go again, more loss of business. I would flick the lights in the strip room and the underage girls would make their exit through the back door via the kebab store. Even the customers knew what that meant: if you were holding any drugs on you, it was time to leave. Then sure enough, fifteen minutes later the police would arrive once again. The honest cops could be seen shaking their heads in wonderment, looking for an explanation from their corrupt partners. They knew there was a leak, they just couldn’t plug it.

Joe’s nephew Marc was starting to take our relationship a little too seriously for my liking. I liked him but not in the physical sense—he was great to have around. He was generous, well connected and gorgeous to look at.

In the Cross women are always someone’s property. The girls who worked in Nico’s club were known as Nico’s girls. If you dated Jo, you were known as Jo’s girl. And the closer you were to Joe, the higher up the pecking order you were. Needless to say dating Joe’s right-hand man and blood relative made me beyond reproach.

My brother thought it great his sister had a kiosk in the heart of a strip joint/brothel because even though he was only fourteen, I could sneak him in if he stayed quiet. The pros don’t care how old you are as long as you have money, so occasionally one of them would proposition Dieter. His cheeks would redden, and his ego would just about explode.

One afternoon, he met me on the strip at one of the cafes. He had brought along a mate and his girlfriend to meet me. Together we all played pool for a couple of hours.

At about nine o’clock, the girlfriend, Monique, declared, ‘Sorry guys, my mum’s going to be worried if I don’t get home soon, I’ll catch you tomorrow.’

Nine was the witching hour for me as well. I kissed my brother and his friend goodbye and trotted off to work.

Half an hour into my evening Nico introduced me to our latest recruit, Mistee. She looked a lot older than the last time I saw her, which had been half an hour earlier. Mistee’s eyes widened. She couldn’t believe she would get caught out on the first night.

‘You don’t mind if I stick to Monique do you?’ I said pointedly. She was from an exclusive suburb, a well-to-do family, great school yet wanted to be a pro. Somehow I had to try to stop her from ruining her life. I told my boss that she was only fourteen. He didn’t care—far as he was concerned, it was a bonus.

She took clients upstairs for $70, of which she would get $35, and she was chuffed. She took to the trade like a duck to water. Why did I take it so personally if this spoiled brat wanted to follow in my footsteps? I didn’t ask her why she had decided that this was the career for her, I just imagined that she had thought it through and decided to go ahead. But I can honestly say that I had never seen someone so emotionally cool about a first night, except, of course, myself. Usually there were tears, running mascara, a few shots of Dutch courage, apprehensive and reluctant steps to the room. Followed by quiet remorse, but Monique was as cold as ice.

There was another girl, Brenda from Brisbane, whom I took under my wing. She was only eleven and didn’t even have boobs yet; she had these little poached egg looking things. She had a friend who liked to call herself Sky, who was fourteen and totally wild.

One night I walked into room three to prepare it for the evening, to find Sky sticking a needle in Brenda’s arm. Brenda looked petrified. There was a man there who would have been roughly twenty-eight, but I would say only one more hit away from his eternal peace. I could have killed Sky at that moment were it not for her totally unpredictable junkie boyfriend/co-conspirator beside her. Instead I told Sky in no uncertain terms to take her fuckwit friend out of the work rooms and never to bring needles into any of the three clubs again. As the three of them walked past me, I grabbed Brenda by the arm. She was clearly under the influence of heroin. I told Brenda that from now on she could live with me and I would protect her. I told her that Sky did not have her back. To my surprise she wouldn’t listen, and shrugged off my grip to traipse after Sky.

Within a couple of weeks, Brenda began missing shifts. One morning I walked out to empty the rubbish and she was lying on the side of the road, foaming at the mouth. I called the ambulance. They saved her life, not that she was grateful, and she was back on the streets as soon as she was physically able.

I begged her never to take heroin again and told her that if she continued it would kill her.

‘So what?’ Not quite the answer I had expected, so I was taken aback momentarily. ‘What is the point of living anyway?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to live any more, and I don’t want to go back to my family because Mum’s boyfriend keeps fucking me and Mum believes him over me. I don’t want to be a hooker but how can I get a normal job when I am only eleven?’

I told her that she needed to save her money and she would be able to rise above this work.

‘That’s a load of crap, I’m worthless, disposable and unlovable,’ she said. My heart went out to her, I was her at the same age, I’d wanted to die too. The only difference between us was that she had a means at her disposal.

It did look grim for her, but I was ever the optimist. A couple of weeks after I’d spoken to her, she left the club in exchange for working the streets for a pimp, as no brothel would employ her, to support her heroin addiction. It was so sad, but Brenda was a clone of every other girl who chose to do street work. We would often see the Salvation Army workers waltzing about in their suits, ready, willing and able to help in any way they could. Anyone over sixteen was happy to stop for a chat and accept their sandwiches or soup. But anyone under sixteen would bolt for the protective shadows or safety of the brothels. It was explained to me by Nico that the Salvos had a legal duty to return all underage kids who presented for assistance back to their parents.

I understood emotional abuse better than the best of them, but the abuse that Brenda suffered was persistent sexual abuse at the hands of her protector from the age of eight. That I couldn’t entirely fathom. The common belief running through all the kids—boys and girls—working the Cross, was that this seedy little underworld where everyone is only out for themselves, where people are property, was a better and safer alternative than going home. The stories I heard on quiet nights chilled me to the core: alcoholic parents; parents with extreme addictions; non-existent parents. But the hardest stories to hear were the ones that always ended with the same line: ‘At least here I get to choose who I fuck.’ I understood completely—the police rarely believe these kinds of stories from children. When you have already reached out to a parent and exposed your ugly truth, only to be called a liar, you tend to give up and just suppress your pain.

These kids anaesthetised it with heroin. It was offered to them free of charge until they got hooked, then they had to work for it. It was not uncommon to find a junkie dead from an overdose, sometimes in one of the rooms at the club, sometimes in the laundry but most of the time backstage. Apparently this is because the lighting is so much better there to find the vein. Generally I would be told by the bouncers to put a line through a girl’s name for the rest of the night. At the end of the night I would stupidly put the girl’s money in an envelope for her to collect on her next shift. But Spiro would reach over to grab the girl’s envelope, open it and place the cash in his wallet.

I’d ask, ‘Oi, won’t she want to know what happened to her money?’

‘No.’

‘Why is that, I’d want to know where my money got to.’

‘Stupid cunt OD’d!’

That shut me up. I soon stopped bothering with the envelopes whenever a bouncer told me to draw a line through someone’s name.

The first time I found a girl, I buzzed the bouncers to come up immediately. They established that she was dead and to my shock and horror they carried her downstairs and propped her up against the skip bin and went back to work. One of the doormen explained to me that no club wants to be seen employing underage addicts, and no one wants to get caught transporting dead junkies in their car. Finally, as he put it, ‘And no fucker wants to pay for a dead junkie’s funeral. So this way, koukla, it’s best for all. She just died where she is sitting now, why should we draw unwanted attention to ourselves, hey? You understand, there’s a good girl. Don’t worry, tomorrow the police will find her.’

I had a hundred questions but I knew that the doorman wouldn’t answer them. My biggest question was how the police would identify her. Most of the time girls only trusted a handful of people with that information. Even if the bodies were found by the Salvos, the girls were forever giving them false names because they were afraid of being returned home. With a false name you got the benefits the Salvos offered, which was primarily a warm bed, a bit of food or the grand prize—if you gave them your real name—assistance in getting a Medicare card.

The heartlessness of these people who participated in this disposal was beyond belief. Life was cheap, whores only good for one thing and they didn’t deserve any compassion. So I decided the next time an angel fell that I would not allow her to be left nameless.

I unfortunately didn’t have to wait long before word spread that a girl had been found and removed from the club. I discreetly made a call to the ambulance. Before I knew it, the police were on the scene, so the girls immediately went into hiding, as did the punters. Ambulances and police cars blocked the road, police were interviewing everyone in sight, trying to establish the identity of the girl. By the end of the night the takings were a third of what they should have been. Everyone up and down the hierarchy was furious. But in the end no good came from it. No one knew her real name, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Roxy.

I was walking down the strip when I ran into Tracy. She was actually wearing my clothes and was with a friend who was wearing my shoes. Tracy ran up and gave me a big hug.

‘Oh Annika, it is so good to see you, I’m so sorry, but the police just walked in and told me that I had to be in court the following day, so they collected all the stuff in the wardrobe and shoved me in the car. I wasn’t allowed to call anyone because it was all so secretive.’

‘Really and did the police also take my money hidden in the Bible?’

That stumped her. She was leaving again that night and had a big bag over her shoulder.

‘Well, when do I get my stuff back?’ I said with complete command.

A crowd had gathered around us, as everyone was aware of my history with Tracy. She was now an outsider in the Cross, but this was a fact that was only now registering in her small mind. A lot of people resented her for being a narc. For that fact alone they were prepared to give her a serious pounding.

‘I’ve taken it back to our old hotel, he wouldn’t give me your new address. I wasn’t sure you would still be working here otherwise I would have bought it with me,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lose this bag then I’ll come back later and we can get something to eat, what do you say?’ She jumped in a taxi and was gone.

That was the last I ever saw of her.

I got home to the hostel and the guy at the door asked me whether I had caught up with my sister yet, she had been looking for me earlier. She had told him she was staying the night with me so he had let her into my room. I raced up the stairs two at a time. All my clothes were gone, and once again I was left with nothing. She had lied about James from the motel not giving her my address. She had lied to the manager of the hostel in order for him to let her in. I called Tony and he rang around a few places, but no one knew where she was. And they all wanted to know because she had stolen from them as well. I was devastated but used to it. I told everyone in Kings Cross that if they found her, they should bring her to me before they killed her. Not that I would have had her killed – severely hurt, yes, but not killed.