Having shared an emotionally draining evening a few days later, Tracy broke down and confessed something that had been weighing heavy on her conscience: she was a witness in the Fitzgerald Inquiry. She hadn’t told me because she thought I would see her as a narc. I was shocked; not that she was an informer but that the police would choose someone who was such an alcoholic loose cannon. Here was a woman totally incapable of running her own life yet they expected her to help bring down the Labor Party and the police force. Tracy had only one incentive to do exactly as the DPP instructed and that was to get a bit of a reprieve for her baby’s daddy in prison. As she put it: ‘I just say what they tell me to.’ That made sense to me. Tracy would never do the honourable thing, Tracy was doing what the police told her to because there was something in it for her.
The next morning I woke up and Tracy wasn’t there. I went looking for her and couldn’t find her. There were no clothes in the wardrobe. The drawers were empty, no undies, no suitcase, no toiletries not even a toothbrush. She had taken off. I was panic stricken as she had taken everything I owned except the nightie I was wearing. I couldn’t believe she went so low as to take my hairbrush and toothbrush. I quickly leapt over to the bedside table, opened the drawer and ripped out the bible. Turning to Psalms, I found nothing but poetry. She had taken all my savings too.
I felt totally betrayed. I had valued the friendship to the point where I had stopped begrudging her not bringing in as much as I did or participating equally in the day-to-day bills. After all, I had been the one fucking the landlord. In hindsight I realised she had provided nothing but grief and a bad reputation.
I later found out the police had picked her up and taken her back to Queensland to testify before the Fitzgerald Inquiry. I never found out when they first made contact—there had been no phone calls during the night, so I was left to assume she planned the whole thing. She must have known she was going, and that was why she decided to disclose her secret.
I listened intently to the coverage of the inquiry. Tracy was embellishing every answer she gave, which was typical for her: never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
***
I didn’t want to work in the brothel any more. There wasn’t a lot of money due to the fact that the other girls were haggard and brought the look of the place down. Tony being the kind, generous soul he was didn’t have the heart to sack any of them. After Tracy left, I did one last shift dressed in one of Tony’s white shirts, tied at the waist with one of his neckties. I had no undies or shoes and I borrowed some make-up from the receptionist. Amazingly the whole ensemble was very sexy and made me a lot of money that day.
I left La Belle Femme and John’s motel and rented a one-room place in Kings Cross for $120 per week. It was more like a hostel; I had my own room but shared a bathroom. It wasn’t much, but it was all mine. I needed a change of scenery to rid my mind of Tracy.
Even though Spiro was paying me a pittance at the club, I still enjoyed the work. Everything about the job was interesting. The scams, the girls and the strippers were especially interesting; watching them was like going to the circus. One girl in particular comes to mind. Her name was Laura but we called her Loopy. In fact, that’s how I was introduced to her by Charlie the DJ: ‘Annika meet Loopy.’
‘My name’s really Laura, but you can call me Loopy if you want.’ Loopy was a punk. On any given day she could be found with at least three different colours through her spiked hair. Tattoos covered nearly every inch of her body. Extreme body piercing topped all this off. Chains weaved through her ears, nose, nipples, belly button, the three studs in her clit and finally down to her anklets. When she hopped on stage men jumped—not only was she frightening to look at, but she was the most graphic dancer of them all. Loopy would get naked, then run around with a leather strap looking for victims. She would place it behind the head of one of the patrons then pull his head onto her puss. Most patrons simply rode with the entertainment and performed oral sex on her. She usually found two or three victims during a fifteen-minute show. At first I was disgusted by this woman’s performance, but after a while it became entertaining.
Her routine and appearance was in direct contrast to her personality. Loopy was the most softly spoken woman I had ever met. She would often talk about how her chrysanthemums were in full bloom and looked divine. Other times she would share stories about the recital that she went to on her night off.
Lola was another classic character. Her show usually followed Loopy’s, which in itself was an irony. Lola had danced with Les Girls for many years, then she was sacked after having a sex change. She was more woman than I was. She stood at six feet, was a natural blonde and had a body to die for. If she didn’t open her mouth to talk, you would never guess she had ever been a man. Lola saw herself as the great diva of the Cross, and I tended to agree with her. Her show was something straight out of a Paris cabaret, her costumes were the envy of every other girl and occasionally the brunt of jokes as well. When she wasn’t dancing, Lola could be found smoking her cigarettes from her five-inch filter. She was highly critical of all the other girls, saying, ‘This isn’t seductive, anyone can take their clothes off, oh, why do they even bother?’