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.