We started my birthday festivities at the restaurant, then moved on to a local nightclub called the Tunnel. We were all having a great time, the club was packed with colourful people, dealers, pros, TV celebrities, and always loads of A-grade rugby players. If you’re what’s called a good girl you rarely pay for anything in the Cross. The whole time I was there I never paid for a drink or a meal or even a cigarette, and my birthday was no different.
Jimmy was flaunting his cash far too indiscreetly that night. When I asked him why he had brought so much money he told me that he hadn’t brought a lot of money with him, but his girls kept turning up with his cut. For Jimmy to say he hadn’t brought a lot of money with him meant that he had only brought a thousand dollars. The last time I saw his wad of cash that night, he definitely had over four grand on him. It was about two in the morning when Jimmy decided to take his leave. For Cross standards, that’s an early night. But he had his reasons, ever the intrepid business man: on his arm was draped a new lady. I had never met her before and I don’t think Jimmy had either but she filled the same criteria as all his others. She was good-looking, drug dependent and very slutty. We all tried to talk him into staying, we even suggested leaving together to grab something to eat, but Jimmy had a different agenda. We kissed him goodnight, even the men, which was another Cross custom, and he left. We partied and ate until the wee hours of the morning.
As tired as I was I had to work the following morning. When I got home from work that afternoon, Sonja was crying her eyes out. The whole crew was there looking equally forlorn. The only one missing was Jimmy.
‘What’s wrong, why is everyone so upset? Please, someone tell me?’
‘Annika, Jimmy’s dead,’ said Stephan. ‘He was found this morning in a hotel with a needle in his arm—they’re calling it a drug overdose. His wallet was empty except for my card, so the police called me to ID him. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.’
In the Cross it was customary if you were a bit on the shady side not to carry any ID on you.
‘There has to be a mistake, Jimmy didn’t take drugs, in fact he hated people who did. On top of that he had loads of cash on him, you guys all knew that,’ I said, hoping that would make it untrue.
‘Don’t you get it? Someone gave him a hot shot.’
I had no idea what Stephan was talking about. Who knew that it was such a common form of murder that it had its own nickname?
‘They drugged him, nicked his roll, then made it look like a drug overdose by injecting battery acid and leave the needle dangling. Pigs don’t investigate if he is bleeding needles,’ said George.
We besieged the police every day for weeks begging them to investigate, but they refused.
The funeral was held in Greek tradition. Women were to wear no make-up or jewellery, dress entirely in black and not do their hair except to tie it back. This information was obviously not passed on to any of Jimmy’s girls. When we arrived, there was an all-out brawl happening on the front steps of the church between Jimmy’s relatives and about six scantily clad, overly done-up women, some of whom I recognised from the Cross. Battered and bruised, the girls limped away without attending the funeral and without knowing why they had been accosted.
When the ceremony started, I had a horrible feeling that I was at the wrong funeral. The priest was talking about Dimitrius. I was embarrassed, so I grabbed the other guys’ arms and told them we should leave. They quickly briefed me about Greek names: Dimitrius is shortened to Dimmi, which in English sounds like Jimmy. Feeling a bit more relaxed I took my seat and cried hysterically throughout the whole ceremony but I was not alone, we were all crying. Apart from George and John—who were Yorgos and Yanni—no one could understand enough Greek to get what the priest was saying.
The congregation stood. I was seated on the side of the church, halfway down. People were shuffling me into the aisle, and once in the aisle I was being pushed along with everyone else to the front of the church. Being only five foot six I couldn’t see where all this was leading. Then I realised that I was expected to kiss Jimmy’s head and ring as he lay in an open coffin. I was gripped with intense fear and reservation and the closer I got I had myself convinced I could do it, it was just a body. But when my turn came I broke down; there was my friend I had loved, laughed with, depended on, dead, never to smile or talk to me ever again. I couldn’t breathe, my nose was blocked and my heart aching. I pulled away from the coffin a step, wiped my nose and eyes and as I did that the stud from my nose fell to the floor and rolled underneath Jimmy’s coffin. I went into hysterics again and George grabbed me and pulled me away.