Simone Kirsch 01 - Peepshow

by Leigh Redhead

  ‘Not long.’ He handed me a rollie as tight as a tailor-made. ‘I’ve only been in Melbourne three months. Met the guys at the Byron blues festival earlier this year. They needed a guitarist and I came down. Tom, the drummer, got me some building work. Can’t live on guitar playing alone.’

  Building. That explained the arms.

  He leaned over and lit my cigarette with a match.

  ‘What about you? Do anything besides stripping?’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘Byron Bay? You from up that way?’

  ‘I’m from all over. My folks have a farm near Kyogle.

  You know it?’

  ‘Yeah, my mum has a place in the hills fifteen minutes from Byron. I used to live there when I was a teenager.’

  ‘Hippies?’

  ‘Uh-huh. What about your folks?’

  He shook his head. ‘Rednecks.’ A pause. ‘Do you think we know each other yet?’

  ‘Not hardly.’ I drew back, ashed. The skill of smoking never left you.

  ‘What else do you want to know?’

  ‘Where do I start? Star sign?’

  ‘Pisces.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Twenty-seven,’

  ‘Married? Kids?’

  ‘When I was nineteen. Not anymore. My nine-year-old son lives with his mother.’

  ‘Ever been in jail?’ I was just joking.

  ‘Once.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He drained his beer. ‘I’m hungry. You want a laksa?’

  We walked down Acland Street to Chinta Ria, sat at an outside table and ordered king prawn laksas and beers. St Kilda went crazy on warm nights and around us music and people spilled from fashionable bars and trams number 16 and 96 disgorged their cargo. Mick was a lot more talkative than he’d been the night before, telling me about the places he’d lived in Queensland and New South Wales and all the jobs he’d done—jackeroo, miner, building boats and finally houses. I, in turn, gave him selected highlights from my ridiculous life: my parents splitting when I was five and my dad moving to America, leaving home at sixteen, running away to sea, countless crap jobs, constantly moving.

  ‘How’d you get into stripping?’ he asked.

  ‘Bit of a long story.’

  ‘I’ve got time,’ he settled back to roll a cigarette.

  ‘When I first moved down from Sydney I worked at Coles on Elizabeth Street,’ I told him. ‘The Crazyhorse adult cinema’s on the same block and every time I walked past I was fascinated by the place. You know, flashing neon lights, blaring music and the stairs going down below street level, like they led to some mysterious subterranean underworld. It drew me in.’

  Mick nodded like he understood.

  ‘There was a hand-written notice stuck in the window: “Dancers wanted, no experience necessary, apply within”. I always wanted to know what went on in there but never had the guts to get down the stairs.

  ‘Anyhow, one time at the supermarket I was having a shit of a day, a common occurrence in retail, when this Toorak rich bitch comes in. I handed her the wrong pack of cigarettes and she called me a stupid girl. You know when you get so angry, you literally see red?’

  Mick smiled wryly, ashed his cigarette. He knew.

  ‘I ripped off my name badge, chucked it at her and came out from behind the register. I walked towards her, real slow, and she backed away. Her mouth was opening and closing, like a guppy, no sound coming out. And when I got to her, I reached out, hugged her, looked her in the eye and said, “I forgive you.” ’

  Mick laughed. ‘No way. I would have smacked the silly bitch. What happened then?’

  ‘She started screeching for security and I walked out the doors, up the street, and down the stairs to the Crazyhorse. The woman at the counter looked like a truck-stop waitress and I asked her for a job. She gave me a two-dollar coin to put in the peeps and I had a look. When I came out of the booth she said, “Reckon you could do that, love?” And I said yep and the rest is history. I went from there to the Club X Bar, to the Shaft, and picked up a bit of agency work along the way.

  Now I’m doing a couple of shifts at the Red.’

  ‘You must make a lot of money.’

  I shrugged. ‘Some days you do, some you don’t. And quick as it comes it goes out again. Waxing, solarium, hair, nails, shoes, costumes. I never seem to have any left over. Some strippers are paying off houses, investing in shares, but they’re few and far between.’

  ‘Do you like the job? I think Aurora does but Betty seems to hate it.’

  ‘Hmmm. Love–hate. When you’re on stage dancing to the music you like and everyone’s cheering it’s the best job in the world. After an hour in the peeps for a lousy twenty bucks, or a show for a bunch of unappreciative arseholes, then it sucks.

  ‘I love the people you get to work with, though.

  Everyone’s a little left of centre. To tell you the truth I’ve never been total y comfortable in normal society, and hanging out with freaks and misfits I feel right at home.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Mick said.

  ‘And the really great thing about stripping, as opposed to hospitality or retail, is that the customer is always wrong.’

  He laughed at my joke and I was glad. The waitress removed our empty bowls and we order another beer each. ‘So what about you?’ I asked. ‘What were you in jail for?’

  ‘Shot a man in Reno.’

  ‘Ha ha, no really.’

  ‘Assault.’

  ‘A woman?’ My stomach clenched. Our beers arrived.

  Bottles glistening with condensation.

  ‘No. A man. A very bad man, who deserved everything he got.’

  ‘Who was it? What did he do?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Mick picked up his drink. ‘You don’t fuck on the first date and I don’t spill my guts.’

  ‘So we’re on a date, are we?’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  We had a couple of whiskies back at the Doulton Bar and Mick drove me home in his battered Ute. I didn’t know if I’d invite him up or not. Sitting next to him, in among empty Tally-ho packets, beer bottles and crumpled building plans, the urge to touch him was immense and if it led to that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to say no.

  ‘This is it,’ I told him, and we screeched to a halt in front of my place. He switched off the engine.

  ‘I’ll let you walk me to my flat,’ I said, ‘but that’s it.’

  Trying to pretend I wasn’t a slut.

  I led him up the interior stairs and when we got to my place I turned and leaned against the door. We stared at each other for a long time. He had an intense way of looking at me that made my inner thighs turn to liquid. His mouth was only a foot away but the distance seemed impossible to traverse. I bit the bullet and moved hesitantly towards him and in a rush he scooped me up and put his mouth on mine. He pushed me back against the door and put his leg between my thighs, held my face and kissed me hard. I felt his broad back beneath the soft material of his shirt, his hips pressing against me and lost all resolve. I had to get him inside the house and inside of me as soon as was humanly possible.

  So what if I was the slut from hell? So what if he was a fuck-’em and leave-’em guitar player? I flashed to the incriminating noticeboard in my room but that was OK, we probably wouldn’t make it further than the floor inside the front door.

  I was fumbling for my keys with one hand and his belt buckle with the other when he suddenly pulled away and cupped my chin in his hands. He stared at me, almost as if he was puzzled, and said, ‘Where did you come from?’ Then kissed me on the forehead, turned on his Cuban heels and walked down the stairs.

  I waited by the door like a stunned mullet. What had just happened? Hopefully he was nicking to the car for some condoms and—

  The Ute started up. Shit. I unlocked the door, raced through my flat to the balcony, and got there just in time to see him speed off down Broadway.

  Motherfucker. That was my tric
k.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thursday 20 November

  The taxi crawled along Sydney Road, Brunswick, past two-dollar shops, Lebanese restaurants and pool halls.

  It was eight at night and I was on my way to the Miss Striptease competition. I had two hours to try and talk to Honey and Shane, as Kelvin’s driver was picking me up at ten. A last minute booking for a show at Noble Park—apparently they had asked for me by name.

  Mick had called at midday from a building site, the staccato tap of hammering in the background and the whine of a circular saw.

  ‘ “Okie from Muskogee.” ’

  ‘That’s so easy I’m not even going to answer,’ I’d replied.

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ he asked. ‘Wanna go see a band?’

  ‘I’m working from eight till midnight.’

  ‘What about after work?’

  ‘I don’t know. What if you run out on me again?’

  He laughed. ‘Now you know what it feels like.’

  ‘Evil bastard,’ I said. ‘Was that revenge?’

  ‘An eye for an eye, lady.’

  I had told him I’d call when I’d finished my show.

  The neon Crystal T’s sign stuck out from the building at a crazy angle, surrounded by flashing lights. I paid the cab driver and zigzagged through traffic to the other side of the street. I nodded to the bouncer out front, paid ten bucks to get in and left my backpack with the girl behind the front counter.

  Crystal T’s had been around for years, catering for bucks’ parties and hens’ nights. The interior was eighties ‘nite spot’ and the furnishings RSL bistro. The stage to my left had glittery curtains and tables full of guys crammed in front and on my right the floor tiered upward and there were more tables and a sound and lighting booth. The bar was at the back and I headed there first for cheap champagne before settling at a table in the raised section with a good view of the club.

  I was right on time. The Miss Striptease theme blasted out and a mirror ball sparked points of light across the walls and ceiling. A smoke machine cranked up and a cloud drifted across the stage. Exciting stuff.

  The DJ’s voice boomed over the PA: ‘Good evening and welcome to the Victorian finals of the tenth annual Miss Striptease competition!’

  The music and lighting became more frantic and the contestants began to appear. Men down the front clapped and yelled. The dancers all wore variations on the same bondage theme and got ten seconds to do a little dance before moving to the rear and striking a pose.

  A young-looking blonde shimmied down to a squat at the front of the stage and the DJ introduced her as

  ‘Honey, sponsored by Dominique’s Elite.’ A guy stood up, punched a fist in the air and yelled, ‘Yeah!’ I guessed that was Shane.

  When all eight contestants had created a tableau an explosion sounded and glitter rained down from the ceiling. It was just like Miss Teen USA, but with open leg work.

  The girls exited and the DJ introduced: ‘Your hostess this evening, Dominique Dubois!’

  A forty-something woman with waist-length black hair walked to the centre of the stage and welcomed the audience. She wore a leopard-print sheath with huge fake boobs popping out. Dominique was famous. She’d been an award-winning stripper in the eighties and now ran Melbourne’s most successful agency, due to her knack for publicity. Her latest trick had been running for parliament on a law and order platform, campaigning with four busty strippers in skimpy cop outfits. It guaranteed her a spot on the news every night: ‘And now the lighter side of the election race.’

  ‘Are you ready to see the crème de la crème of Melbourne’s striptease artistes get down and dirrrty for you?’ Dominique said.

  ‘Yeah,’ yelled the crowd.

  ‘Tonight the girls are competing for over a thousand dollars in cash and prizes, the cover of Picture magazine, and the chance to represent Victoria in the national finals. Now you gentlemen have an important role to play. The judges will take into account appearance, personality and the quality of the show but also audience reaction. So when you see your favourite dancer we want you to make plenty of noise, all right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Dominique cupped a hand around her ear. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Yeaaahhh!’

  ‘Show us your tits,’ someone shouted. Dominique didn’t miss a beat.

  ‘What, these old things?’ She jiggled her boobs with her hands. ‘When you’re about to see the best breasts and butts in the business? Gentlemen, the first part of our competition: Body Bitz!’

  Dominique left the stage and the dancers began parading past a screen with the mid-section cut out. You couldn’t see their heads or legs, just tits and bums. I was glad my mum wasn’t there. I’d never win the argument about stripping objectifying women and reducing them to parts. Not tonight.

  There was an interval after Body Bitz and I bought another drink and took it back to my seat. I couldn’t see the guy I thought was Shane. A man at the table next to me was smoking Peter Jacksons and I was considering bludging one when he noticed me looking and scooted over. He was mid-thirties, dishevelled, and smelled very strongly of beer.

  ‘How you doing? Curtis Malone, Picture magazine.’

  He held out a hand and I introduced myself. His palm was slightly sweaty.

  ‘Is that the judges’ table?’ I nodded to where he’d been sitting.

  ‘Yeah, I’m one of them. That dude in the middle? He won a reader’s comp to be guest judge.’

  I glanced over. The guy was deep in thought, looking down at his scoresheet and scratching his head with a stunted pencil. His light beer was hardly touched. I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Yeah,’ Curtis conceded, ‘he’s taking it a bit seriously.’

  He offered me a cigarette, lit it and I drew back gratefully.

  ‘So he doesn’t know the competition’s rigged then?’

  I blew out smoke.

  Curtis opened his mouth in mock shock. ‘Blasphemy!’

  Then he leaned in: ‘Ever done any glamour modelling?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How’d you like to be in Picture?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, every girl wants to be in Picture magazine.’

  ‘I am a fan of your publication.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I love the words you guys come up with. Tockley, Smoo. And Cuntox, that’s my favourite.’

  ‘No shit, Cuntox was one of mine.’

  ‘It’s a heck of a word, congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I worked on the Sydney Tribune a couple of years ago, court reporting, sports pages. But I never got to make up a word, you know.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful thing,’ I agreed. The lights dimmed and Dominique announced the individual dance event.

  ‘Anyway,’ Curtis got off his chair, ‘here’s my card, we’re always looking for new girls and it’s worth a couple of grand if you make the cover.’

  The performances began with a cheerleader, followed by a devil with glittering red horns and a girl who started in a fat suit and emerged thin and naked.

  I tried to note good moves for my own shows. Then Honey skipped onto the stage in a St Trinian’s style school uniform: blazer, straw hat, ripped stockings. She was tiny even in stripper heels, with no hips and small perky breasts. The guys at Shane’s table went wild as she jumped around like Mighty Mouse on speed, concluding the show by covering herself with whipped cream and a sprinkle of hundreds and thousands.

  The next girl was a high-kicking blonde with big tits and then it was interval time again. The clock on my mobile said twenty-one thirty so I marched down to the table by the stage. A few guys sat around.

  ‘Is Shane here?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s at the bar,’ said a chunky blond guy. ‘After Honey I thought your show was the best.’

  ‘I’m not in the competition,’ I said.

  ‘You should be,’ piped up a skinny young guy wi
th bad skin. ‘You’re hot enough.’

  ‘You’re sweet.’ I resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.

  ‘She did a great show.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Blondie, ‘Honey’s grouse for a stripper, not stuck up or nothing.’

  A guy approached the table with a cluster of VB stubbies in his arms.

  ‘Hey, Shane,’ the skinny one said, ‘this chick’s here to see you.’

  Shane looked me over warily. At first glance he was quite good looking with straight blond hair that flopped over his face and a body like a kick-boxer, wiry and muscular. When I studied him a bit longer I noticed his chin was too pointy, his lips dry and thin and his eyes too close together.

  He put the beers down. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about something, in private.’

  A few of the guys sniggered.

  ‘Why can’t we talk here?’ He picked up a beer and had a swig.

  ‘It’s about Frank Parisi’s murder.’

  Shane rolled his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You another fucking cop?’

  ‘I’m an inquiry agent.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he laughed.

  ‘I am.’ I hoped I didn’t sound too whiny and got my license out again. Maybe I would be more convincing in a hat and trenchcoat. Shane took it and passed it around for his mates to see before handing it back.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Shane jutted his chin out defiantly. ‘I didn’t fucking do it. I’ve been over this a million times with the cops. I’m sick of this shit and I know I don’t have to talk to you.’ He swigged his beer again and ripped the label off the bottle.

  ‘Do the cops believe you?’

  ‘Nuh, it’s harassment. What happened to innocent before proven guilty?’

  ‘Hear hear.’ His mates clinked their stubbies in support.

  ‘I’ve got a fucking alibi,’ he said, ‘and there’s no murder weapon, no DNA evidence.’

  ‘But you’ve got a motive.’

  ‘Who didn’t?’

  ‘What is your alibi?’

  ‘Why should I tell you?’

  Shane’s mates were looking back and forth from him to me like spectators at the tennis. ‘Are you happy with the way the police are conducting the investigation?’