‘She had policemen paying her rent — and crims buying her clothes’
ONE of the prettiest girls I have ever seen was Pauline, a glamorous dancer who drove men to distraction.
She was a stripper who could send men crazy with her moves, but she got into heroin in a big way. She turned into a faded beauty working in Fitzroy Street, St Kilda, as a $60 whore.
Whenever I saw Pauline she was sporting a busted lip, black eye or a bruised face. She was constantly being bashed, raped and robbed for her hard-earned money or the drugs she needed.
I felt sorry for her, and regularly stopped to speak to her. She used to like the people of Fitzroy Street to see me chatting with her. She used to use my name to protect her. It did help her out, but not with some of her clients.
I once saw her walking towards me, ‘smacked’ off her face, in a torn-up tee-shirt, a pair of tiny shorts that nearly cut her in half and a pair of spiky high heels.
She still had a body on her and a dancer’s walk, more a strut than a walk. Her face was swollen and black and she had black, red and blue welts from her ankles to her bum and all over her body. You could see all this as she was wearing so little.
She had been thrashed with a man’s leather belt by two men who had picked her up. This pair of vermin had taken her to a motel room, given her a hit of heroin, then doubled up on her and belted her for nearly an hour, just for fun. At the end, they took the money out of her purse. They had also smashed her false teeth and busted her ear drum. There she was, toothless, half dead, with a broken nose and beaten black and blue.
What could I, or anyone, do for her? Her arms were like dart boards, with needle marks scarring them up and down. She would offer me free sex and I would politely refuse. I didn’t want to screw her, or bash her or rape her. And she just wanted someone to talk to.
She thought I was her friend. I wasn’t. She was just a pathetic street animal and I felt sorry for her, the way you feel sorry for a lost dog.
She would talk about the old days and the past when she was a beautiful dancer. She would talk about the friends she used to have and how she was going to get on a methadone program and pull her life into gear.
She would say that if she had a guy like me to look after her she would be as right as rain. She would talk about her clients and how the police would arrest her and toss her in the cells with the drunks.
I would not have touched her without the protection of rubber gloves, a stainless steel condom and a bucket of Dettol. But after a chat with me she would walk away, swinging her hips, then she would take the stance with her long legs apart on the street. Within no time at all, a car would pull up and the driver would invite her in.
The last time I saw her she had stepped on a nail and the wound looked septic to me. She walked with a limp in her high heels. She was still without her teeth and was full of VD and had not been able to get to the clinic. She had sores on her arms from the needles. Even then, she still had the legs of a dancer, but she had the face of the street gutter junkie.
She was so well-known as a health risk in St Kilda she had to find a new patch and was working in Footscray. She had ulcers inside her mouth and was catering for the perverted sex trade for $25 a go. She was sleeping in Salvation Army clothing bins.
She was a walking public toilet. Heroin was her only reason for living.
Pauline was the saddest human sight I had ever seen. But what of the human scum who used her, the sexual sickies? What a wonderful world we live in.
Pauline was a terrible example of the living dead, a heroin whore, a pathetic waste of life. Is she still alive?
It would be a mercy if she wasn’t.
*
RANDY Mandy was a tall (5′9″) blonde with a body that was put together by the devil in a wet dream. She was all legs and boobs. When she filled out official forms she gave her occupation as ‘sword swallower’. I like a girl with a sense of humor.
She was never involved in prostitution, but she did work part time as a stripper and erotic dancer.
She was also a dab hand as a double agent, doing big favors and passing info from one side to the other. She slept with both the cops and the crooks.
Her main boyfriend was a big, bent Victorian detective I will call … but then again, perhaps I won’t. But she had plenty of others — and a lot more who wanted to get in the queue. She had boyfriends in both the Federal and Victorian forces, and a host of admirers in the criminal world.
Mandy was never trusted, but she was far too good-looking to kill or arrest. She had policemen paying her rent — and crims buying her clothes. She had top of the range jewellery, and if she ever wanted drugs, for recreational use, she would be provided with them.
She could get what she wanted from either side. She would put on strip shows at police bucks’ nights or turn up to orgies at some top crims’ homes.
She is about six years older than me and looks about ten years younger. She is terrified of violence, but fascinated and drawn to violent men.
When she was 38 she had an 18-year-old boyfriend, more a lackey than a companion. He was the errand boy, the house maid. I once called in to visit her. She greeted me at the door wearing nothing but a pair of stiletto high heels and a smile that took my breath away. I walked into the room, armed to the teeth, to warn her there was a police car outside. She put her fingers to her lips and said ‘shh, he’s asleep,’ as the policeman slept like a baby in the next room. She was an energetic girl.
She was a crime groupie, fascinated with the criminal and the police world. Women with her unique physical and mental makeup are as rare as diamonds – and cause just as much trouble. But Mandy herself floated unharmed like a butterfly in a world where many other women have died.
Mad Charlie, the man who in the 1970s stood over the massage industry, was quite smitten with Mandy. He was like a little kid in her company, being ever so polite and correct. It was almost like a courtship and quite funny to see. The monster of a 1000 massage parlors hopelessly in love with a lady, who in her high heels, looked down on Charlie as if he was a schoolboy.
He spent a small fortune on assorted presents, but the competition was too hot. She had more engagement rings than the local pawn shop. When he found out the truth of her police contacts, his heart hardened. Many people believe that Mad Charlie was shot over a woman.
Charlie’s luck in love was always bad. His bodyguard, ‘Big Mick’ was also in love with Mandy, so it was a no-win situation.
For Mandy there is a happy ending. She is now living in a state of relaxed retirement in a Melbourne suburb with a young boyfriend. She no longer sees men from either world. However, I am told that should a face from the past drop in, she has far too kind a heart to turn away a man in distress.
This lady has caused men to be bashed, stabbed, shot, sent to prison and murdered. Yet, through it all, she has been untouchable, proving that physical and sexual charm can cripple the mind, heart and common sense of any man, be he copper or crook.
I know men who have gone to see Mandy with every intention of killing her, only to end up totally in love and lust. She was a unique classic, a freak.
The only person who nearly turned Mandy into a born-again virgin and a candidate for the nunnery was that old mad drug dealer, Scottish Steve.
Steve had arranged to sell Mandy to some Arabic seamen from a merchant ship bound for North Africa. They were prepared to pay $5000 as they could re-sell her when they got to Africa.
It was a close call for Mandy, as Scottish Steve was convinced that she was some form of witch with evil powers and was trying to put a spell on him. Now, Scottish Steve was as mad as a bath tub full of rattle snakes. She went to see him in tears. I do not know what took place in Scottish Steve’s Ascot Vale home, but when she emerged, all was forgiven.
Steve announced that Mandy had been cleansed of all sin and that she was really a good girl at heart.
The mind boggles as to how she talked her way out of that one. Oh well, we all use the weapons that God gave us. Ha, ha.
*
WHILE Mandy was the top of the range in the crime groupie stakes, a sex legend, there was another girl who, on the strength of her outrageous behavior, was known wide and far in the 1970s.
She was a big girl, with long black hair and gypsy looks, which might be why they called her Midnight. She could fight like a man and was more violent than most.
Midnight was totally without shame and would put on some of the wildest displays ever seen in Melbourne. She was a famous dirty girl, who mixed with some of the top crims of the 1970s.
She was rock solid in a police station and apart from having an insane sexual reputation, she was considered a solid chick.
The last time I saw her, she was on the way to the doctor with a billiard ball stuck in her bottom, and it was so uncomfortable she couldn’t even read the news. But she was laughing her head off over her predicament, telling me I’d missed a great party.
Midnight was a wild lady, and I use the term lady purely because I am such a polite chap. She was the gangbang queen of Melbourne in the 1970s.
She was without shame and could make a gunman blush with her behavior. And often did.
*
I HAVE mentioned before that over the years I have received some tragic letters from old grannies and tearful mothers whose sons and daughters have died of drug overdoses.
I understand and sympathize with them, but I also get some weird and wonderful letters from some people who should have been locked up long before me. The assortment of Jesus freaks, bible bashers, violence junkies, murder nuts and other fruitcakes that have contacted me by mail indicates we are not a well country.
Most of this mail has gone in the bin. But the first book has produced a steady flow of mail different to anything I have had before. It is clear to me now that every nut in Australia must end up inside bookshops, because just about every one of them has written to me. They have all come out of hiding, and I wish most of them would crawl back under their rocks.
Most of the letters are full of crap but occasionally you get one from someone worthwhile. One person who has been writing to me for some years is a delightful lady, Jackie. She has become a loyal ‘penfriend’, if you can believe it. She tells me she is the President of the Chopper Read fan club. She even has a tee-shirt confirming the fact.
Well, while I enjoy the joke I would like to tell her not to wear that particular item of clothing in certain less reputable areas of Melbourne because some people might rip it straight off her chest. Perhaps not such a bad idea.
Another girl with obvious literary taste is Karen. She wrote to me to tell me that the cover of the first book would make an excellent tattoo. I took that with a grain of salt. A tongue-in-cheek fan club with a tee shirt is one thing but a tattoo, like herpes, is forever.
Karen is known as the ‘White Dove’. She said I was bigger than Batman. I just hope she never meets my mate ‘The Penguin’.
I had mixed feelings about the tattoo business. To be truthful, I didn’t believe it was true.
When Jackie sent me the photo of herself with the tee shirt I thought ‘this is a chick with a different sense of humor’. But when I saw the pictures of Karen with the book cover illustration tattooed on her back. I realized she was very serious indeed. Obviously, she loved the book.
Receiving mail in prison can be one of the great delights. It really helps break the loneliness. But it can be depressing, too. I get letters from battered wives and frightened women who ask me for advice. Some of the letters are quite sad, and I try to reply with the best advice I can, feeling a little like Dear Abby. Chopper the agony aunt.
One lovely young lady who has written to me is Desiree. She knows that I haven’t any children myself so I am sort of a godfather to her daughter. Gemma, She is a lovely little girl who also writes to me. So when I say the book brought some whackos out of the woodwork, I must admit that not all the letters come from mental patients. But there is no doubt that I am a pin-up boy for the nuts of the world. And do I ever get some mail from them, bless their pointy little heads.
But if someone writes to me in their own blood after cutting off their ears, that’s when I’ll change my name and get plastic surgery.
I have even received mail from blokes who have told me they read the book and thought I looked nice … so could I send them a photo. Bloody Hell. Needless to say, I did not reply. The next thing they will want me to be the May Queen at the Gay Mardi Gras.
When I get letters from people asking me in a roundabout way how to fix their domestic upsets, I scratch my head. Now Chopper Read can be many things to many people, but one thing I will never be is a marriage guidance counsellor. Some people write to ask how much it would cost to fix a problem and I certainly don’t agree with giving quotes on a bit of paper.
Some people have written to me claiming to be related, others have said they were related to me in a former life. One claimed that I appeared in a dream and passed on a special message. I sincerely hope it was ‘get some help, you crazy creep’.
One woman, who signed her name ‘Zandra’, said she was a mystic witch, a mistress of the black arts. She claims that my real name is not Mark Brandon Read but ‘Zeath’ and that I was her warlock brother and that if we both prayed at the same time we could double our mystic powers.
I flushed Zandra’s letter down the toilet. Let’s see her spook her way out of that.
One of the great problems of being in jail is that every nutcase out there knows your address. Let me out.
*
IN the world of prostitution, standover tactics are part of life. Girls get bashed, robbed and raped. Few complain, as they long ago lost their dignity and pride. Without self-respect, they are victims waiting to happen.
But not all ladies of loose morals are easy victims.
There was one prostitute who managed a small parlor in Prahran who stood about six feet tall and could have taken up a career on the catwalk had she been so inclined in her younger days. Her name was Lucy.
In those days Lucy had two girls working for her who were in their late teens. One night they had a visit from a group of AFL footballers from a well-known club.
The footballers were loud and drunk, celebrating a football victory. They got a little violent and refused to pay the service fee. They locked the door and raped all three women. Then they left without paying.
About a week later they came back, with a few more in the pack, for a repeat performance, only to find ‘Juicy Lucy’ standing in the doorway with a double barrelled shotgun. She screamed, ‘You bastards aren’t going to get away with this again’.
She bashed a big ruckman in the head with the butt of the gun, cutting him badly, then fired one barrel over the head of the rest of them. There were footballers everywhere running for their lives.
They might be heroes to mugs, old women and little kids, but AFL footballers don’t count for much in the underworld. And as any working girl can tell you, they have a poor reputation in the parlors as loud mouthed drunks who complain about the entrance fee.
LADY KILLER
I never killed a lady, and I really don’t know why,
Most of the ones I’ve met have really deserved to die,
I guess in the end,
In spite of my mind being bent,
I’m just a bloody old softy,
A real old-fashioned gent.
