Unlike the Golden Show Lounge, which enforced a dress code and catered to a more sophisticated crowd, this club didn’t discriminate against blue-collar workers or undesirable individuals. As long as a man had a wallet with money in it, he was welcome. Every customer that walked through the doors was a potential mark.
The atmosphere of the club was highly combative due to the abundance of disgruntled customers. Although, this club operated under a casual style of management, there was one rule that was consistently enforced and that was the “no money back policy.” Customers who challenged the policy were violently beaten.
The fistfights, head bashing, and pistol whipping that took place at the Golden Show Lounge paled in comparison to the ones I witnessed at the Vegas Star.
Hammers, saws, garbage cans, garden rakes, rubber fishing boots, tire irons, and gas cans were the weapons of choice. It wasn’t uncommon to see customers being hauled away in an ambulance throughout the evening. Not all of the men who demanded their money back were physically accosted. The beatings were primarily geared to problematic patrons.
Some of the more irate customers resorted to calling the police claiming that somebody had robbed them of their money at the club. Because the police had to respond to each and every complaint, it wasn’t unusual to see the same set of police officers show up at the club night after night. The police were never sym-pathetic to the woes of irate customers. Instead the customer’s complaints were dismissed, and the men were reminded that prostitution wasn’t legal in the state of Illinois. The customer was left with no recourse. Some would make the mistake of attempting to fight with the police, which resulted in their immediate arrest. Others threatened to burn the club down or retaliate in other violent ways.
Angry passersby’s often threw stones, rotten fruit, and bombs at the front door of the club. Certain customers who felt that they had been duped threatened the lives of the dancers.
To protect themselves from the clientele or other late night predators, most of the dancers kept loaded guns on their person or in the glove compartment of their cars, myself included. Some of the women frightened by the continual threats, and eventually quit the business. Although dangerous and deviant characters were the hallmark of most strip clubs, the Vegas Star seemed to attract more than its share.
Jeffrey Dahmer was a prime example. I met Jeff on a lonely Monday night in mid-October, which was a year before the police apprehended him for multiple murders. Business was exceptionally slow that evening. On nights like these, the dancers would sit around a large table that was fairly close to the front door of the club waiting for customers to come in. Finally about 1:00 a.m., a new customer strolled through the door. The dancers were absolutely livid because a new customer meant that we would all have to go up on the stage to dance again. By 1:00
a.m., the only thing that we wanted to do was to go home. Needless to say, this customer wasn’t wanted.
The doorman led the man to a table in the dark corner of the room. I watched the man robotically sit down in this chair. Moments later, one by one the dancers began to saunter over to the young-blonde man. All of the women that went over to talk to him ended up leaving his table rather abruptly. The man probably wasn’t going to spend any money.
Disgusted and bored, I decided to pay him a visit. Although I knew that I was probably wasting my time, I walked over to him, pulled up a chair, and sat down.
The stoic figure didn’t acknowledge my presence. The fact that he didn’t want to be bothered made me want to agitate him even more. I began to converse with him in hopes that he would get up and leave. I started with asking him his name.
The man sighed and mumbled, “Jeff.” Then I asked where he was from, he replied “Milwaukee, Wisconsin.” By this time the waitress had come over to the table and was deliberately shining her flashlight directly into the man’s eyes, causing him to wince. This was a little ploy that we would use on customers that wouldn’t spend any money on us. “Look at this cute guy that I found,” I said sarcastically to the waitress. “Doesn’t he have a great personality? You know what? I bet you he’s a talk show host or a news commentator,” I remarked. The waitress and I began to laugh. The rigid silhouette sat next to me and said nothing. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and laid it on the table. “Get me a Coke,” he demanded. The waitress ignored his request and snatched his wallet off the table. I could tell the man was getting madder and madder. “I suggest you give that back to me.” His voice was cold and unwavering. “Not until I see your driver’s license,” she insisted. “I want to see how photogenic you are.” He tried to grab his wallet from the waitress’s hand, but was unsuccessful.
The waitress rifled through his wallet and pulled out his I.D. “So,” she said, “you’re old Jeffrey Dahmer. Nice picture! Are you out on some type of prison furlough or something?” She took his driver’s license and threw it in his lap.
“Why don’t you both get lost,” he snarled. “We work here,” I replied, “why don’t you get the hell out?” He took our advice, stood up, dumped his Coke all over the table, and left. Ironically enough, one of the dancers called him a cheap fag as he walked out the door.
Over the years, the club Vegas Star had earned a reputation for being a “clip joint,” but despite the clubs toxic reputation, droves of men continued to filter through its doors.
Time flew by quickly. I was in my late thirties and still working in strip clubs. I had done nothing to change my direction. I consistently worried about my future, or shall I say, lack of it. The fact that I had never done anything constructive with my life consumed me. I longed to be free of my past, present, and future, but there was no logical way outside of committing suicide. Unfortunately, suicide wasn’t an option for me, simply because I didn’t have the nerve to do it. I seemed to be losing my battle against depression. It had become increas-ingly difficult for me to get out of bed in the afternoon even though I had slept for thirteen hours. I had emotionally hit rock bottom, and I knew it. Convinced that I needed some type of help, I began seeing a mental health therapist, who turned out to be quite helpful. After several months of therapy, I managed to push myself into going to college to pursue a degree. For the very first time in my life, I had actually done something that I felt good about. I went to school part-time for several years and earned several degrees in the process. My area of study was in Human Services, but even my new education couldn’t pull me out of the clubs. I was afraid to go out into the real world, because I felt that I wouldn’t fit in. Although I was educated, I still felt isolated from mainstream society. It was this irrational fear that kept me chained to the strip clubs, and I had nobody to blame but myself.
I continued to work at the Vegas Star for the next seven years. I was now approaching forty-five, and only five years away from the much-dreaded age of fifty. My days in this business were numbered, regardless of how attractive I still was. The business was still booming at the Vegas Star, so I figured I had another year or two left to work at this club. Adrian and Saydra, the owners of the club, no longer came around. They were replaced with a new, even more dysfunctional management team. The details of this change were never revealed.
By now, most of the Chicagoland strip clubs were shut down as a result of Operation Safe Bet. The Vegas Star remained open, but not without a struggle. It too was under constant scrutiny by the law. Nevertheless, this club and a few others managed to keep its doors open.