There was dead silence between the three of us. Sefra and I glanced at one another. Ken lit up a cigarette. Sefra and I both realized that one of us had to come up with a phone number if we wanted that money. The unsettling silence was finally broken. Sefra agreed to give Ken her cell phone number, and told him that she had to go get a piece of paper and pen to write it down. Minutes later, Sefra returned to the table where Ken and I were sitting. She handed him a small piece of neatly folded paper, which he immediately slid into his jacket pocket.
“This better not be a fake phone number,” he said very seriously. Neither Sefra nor I acknowledged the threat. Instead, we simultaneously took the money off the table and stuffed it into the sides of our thigh-high black leather boots. Ken said nothing. Sefra and I each gave him a calculated kiss on the cheek and thanked him for the money. He didn’t acknowledge our gratitude. As a matter of fact, I got the distinct feeling that he really didn’t want to be with us, which by the way was alright with me. Ten minutes later, Ken told us that he had to take off to the airport. Once again, Sefra and I pretended to be upset. We walked him to the door, and gave him a big theatrical hug goodbye. Ken mechanically returned our staged embrace and then he disappeared into the dark parking lot of the club. My partner in crime and I went off into the dressing room to count the two small bundles of cash that we had taken off the table. Ken had given us close to $5,000 in twenty-dollar bills. It was a good haul, and most definitely made our night. Now neither of us had to deal with any more customers for the evening.
The following evening came all too quickly. I elected to come into work a few hours late. Because this particular management was so lackadaisical, I was able to get away with it. I strolled into the club about 10:30 p.m., and headed directly into the dressing room to get ready. The minute I entered the dressing room, I was bombarded by a couple of the dancers who informed me that Sefra had been looking for me. I was in a very hostile mood that evening and didn’t want to be bothered by anybody, least of all Sefra. I completely ignored what my co-workers had just told me, and proceeded to get ready for work. Unfortunately, my few moments of solitude were abruptly interrupted by the sound of Sefra’s voice. She burst into the dressing room and slammed her cell phone on the counter a few inches from where I was sitting. “You’ve got to listen to these sick messages on my voicemail,” she demanded. I didn’t respond. “Sathen, listen to me. Sicko has been leaving us messages all damn day.” I wasn’t sure, but I presumed that she was talking about Ken. “And wait,” she injected, “it gets better, I think he tried to follow me home last night.” Sefra began to tell me her story. She pulled out of the club’s parking lot at about 3:30 a.m. About five miles down the road, Sefra noticed a car sitting along the side of the road with its headlights turned off.
When she passed it, the car suddenly pulled out and followed her for at least ten miles. Sefra was finally able to lose the stalker when she got onto the expressway.
Sefra believed that it was Ken who had followed her. I was inclined to agree. I told Sefra a long time ago that I had bad vibes about the man, but she refused to listen. Now she had changed her tune. Sefra left her cell phone with me so I could listen to the messages. I took her phone into the ladies room, because the dressing room was too noisy. There were a total of seven messages to be exact. I retrieved the first message from her voicemail. It was relatively short, “Hi ladies, it’s just me. Listen, give me a call. Something very important has come up, and we need to talk.” I recognized the voice immediately. It definitely was Ken. The second message was rather rude, “Get off your dead ass and call me.” Calls three, four, and five were hang-ups. Ken was extremely humble in call number six though. “Hi girls, look, I’m just a bit edgy. Could one of you please call me ASAP?” By the seventh call, Ken’s mood had dramatically shifted from humble to blatantly hostile, “Hey, it’s me Ken. Remember me? I’m the chump that gave both you bitches all that money.” That call ended with the phone being smashed down. It was quite obvious that this man was going to be a problem, but how big of a problem I couldn’t speculate. There was one thing that I was certain of, and that was I wouldn’t go on any more lunch dates with old Ken. I was finished. If Sefra chose to continue to deal with this creep, she would have to do it without me. This situation with Ken was a prime example of why I chose not to cultivate many steady customers throughout my career.
At this point in the game, Ken had spent close to $70,000 between his visits to the club and the lunch dates. We didn’t know where the money came from, nor did we care. Sefra and I weren’t the only ones who scammed our customers. I had seen a lot of dancers string their steady customers along for huge amounts of money for several years. It was a grueling procedure. The women had to continuously think up new scams to use on the guys in order to extract money from them. Sefra and I weren’t willing to invest that type of time with anyone. We intended to bleed Ken as quickly as possible, and then move onto the next.
I caught up with Sefra later on that evening, and gave her the cell phone back.
She asked me what I thought we should do about Ken. I strongly suggested we dump the guy. This meant having no further contact with him. Besides, when customers became too high maintenance, it was customary for the dancers to drop them. Sefra said that she was going to have the number of her cell phone changed, so that Ken couldn’t call us anymore. I strongly advised her against doing that. If Ken wouldn’t be able to contact us via her cell phone, he probably would start calling us again at the club, and that was the last thing we needed.
Sefra agreed.
I worked a couple more hours that night, and went home early. I told the floor manager that I had a court date in the morning. The truth of the matter was that I was totally burned out on the whole scene, and just wanted to go home.
The next day, I drowned my sorrows at a very upscale shopping mall. I went to a high-end jewelry store and bought myself a very expensive Cartier watch. It wasn’t uncommon for me to buy myself luxurious gifts. The more miserable I became, the more money I spent. The expensive things that I purchased served as a temporary distraction from my miserable life. Unfortunately, the day went by quickly. Before I knew it, it was time to go back to the dreaded Vegas Star, which the dancers commonly referred to as “prison.” It was an unusually cold and rainy October night. It was perfect sleeping weather. I was tempted to call in sick, but the responsible side of me took over. I reluctantly went into work. When I arrived at the club, it was packed full of anxious men waiting to see naked women. Thick clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke loomed heavily inside the club. One of the doormen had propped open the front door of the club with an old brick in order to alleviate some of the toxic smoke. Gusts of cold, damp air quickly permeated the foyer of the building. Cars whizzed by on the street that ran directly in front of the club. Whenever the front door of the club was propped open, motorists that were passing by the club would deliberately slow down in the hopes of getting a free peek of a nude dancer. Other passengers shouted obscenities at the establishment from the windows of their cars. Jimi Hendrix music thundered from the speakers in the club. Too inebriated to dance, a drunken woman stumbled aimlessly around the stage, while trying desperately to disguise her obviously intoxicated state. The pathetic dancer was so drunk that she was actually tripping over her own feet, but she was nude and that’s all it took to captivate the audience.