Rebeckka Black - Dance to Despair - Memoirs of an Exotic Dancer

Eventually sleeping as a means of escape was no longer a viable option for me. I began having violent reoccurring dreams that always revolved around death, murder, and dangerous men. Some of these dreams were premonitions, foretelling me of some type of future tragedy or impending unpleasantness… that invariably came true.

I found these haunting dreams to be quite disturbing. There was one dream in particular that I will never forget. I dreamt that my ex-employer Vince Roth had come to pay me a visit at work. He arrived at the club in a large black expensive looking automobile. The vehicle was a hearse.

Four nights later, I was called out of the dressing room by one of the waitresses who informed me that I had a visitor. When I asked the waitress who it was, she said that she had no idea because she had never seen the man before. I figured that it was probably another one of my unsatisfied customers seeking retribution.

I took my sweet time leaving the dressing room. After all, I was in the middle of doing something important like putting on another coat of mascara. Suddenly, the dressing room door flew open, and through the reflection of the mirror, I saw a man enter. Startled, I quickly turned around to see who it was. At first I thought it was a customer, but I soon realized it was none other than Vince Roth.

I was absolutely shocked, because I hadn’t seen the man in close to five years.

Vince still had the same commanding presence about him, but something about him had changed. Gone were the dark tan and the expensive gold necklaces that used to hang down his chest. He looked considerably older and worn. He was casually dressed and wore a black berretta styled jacket that was much like the one he wore years before. “Let’s blow this pop stand,” he said in his usual abrasive tone of voice. “I want to talk to you.” When I left the dressing room, I found Vince sitting at a table in the back of the room smoking a cigarette.

I sat across the table from him. The first words that came out of his mouth were, “Are you saving your fucking money blondie?” I had to laugh. I could see that his vocabulary hadn’t changed. I asked a lot of questions about his whereabouts for the last five years. The Vince that I once knew would have been blissfully boasting about his latest successful endeavors including a detailed list of all the extravagant things that he had purchased for himself. But the man that was sitting across from me now did no such thing. Vince spoke slowly and very matter of factly about what had been going on in this life. He told me that he was virtually poverty stricken and had been living off the good graces of some older women that he recently met. The man that used to be clad in the finest of clothes and jewelry pointed to the cheap Timex watch on his wrist. His jewelry wasn’t the only thing that was gone. Vince walked me out to the parking lot and showed me his new car. It was a beat up ten-year old Chevrolet. A far cry from the expensive Cadillacs and Elderados that he used to drive.

He admitted that he had become impoverished via his own greed and some type of business deals that had gone bad. Vince claimed that he had a gambling problem that had gotten out of control. He said that he had squandered a majority of his wealth on the blackjack tables in the glitzy casinos of Las Vegas.

Gambling wasn’t Vince’s only addiction. He also frequented whorehouses on a daily basis, enlisting the services of expensive prostitutes. Eventually, Vince Roth’s extravagant spending habits caught up with him. By the age of 63, Vince had lost all of his money and was now financially destitute. Vince asked me if I knew where his ex-girlfriend, Sylvia, could be contacted. Years ago, Vince used to date one of the strippers that used to work for him at the Nite Strip Lounge. At one time, he lavished her with expensive gifts that consisted of expensive clothes, jewelry, and automobiles. He wined and dined her, taking her to pricey restaurants, and footing the bill for her $2,500 a month apartment. As time passed, Vince and Sylvia’s relationship began to sour. Sylvia could no longer tolerate his explosive temper and foul mouth. Vince couldn’t accept the fact that Sylvia had several other “sugar daddies” other than him. Their break up was less than amiable. She ended up leaving the state of Illinois and supposedly relocated to Atlanta, Georgia. They never saw each other again.

I told Vince that I had no idea where Sylvia was, and that I hadn’t seen her in years. Vince said that he wanted to borrow some money from her. “The god damn bitch owes it to me,” he stammered. “All that money I gave that good for nothing whore.” I honestly didn’t know where Sylvia was, but even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t have told him. I wasn’t oblivious to Vince Roth’s faults, and I completely understood why Sylvia chose to end the relationship.

Vince’s visit had a sobering effect on me. Although I wasn’t superstitious, it seemed that some sort of tragedy or ill fate befell just about every person who worked at these clubs. I never laid eyes on Vince again. Several years later, I ran into his ex-girlfriend Sylvia at a Marshall Fields store. She had just moved back to Chicago as a result of her mother’s illness. She casually mentioned that Vince Roth had recently died of a stroke. Sylvia told me that she had heard that he died alone in a motel room. Apparently the woman that he had been living with prior to his death was kind enough to absorb the majority of the funeral costs. Another happy ending.

About four months after Vince Roth’s visit, a majority of the Chicagoland areas crime ridden strip clubs were simultaneously raided one Saturday night by the FBI and IRS. I didn’t go into work that night because I wanted to go out with my friends. At 10:00 p.m. or perhaps a bit later, my friends and I so happened to drive past the Nite Strip Lounge on the way to a bar. As we drove past the club, we noticed that the entire parking lot of the club was full of squad cars and paddy wagons. The first thing that crossed my mind was that there had probably been some type of a fight between management and some unhappy customers. I just kept driving and never gave it another thought.

One hour later, my friends and I arrived at the small bar that was known for its blue’s singers. It was called “Blue Orleans.” The nightclub wasn’t especially busy.

It was still early and the entertainment had not yet begun. We decided to go sit at a table that was situated directly in front of the small stage. As we walked past the bar toward the stage, I noticed the bartender and a handful of people watching the late night news. One of my friends decided to stop at the bar to get a drink. I walked over to the bar with her and so happened to glance up at the TV. The news was showing the live coverage of a large police raid that had just taken place at some nightclub. A news reporter was shown standing in front of the club that had just been raided. A familiar looking marquee with flashing red lights ominously loomed in the background. I realized that it was the marquee of a strip club that was located approximately sixty miles north of the club I was currently dancing at. As a matter of fact, I personally knew several of the dancers that worked there.

According to this anchorman, most of the Chicagoland area strip clubs were simultaneously raided that evening. The raid was a direct result of a four-year FBI sting operation known as “Operation Safe Bet.” The reporter revealed the names of all the clubs that had been targeted, and the Nite Strip Lounge was one of them. The news absolutely devastated me. Nothing frightened me more than the thought of losing my financial security.

When I came home that night, there were several messages waiting for me on my answering machine from a couple of my co-workers who had been involved in the raid. I called back one of the women who had left me a message and she told me what had happened in detail. Around 8:00 p.m., one hour after the club had opened, the room quickly began to fill up with customers. Nobody gave it a second thought because it was pretty much the norm for a Saturday night. The dancers were making their usual rounds to the customers trying to get them to go into the secluded areas. Some of the customers responded to the solicitations, while others didn’t.