With not a second of hesitation, I went down for the count. Joey the ref crouched over me. “One, two.” But he couldn’t do it, he started to giggle. I peeked out from my mop of hair at him. “Three, four, five.” I could hear him take a deep breath, and Tawni yelling at the crowd, “She can’t take it. She’s a loser!” Then she punched Joey, who was giggling quietly over my prone body. He stopped giggling, surprised. Tawni wasn’t supposed to come after me until his count was finished. She didn’t give him the opportunity; she threw her body into him, pushing him out of the way. Now she was free to kick me out of the ring, which she did with glee. I remained knocked out, of course.
So I made it into Knockout history. I was pleased. And the friends I made in the Knockout Sport Saloon would always be friends. Bobbie especially watched out for me, even threatened me (in her special way that makes you feel warm and loved). “You better put me in that book of yours. And you better be rich and famous, with that big brain of yours! You know I can kick your ass!”
Neeki and Tawni, Knockouts during my early days at the Foxy, I didn’t see too frequently. Neeki had married and was studying languages. Her American citizenship was secure, and she had booked a trip to Brazil to visit her mother. Tawni’s health had stabilized since her drug problem was cured and her broken ankle had mended. She was finally pursuing a career as a jockey. Once every few months Neeki and Tawni would stop by the club to say hello to old friends.
Sparrow pumped up her breasts again and continued her full-time schedule, patiently collecting money. We both knew it; those singles really add up. She was closer and closer to retirement, as was Kristina, the kindergarten teacher whose locker was next to mine. “We’re going to start a family soon,” Kristina confided in me (which meant the end of her dancing career). That had been her plan.
Lily, on the other hand, was burning out fast. Known for manically screaming “fuck you” and “I love you” in the same breath, she was heading for a crash. She had just turned twenty-one when she arrived to work with a heavily bandaged arm. “Car accident,” she explained tersely. When I got her alone, she told me she tried to kill herself. “But I changed my mind, Heidi. I don’t want to kill my baby,” she moaned dramatically, clutching my shoulders.
I looked at her blankly. What was she talking about?
“There is a baby growing inside me,” she purred, babylike and sweet suddenly. She lost the baby soon after. By induced or natural abortion, I didn’t know. I only hoped she would hit bottom soon and survive to start the climb back.
Binki, the Brown alum, was still searching for her life. She returned for a few shifts, using her boyfriend’s name Gregory as her stage name. It didn’t last. The real Gregory, her patron-turned-lover who had originally forbade her to dance, apparently pulled her privileges. She disappeared without a trace.
Bunnie reappeared, as did her runaway breast. Even Tamara, my coffee-swigging, wonderfully small-chested role model, got implants! I didn’t feel betrayed, though, when I saw how comfortable she was with her new toys. Newgirls had them, too. Darlena was a singer preparing for “Star Search.” Her just-purchased breasts were beautiful. Unfortunately Portia, another newcomer, had a set that were not so well engineered. They stuck together in the middle as though magnetized. She would push them apart, but in ten seconds they would gravitate, as though alive, back together in the middle of her chest. The good, the bad, and the augmented — it all balanced out.
Among the customers I hoped for the same balance, but I wasn’t privy to their backgrounds. I don’t know what happened to the Messiah. After I said no to his polite request, “May I live with you?” he stopped coming in. Weird Paul disappeared, too, maybe to a retirement home? I could easily imagine him being the life of the party, although his drooling persistence might get on the nerves of the female staff. Patrick, the tearful Boston cop, was cleared and returned to active duty. I learned that from the paper. I saw him only that one night during his suspension. Wandering Henry was eventually banned from the club. He didn’t do anything (he never did anything but wander aimlessly). He was exiled from the strip club for simply looking creepy.
The biggest surprise came when Angelo the bookie and his partner in crime, Chuck, were busted. “I’m careful,” Angelo had told me, so confident. Not careful enough. Agents from the FBI and IRS closed the Foxy down for an hour while they gathered up the bookies and bettors. Chuck and Angelo topped the list. New ones cropped up in the time it took to start the dancing again — about two hours.
I read about their identical sentences months later in the Providence Journal-Bulletin. Ten years probation, ten-thousand-dollar fines. The article also mentioned that assets were seized, including Chuck’s beloved Cadillac. The article described sixty-year-old Chuck, gold rings and all, asking the judge to give his Cadillac back to him. “My recently deceased mother gave it to me,” he explained. “She would want me to have it.” The judge wasn’t falling for that. “No, Mr. Caserta, I’m not giving you the Cadillac. I think your mother will rest easier, up in heaven, knowing you’re not committing any crimes in her gift.” I missed Angelo, but didn’t blame him for keeping a low profile. That was his business.
Burlyman, the lovestruck pilot, came in several more times offering a helicopter ride, jet rides … I always said no. I did, however, accept a gift from him. It was an early copy of Heidi by Johanna Spyri. Burlyman was sweet, as he had always been. But it seemed that finally he was growing accustomed to the fact that I was not available. His eyes shone brightly as he said good-bye and clasped my hands gently. As always, it took me only a moment to shift my attention to the next paying customer. My cold attitude was a healthy separation of emotion from commerce.
Business is a cold thing.
But I think of Burlyman and the others — Humbert, Drummand, X-Ray Man, Pucker, sleepy Nago-wee-go, and even Bob the Weasel — with respectful amusement. The negatives, like the rabbi and Brown’s bureaucratic baloney, are nearly forgotten. Irrelevant. Life, in all its extremes, is a wonderful thing.
Usually. Not when I returned to my apartment one afternoon in early summer to find it ransacked. All my small valuables were gone. Cameras, jewelry — not even worth reselling! — that my father had given me, and the rent money I had hidden below a dresser. But worse, my photo albums had been perused, as had my address books and journals. A bag of work lingerie was strewn about the kitchen; se-quined bras sat on the stove burners, fringed G-strings hung from the cabinets, my fairy wand was in the sink, in two pieces. Glitter everywhere.
My bed, a futon on the floor by the windows, had large footprints on it. My white comforter and pillows were rumpled and there was gravel on the sheets. My computer was still there, as was the phone. I grabbed the receiver to call the police, but dropped it a moment later. Where’s Stupid? I thought, suddenly frightened for my California kitty. She’d been with me too long. What if she had been stolen? “Stupid! Hey Stupid Kitty! Where are you?” I yelled, frantic.
OK! OK! So I wasn’t thinking clearly, who would steal a cat?
No response! I looked under the desk, on the windowsills, in the drawers of the dresser. Finally, scrambling with the louvered door, I threw the closet door open. She looked up from her pile of mittens and hats, terminally bored. She yawned, then rested her chin on her paws and fell back asleep. I rushed back to the phone and called the Providence police. An officer arrived twenty minutes later. I gave her a report, and she left. There was nothing else to do.
I cleaned up the mess, cataloging missing items. My appointment book was torn and had clearly been examined. Pages were folded, some even missing. Now this guy knew me. The thought chilled me. I felt nervous in my own home. What had he touched? What hadn’t he touched?
Stop being dramatic, Heidi. It was a robbery. Nothing special.
Two days later, I answered my phone, expecting to hear from Erich or Reid. It was neither of them, but it was a man. He said, “Hello, Heidi.” The voice was pleasant, even formal, but I didn’t recognize it. A
nd only my good friends have my unlisted number.
“Yes, hello. Who is this?” I have very little patience for mystery callers.
“Why don’t we talk a little?”
“No, tell me who you are,” I demanded.
“You know who I am,” he said.
“No. I don’t. Tell me who you are.”
“You know me. Now think
“I’m going to hang up.”
“I was in your house just a few days ago.” He took a breath. ‘I’m hurt that you don’t remember.” He paused again, as though listening to my thoughts, then added, “This is the man who robbed you.”
My heart sunk with my stomach. Anger mixed with my fear.
“I saw all your photos. Very nice.”
“I’m going to hang up!”
“Now, now, why would you want to do that? Don’t you want your things back?” he purred, enjoying himself. “I was on your bed. I jacked off all over your sheets and your lingerie, the panties in the dresser
I wanted to run, scream, anything but hear him. But I didn’t hang up. I stood stock-still, sweat dripping down my sides, the phone against my ear.
“Now, you know you’ve been a bad girl, don’t you?”
Was he talking about my stripping?
“I’m going to have to punish you. You know, that don’t you?” Oh, he’s nuts.
“I’m going to come over there and spank you. I’m going to spank you hard and when I’m done I’m going to smash your fingers, and then, when you’re screaming and crying for me to stop, I’ll smash your head. You know you have to die for what you’ve …”
I hung up. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even realize how much he was frightening me. I shouldn’t have listened. I was disappointed in myself for that. I felt guilty and scared. I forced myself to move. I ran to the hallway, yelled to the neighbors, anyone, “I need someone down here. Please!”
No one came. I walked back into my apartment to retrieve the phone. I could feel the sweat drying, cooling my body. I was shaking. From the hallway I dialed the police. I was sobbing by now and barely managed to make myself understood. Two officers came for the report. They exchanged grave looks when I repeated some of the caller’s words. I asked, “What do you think he’s going to do?”
“Couldn’t really guess, ma’am. Do you have friends you can stay with for a while?” They wouldn’t say any more, only that I should be available to speak with a detective.
“Of course,” I replied, sounding calmer than I felt.
Tony happened to call while the police were there. When I explained why an officer answered he immediately sprang into action, even finding me a safe house. On his advice, I left my car at his family’s home and used an anonymous rental. I took my clothes and Stupid, leaving the secondhand furniture and kitchen supplies behind.
I spent over a week laying low. Plenty of time to consider my situation. Try as I might, I had to wonder if I had contributed to the situation by working at a strip club. It was hard not to think about it. The Providence police assumed it was a “crazy from the strip club.”
But I never met a criminally crazy person at the club. As far as I know.
But there had to be some, at least the one who had called me. Right? I wasn’t convinced; I didn’t want to assume that simply because I worked as a stripper I attracted criminal elements.
An acquaintance upset me after I explained what had happened and why I was looking for a new apartment. Not in the least surprised, she coldly responded, “You’ve been asking for it, Heidi. What do you think, you can work in one of those places and not pay a price?”
That’s not true!
Through Tony, a detective contacted me. He wasn’t Providence police, he was Cranston, a town just outside the city. “You don’t have to talk to them, Heidi, but they may have more information,” Tony said.
I wanted to get to the bottom of this, ugly as it may be. I called the detective and introduced myself.
“We have several tapes we’d like you to listen to. Can you come by the station?”
I went and listened to five separate recordings. All of the same man, the man who called me. Each time the caller threatened punishment and violent sex. And each time he claimed to know his victim. Bombarded with his distinctive voice and the similarities in the obscene messages, I confirmed the match, shaken and amazed. In a private office, the detective leveled with me. “He’s called over a hundred women, females, actually. Threatening rape and death, or sometimes only a spanking. They range from age five to eighty-nine. He claims to know them all, but doesn’t. He’s accessing information through computers at pharmacies, flower shops, police stations, and schools. He’s called a dozen Brown students —”
“Wait, why didn’t the police tell me this before? I described everything to them. They never mentioned this. I thought it was personal!”
“No, it’s not personal. He probably didn’t even rob you, that’s not his modus operandi. And the Providence officers, I’m not sure, they either didn’t know or didn’t bother to tell you.”
“But he described what he did in my apartment, in my bed, even!”
“Think, Heidi, was it in the report you filed?”
Now that I thought about it, most of it was. He hadn’t actually described my lingerie or my bed.
“Did you ask him to prove anything he was saying?” the detective asked.
“I wasn’t really thinking like that at the time,” I said, almost happy. The guy didn’t even know me! Still, I had my next apartment examined by the detective, who offered to check it out for me. I splurged and paid extra for a third-floor, alarm-equipped apartment. Who knew where the next crazy would be? Months later, the caller was found and charged. The man was a college professor, from the exclusive east side.
So much for stereotypes!
Freedom is not for the timid.
— Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit
Ivy League Stripper Page 36
