Back in 1990, when we were living in St. Louis, I'll never forget what happened one long weekend when my wife was out of town for her grandfather's funeral, and I couldn't get off work to go with her. There was this gal who lived in our small, 11-unit apartment building in the Tower Grove East historic district. I first noticed her because she had a really nice, brand new black RX-7 and appeared to be good-looking, but I couldn't really tell what she had beneath the super-conservative business suits she always wore. She and I had exchanged neighborly smiles at each other and said "hello" a few times, but that's all the interaction we'd ever had until the weekend in question.
Alone in my second-floor apartment drinking beer and watching the late, late movie, I had dozed off on the couch and was awakened by hell-breaking-loose rapping on the front door downstairs. So I grabbed my S&W Model 66 and proceeded to see what all the commotion was about. Peering through the glass door's blinds, I recognized the girl on the other side but could not readily identify her. One thing was for sure, though--she definitely had a look of abject fear in her pretty face. As she veritably screamed to let her in, I realized it was the gal with the RX-7, but she looked altogether different from usual.
She had on lots of make-up and her long brown hair hung down over her nipply ample breasts beneath a tight tee-shirt tucked into skin-tight jeans. Damn! Was I dreaming or what? So I let her in, seeing no one else outside. I was a bit embarrassed about the .357 in my hand, but she seemed relieved that I had it, and I led her upstairs to the living room, where the coffee table was covered with empty Buds, so I offered her a seat and a beer and left momentarily to go get two more brews from the frij at the opposite end of the apartment.
As I returned, she was standing at the big bay window, which overlooked the street below, staring out into the darkness. Startled, she sat back down, swigged the King of Beers, and we began to make chitchat. Over the course of the next two hours or so, we drank several more Buds and I learned a bit about this intriguing woman. Seems she was the Office Manager for a West St. Louis mortgage company (which explained her usual conservative attire), was a fairly recent college grad, and had moved into our building a few months before.
Each time that I'd return from retrieving a couple more brews, I'd catch her looking out the window again. When she went to use the bathroom, I looked out the window myself to see just what the hell she was so interested in. At first, I didn't see anything unusual, but then I noticed exhaust coming from the tailpipe of a '73 Electra 225 parallel parked across the street in the dark. No lights on. Never seen that car around there before. Hmmm. I did not want to intrude on her privacy, but I was extremely curious, and she, now finishing her 4th beer, seemed pretty relaxed, so I asked her what the deal was with her earlier panic.
Stuttering, she proceeded to tell me the story. She said she was on her way home from work and was approached by a "creep" while filling up her Mazda that was nearly out of fuel at the Fast-Gas across the bridge. She relayed that she had politely brushed him off, only to realize that the same guy had followed her home after she'd parked, locked, and got out of her car. Afraid and seeing that my apartment's lights were the only ones in the building still on, she rapped on my door so that he would not know exactly where she lived.
"Was he driving an old land-yacht Buick?" I asked.
"Why, yes, he was," she replied.
I queried further, "You say you were returning from work. I didn't realize Office Managers at mortgage companies kept such hours, and why would you have been over in Illinois anyway if you work in West St. Louis?"
The blood seemed to drain from her face as she stared at the wall blankly for what seemed like an eternity. I sat silently. There's nothing like pointing out an inconsistency, followed by utter silence, that will get people to talk.
She got me to swear to secrecy on saints I'd never even heard of (St. Louis is a big Catholic town) and then proceeded to tell me the whole story: Although she had a good job, she had become financially "extended" with the new RX-7, the upscale historic apartment, and lots of new clothes. Then she reconnected with her best high school girlfriend, with whom she went to parochial school and had not seen in a few years, in a similar financial situation.
She was shocked to learn that she was dancing at PT's, a titty-bar across the bridge in Illinois, where she made more money working a couple nights a week than she did all week at her "real" job. So, very reluctantly at first but persuaded by her really-just-a-sweet-Catholic-girl old friend, my neighbor got up her nerve, aided by tequila, danced topless on PT's amateur night—and won.
So, in dire financial straits but having discovered a new income-producing talent, she decided to bare all by working weekends at PT's. She said she never walked out of there with less than $500 a night, often much more, in tax-free cash tips. She said the first night was incredibly difficult, but when she realized the clientele was mainly well-healed businessmen, she quickly came to not just endure but actually enjoy the attention—and, of course, the money.
But that night, the creepy customer there wanted more than eye candy and to cop a feel, following her to the gas station where he propositioned her again and then to her home—freaking her out.
