Bling is king in the Can Can Room parking lot. Friday night on Industrial Road in a strip mall anchored by the gentlemen's club, a quartet of jerseyed and jewelryed (earrings, necklaces and pinky rings) twentysomething males emerge from the kind of vehicles normally seen on MTV Cribs—Cadillac Escalade, Mercedes Benz, Mustang, each ride tricked out with TVs on the backs of the driver and passenger seats, a studio's worth of sound equipment and shiny chrome rims. It's a Jay-Z video come to life.
Between chatting and talking on cell phones, they survey the action—scantily clad girls walking into one of three "therapeutic" businesses, more traffic than a McDonald's drive-through (mostly taxis), men emerging from cabs and headed to "therapy." The quartet appear to be bouncers, looking the men up, down and up again, but they're not in uniforms, don't conduct pat-downs and aren't anything per se; the therapeutic businesses are 20 feet away, on either side. They're standing in front of a door leading to a set of second-floor offices. Only when women approach—one of them opens the door—do their jaws unclench and eyes soften.
This night, Can Can and its towering sign of a busty vixen with a what-happens-inside-stays-inside look is taking a backseat to therapy. Most of the cabs drop passengers off in front of the Hot Bodies Spa. Three women in short skirts sit outside on stools, smoking and chatting, their eyes competing for the attention of incoming patrons. Hookers? Can't say.
From the cashier window, where you must go before entering the place, you can barely glimpse what's inside. What you see is mostly hallway with a room on the left illuminated by neon lights. You can't see girls but you know they're in there. The window lady will then recite what sounds like a scripted spiel: $40 nonrefundable admission; one-on-one stimulation, prices start at $300; high cost is because it's "very stimulating relaxation." She defines stimulation as massage. Same jabber about 25 steps away at Indulge. The window lady is friendlier, warmer and has a mischievous smirk. For $600, she says, you get massage and intense stimulation. I cut to the chase. Can I "go there" with my spa attendant? She hesitates.
By this time, more women arrive and head to the second floor. Hookers? The bling-bling quartet obfuscate when I ask what business is transacted upstairs. "Just a bunch of offices," the guy in the all-green Jets jersey replies.
As a friend and I complain about the price, a cabbie who'd noticed me haggling with the Indulge cashier asks if we're looking for some action.
"Yes. What do you mean by action?"
"You are not cops are you?"
I show him my debit card.
"Shit, you're locals," he says. "Give me a minute."
Cab Guy chats with the men he dropped off, then with the cashier and returns with a proposition: "You want some p---y? You can get it here ... but it'll cost you."
Let's face it: Prostitution isn't this city's dirty little secret. Dirty? Maybe. Secret? Hardly. If it's a secret, it's a secret like John F. Kennedy's philandering was a secret. Which is to say, you know it happened but you don't talk about it.
But the world's oldest (and one of its busiest) professions exists here beyond the 4,000 annual prostitution-related arrests (mainly streetwalkers, juveniles and what one cop calls "car tricks."), beyond strippers busted for solicitation (Crazy Horse Too, Treasures), beyond gentlemen's clubs raided by the feds for allegations of prostitution (Crazy Horse Too), beyond the thousands of "smut" news racks offering a buffet variety of girls, beyond outcall businesses shut down for serving as fronts for illicit sex and beyond billboards promising "strippers direct to you."
There are more covert permutations, cops say—businesses licensed as galleries, banquet halls or other enterprises that, curiously, have copious amounts of near-naked women either sitting out front or inside on couches waiting for the crush of men dropped off by cabs like clockwork. Whorehouses? Some cops think so. Such places have earned the nickname "nasties."
While there have been steps taken to curtail prostitution's more transparent forms—the Las Vegas City Council in 1996 created the Valley's first order-out corridor for those arrested on suspicion of prostitution (Stewart Avenue to the north, Charleston Boulevard to the south, Eastern Avenue to the east, Main Street to the west), arresting hundreds in the first year. The Clark County Commission established a similar zone in October 1997: the Strip and the area bound by Sahara Avenue to the north, Russell Road to the south, Paradise Road to the east and Industrial Road to the west, adding the areas around the Rio and Las Vegas Hilton hotels in January 1998—the clandestine forms (such as legitimate businesses serving as fronts for prostitution) have largely escaped scrutiny. Cops are loathe to redirect already limited manpower and resources.
"Right now, this is not one of those areas where we have a problem," says Sgt. Gil Shannon, who works on Metro's Vice Squad and specializes in handling juvenile prostitution. "I have investigated similar types of businesses where that (prostitution) goes on. The people in these places are very well versed in what to say, that prostitution is illegal. What goes on in these places is likely going on but, just like in a gentlemen's club, what's likely going on is these girls are contract employees and they are doing the solicitation, not the business (soliciting prostitution)."
Lt. Steve Herpolsheimer, of Metro's Downtown Area Command, is convinced certain enterprises on a particular swath of Industrial Road aren't living up to the intent of their business licenses.
"You walk into these places. Some are banquet halls but don't have any real banquet facilities. And who holds a banquet at 2 in the morning? There are five or six women sitting on a couch. You pay hundreds of dollars to go to a private room, it's obvious," says Herpolsheimer, identifying the area of Industrial Road between Sahara Avenue and Desert Inn Road as a hot spot for such businesses.
"Industrial Road," he says, "is Vegas Amsterdam."
Nothing about Industrial Road says ho stroll, even if it's patently sexual.
North of Sahara, the road is home to at least seven adult-oriented businesses, including the Crazy Horse Too (a few feet away at North Bridge Lane). South of Sahara, the road has two strip clubs, two porn video stores, a huge lingerie boutique, a shop for exotic dancewear and a handful of businesses that Herpolsheimer questions.
Industrial also has traditional commerce: auto repair facilities medical clinic, along with Clark County Fire Station No. 12, the U.S. Post Office—Las Vegas Strip branch—MGM Mirage Corporate Services Center and offices for Boyd Gaming.
Not only a jurisdictional line of demarcation—where the city jurisdiction ends and county governance begins—Sahara serves as a line of denunciation.
"The city is slamming girls with jail time (as it relates to prostitution-related crime)," Las Vegas police Sgt. Chris Jones says. "It's much harder to put them in jail in the county. They know where the boundaries are better than we do."
One Internet travel guide presents an almost idyllic portrait of Amsterdam's Red Light District: "There's a certain charm to the area thanks to old buildings leaning at odd angles overlooking tree-enshrouded canals, while inviting pubs, cafés and coffee shops tempt you to linger longer. Music of every genre can be heard along the streets from a dozen or more venues late at night. Recently redone streets, revamped facades (and) new, classier restaurants are now transforming what was once dark and dingy into one of the most attractive parts of town."
By this measure, Vegas Amsterdam is an ugly duckling.
A Wednesday afternoon going south on Industrial: After passing Sahara, a set of bleach-white apartments on the left side give way to Circus Circus; the sign to its mobile- home park looks like a giant Pez dispenser, the casino's pink-roofed Adventuredome Theme Park like a candyland cathedral.
On the right, a Nevada Power station leads to automotive and equipment rental businesses which lead to Sapphire's—the Bellagio of strip clubs at $30 million—and lead to a commercial center anchored by Wild J's, a multipurpose store with sex books, toys, videos and arcade. I park under a sign noting "Live Nude Review" and "Be a true patriot. Come inside. Military discount."
Business is light inside Wild J's, a few folks browsing the video section. I approach a cab driver sleeping in the passenger seat of his taxi and wake him.
He says he's waiting for a patron, comes here all the time. Asks what I want: "Nude girl or nude video?" (The presumed source of the nude girls, Platinum Babes strip club, next door to Wild J's, is closed. Seems like it's been that way for months.)
I decline both offers.
Next it's to the Can Can-anchored strip mall, four blocks away and across the street from a Budget Suites. While Can Can lady stares down southbound motorists, the coquettish Sheri's Cabaret billboard ("It's Time To Play at Sheri's Cabaret") trains a lusty gaze on northbound traffic. The sexed- up signs are the most remarkable features for a largely unremarkable strip mall that could be airlifted into any local zip code and probably not miss a beat. Though mostly glass, the exterior lacks transparency; lots of black windows, like the whole place was run through the same window-tinting process cars undergo.
I start at the southwest end. Nobody's home at Indulge. "To book your own private event call 369-2503." I call. Answering machine. (An hour later, a man answers the phone but fumbles his words. A confident woman goes over spa-type amenities.) Door's locked. Heavily tinted windows make it hard to see inside.
A few guys working on the facade or the pizzeria to the right notice me. I move on.
There's a muscled guy at the entrance of Hot Bodies. He walks in, out, back in and back out. He's soon joined by a balding, middle-aged guy. They talk, I wait, not wanting to interrupt. They talk. I walk by, trying to sneak a peek inside. I get a muted snapshot: Dark. There appears to be a room on the left side with some sort of neon lighting. The duo keeps talking, looks at me, then continues, paying me no mind. Maybe I'm not their customer demographic. Judging by the empty parking, I'd be the only customer at this time.
Worried about rousing suspicions, for the next two minutes I feign prospecting for office space—walking out to the parking lot to look the entire place over, scribbling notes. I didn't look back at the chatty duo so I don't know if it worked.
On to Hush. Empty. Ditto the next few parcels. At the complex's relatively tame north end—all-black windows, no adornments, second-floor sign announcing space for lease—a first-floor sign next to the last door announces: "Female and Male Dancers, No Nudity." In small gold letters a few feet to the left: "Asian Persuasion." By the door: "Call 239-9930 for interview." The place is locked, so I call. Voice mail to some sprightly-sounding woman. Looking in the glass door, I see air hockey and foosball tables, several dining tables, a television, desk and back room with what appears to be a couch, but I can't tell. Attached to the desk is a flyer with a picture of an Asian woman and an e-mail address. I log it. There's a number to a realty company. I call.
"We have a variety of businesses, including some adult-oriented businesses," the agent says. "If you're looking to do adult, we can do it."
About 200 yards away is the Déjà Vu-anchored strip mall. Junky-looking and ruddy at the north end, it culminates with the elaborate, two-story Déjà Vu boutique at the southern tip. I start at the north end.
The word on the front door says "Sinful" but a call turns up a technology company. "I don't know who had this space before," the woman says. Another locked door. More dark windows.
About 100 steps to the left is Sensations, which abuts a tattoo shop and is about 30 feet from the Déjà Vu Showgirls strip club. No getting past the locked door, but I can see everything inside. There's an ATM by the door, next to it a leopard-print couch and rug and, across the room, a desk with "Sensations" written on it. Above it is a picture of nude ladies sitting together and a handwritten sign with "$40 Non-refundable consultation fee," a smiley face drawn inside the zero.
Across the lot is Déjà Vu Boutique. Coated in ugly beige, it stands out almost Neonopolis-like on the corner of Industrial and Desert Inn. A huge shop that sells lingerie, clubwear, fetishwear, dancewear, gifts, DVDs, jewelry and more, pictures of half-naked women plaster the exterior. A few women browse the selection, checking prices, placing skimpy clothes over their bodies and striking how-do-I-look?-poses. A couple with Oregon plates drive up. The guy gets out of the car; the woman waits. I sense she doesn't want to be seen here. I go upstairs to the corporate office. Locked.
Further south on Industrial and next to the Elvis-A-Rama Museum, Industrial Road Book and Video adds to the flesh-peddling supply. It's not much to look at. Think: crotchety corner store turned sex shop. Business is brisker than at the therapeutic businesses and Wild J's (a dozen; it's very early in the afternoon). In the same black, block letters used on fast-food restaurant billboards, the sign reads: "Paris Hilton sex tape sold here."
Industrial's sex-oriented circuit runs to Tropicana Avenue, which cops say is one of the city's hottest spots for juvenile prostitution.
I pull the county records of the businesses I spied.
Two owners, Don Sims and Comfort Zone Inc., are listed for Hot Bodies Spa, which occupies two parcels; two owners, Hush Relaxing, Inc. , and JTR Enterprises, for Hush of Las Vegas, which also occupies two parcels. Indulge has one owner: Big Easy Enterprises. One owner, Peecock's Inc., for two listings apiece of Sinful Art Gallery and Sinful Banquet Hall. Sensations is owned by Perky Posey Corp.
Hot Bodies has a health and fitness license. Indulge is licensed as a banquet facility; Sensations as a drugless practitioner and Sinful Art Gallery has a tobacco permit. Neither Hush nor Sinful Banquet Hall show up in business record searches.
A county business license source says having two owners isn't a necessary a sign of something nefarious.
"In all my years of keeping an ear to this story, the only place I've only heard of having this problem is Crazy Horse. Massage parlors, strip bars and escort services could be fronts for prostitution, but I'm not sure."
Sgt. Shannon says the vice squad has its hands full with street-level prostitution—more than 4,000 arrests a year, mostly in hot spots like Fremont and Las Vegas Boulevard, Boulder Highway near Sam's Town, Sierra Vista and Cambridge Street and Tropicana and Industrial. Investigating and conducting stings on prostitution enterprises masquerading as legitimate businesses would take two cops working full time.
"Right now, we have no problems with street prostitution in the area you're talking about. We've made no arrests of juvenile (prostitution) there," he says. "Whatever is going on inside the clubs is probably going on, but it's just not large enough or visible enough to be causing a problem."
So instead of two cops investigating on this Friday night/Saturday morning, two schmoes. Me and a friend.
1 a.m.: The bling-bling crew is chilling, occasionally opening a door for women to head to the upstairs offices. At Hot Bodies, there are six men at the entrance, two are valets—which seems unnecessary since most of the vehicles are cabs. My friend pulls up. As we approach Hot Bodies, a girl in a black top, short pink skirt and stiletto heels gets off the stool (one of three outside) and heads in.
"So what kind of place is this?" I ask the valet.
A spa. He directs us to the window.
It's black-top-pink-skirt girl. She starts talking about the $40 nonrefundable fee. I stop her.
"What's that get me?"
"Admission."
"To a spa?"
"Yes."
She says there's a steam room and private rooms and great massages available.
"How much is that?"
"A couple hundred dollars."
Very reasonable, she adds.
Off to Indulge. Same $40 nonrefundable fee. Again, I crow about the prices.
"Is anything negotiable?
"Yes. For $500 ..."
I interrupt: "What do I get for $500?"
"One-on-one stimulat ..."
"That's what the other girl said. For $500, can I go there with the girls?"
"Uh ... (eight-second pause, incredulous look) ... no."
Off to ... loiter? Best I could do since I have no plan B. I need to go back to haggle with the Hot Bodies girl. Seconds later, a cabbie deposits two men (they pull out wads, break the cabbie off a little something and head to the window) asks how things are going. I tell him about the high prices. He looks around a few time and asks if we want some action.
He goes to the cashier, holding his forefinger up, as if to say, "wait, don't leave yet."
Cabbie traffic is fairly judicious. Listening all along to the banter between me and Cabbie No. 1, a second cabbie swoops. He's succinct: We'll get "f----d if we try to get f—d over here." The Diamond Cabaret strip club around the block on Highland Avenue is better, he says. Cheaper. "Hop in." Cops say it's common for cabbies to get cash kickbacks for referrals to prostitution businesses and escort services. Is this such a case?
In a span of 10 minutes, seven cabs deposit 14 normal-looking guys. Older, 35 to 45, I'm guessing, full heads of hair, decent builds. A good mix of cosmopolitan types (slacks, dress shoes) and those with more muted tastes (khakis and button-up shirts). Everyone's well-dressed.
I tell Cabbie No. 2 to come back in an hour, thinking it'd be enough to time to finish investigating. He leaves with two guys apparently unhappy with Indulge.
Cabbie No. 1 returns with a deal: We can have sex, but it'll be costly—"$500 and you get it all."
I tell him we'll be back in an hour, knowing full well we won't.
Three blocks away, Sinful is still locked. The night sky actually mutes the impact of the tinted glass. I see inside, thanks to a light on in a room on the left-hand side. Place looks gutted. On to Sensations, where two girls smoke outside. I ask them what type of business this is. "Go in," they say.
Inside, to the left of the door is an ATM machine. Next to that, five girls scrunched on the leopard-print couch, one is reading the newspaper. A cheery girl who reminds me of Pippi Longstocking walks behind the receptionist desk, turns up the wattage on her smile and turns on the honey in her voice. "We specialize in general relaxation and it's very stimulating, relaxing and satisfying," she says. "There's a $40 entry fee, but it's well worth it."
The question-go-round begins.
Me: "What type of relaxation?"
Lady: "Personal and private."
Friend: "Do you get to choose the girls?"
Lady: "If you don't like the one we pick, we'll bring you one that makes you happy."
Me: "I can't just choose who I want, like in a police lineup?"
Lady: "No."
My friend takes over for a minute. I notice that all of the women have slipped to the back.
I tell her we'll be back, knowing full well we won't.
"I haven't seen places where girls sit out front, but if you're talking about places like 'nasty's (sic), they're supreme rip-off joints. They lure you with the expectation that a girl will have sex in a private room in the club but they keep coming up with strange fees to pay and they've got big scary-looking guys hanging out to make sure you don't complain too much."
I'm back the next night without my friend—he's got problems with the girlfriend.
Since Sensations seemed the most easygoing place, I go there. This time, only one girl is on the couch. She takes my $40 and accompanies me through a door to a second room with a couch and an old-time cash register with the big numbers in the display screen. Not spooked by the lighting—meant to be sensual, it gives the impression of a Halloween haunted house—I am slightly worried about the Herculean guy sitting on the couch in all black (shirt, pants and cap) staring a hole in my head. One of the scary-looking guys the sex website mentioned?
Another giant man stands in the hallway presumably leading to the private rooms. To my surprise, receptionist-girl has become my shadow, standing inches away as I sit and wait. Looking around, I see the Adonises, two women sitting on chairs and staring, though I'm not sure at what, and women coming out of a room in the hallway. Back turned to most of the action, I don't see the tall, peach-skinned girl coming from behind me. She goes to the cash register, gets my money from receptionist-girl and deposits it. Pleasantries exchanged, she dives into the script-like spiel. "First of all, prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas ..." This is the first time anyone mentions the "P" word. Next, the prices: "$700 for 90 minutes, $600 for one hour and 15 minutes, $500 for an hour."
Since I'd spent as much as my company would reimburse, I begin to dicker: This is too much money for relaxation. What makes it worth it? The folks down the street only charge $600. What do I get to do with the girls? Can I go there?
She says prostitution is illegal. Again, the "P" word.
As if on cue, a bare-chested man, young and blond with a linebacker physique walks out (another enforcer?). A petite blond in a pink top and black skirt follows.
I say I'm taking my business elsewhere. Receptionist-girl says "noooo." Cashier girl starts bargaining, yelling, actually: "$400, $300, $200 ... $150 for 30 minutes." Receptionist-girl whines, "You're going to come all this way to leave? Don't gooo ..."
Leaving, I pass the pink-top-black-skirt girl and linebacker guy; she's hanging on him as he withdraws money from the ATM.
A crowd of young-ish-looking folks is outside, waiting while one of their friends gets tattooed at the tattoo spot next door. A group of young guys leaving Déjà Vu strip club asks the tattoo crew what goes on in Sensations.
"You pay to f--k."
Though Sgt. Shannon expressed shock at the high-priced quotes for massage (by contrast, a popular casino spa offered a 50-minute Swedish massage, 50-minute signature facial, pool and fitness center access and jacuzzi, steam room and spa amenities for $150), without police investigation there's no tangible way to prove that businesses on Industrial between Sahara and Desert Inn that are licensed as one thing are actually fronts for prostitution.
I call the businesses.
Hot Bodies: A woman answers the number listed in county records, then hangs up. A message left revealing the purpose of the call isn't returned by press time.
Hush of Las Vegas: A business license search for Hush of Las Vegas turns up nothing. There's no number listed in the County Clerk records. There are two licenses: one active until September 30, 2006, the other until October 31, 2008.
Indulge: Messages aren't returned before press time.
Sensations: Messages aren't returned before press time.
Sinful Art Gallery: A woman answers. "Technology Ventures Corp., may I help you?" She says this is not the number to Peecock's, that she "doesn't know what business was here before." I ask if this is the Technology Ventures Corp. founded by Lockheed Martin and with offices on Spencer, and she confirms. The same lady answers the call to the line listed on Technology Venture Corp.'s website.
Sinful Banquet Hall: A listing in county clerk records but none in the business license directory. No phone number.
Unless the lady in the Can Can sign will talk, what happens in Vegas' purported Amsterdam may stay there.