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The club only enhanced its reputation for mayhem in 2010. Early in the year, a woman selling food from a mobile taqueria was shot twice in the stomach, The Kansas City Star reported, and a man was shot in the knee and foot. (Both survived.) In October, two weeks before the immigration raid, five people were robbed at gunpoint in a parking lot close to the club, police say, and off-duty cops were involved in a rolling gun battle.
Majors arrived at Regulated Industries only three years ago, but reports like these have plagued his Monday mornings since the early 2000s. Before this job, Majors spent 28 years as commander of the Central Patrol Division, which patrols Oasis' neighborhood.
"When I was the commander of the police station, I used to ask myself, 'Why can't the city ... take their liquor license away?'" Majors says. "Now I'm on this side of the coin, and I'm sure the police are still saying the same thing."
After the raid, Majors added the latest police reports to Oasis' file. The cops wrangled a decent bounty that night, arresting several minors and armed, unlicensed security guards — one with cocaine in his pocket. They even recouped a metal detector stolen from the Kansas City, Missouri, School District. The violations prompted Majors to call a meeting with the club's owner, Arturo Romo Jr.
Romo is no stranger to Regulated Industries. He and his brother opened Taqueria Mexico on Southwest Boulevard in 1994. That mushroomed into three restaurants, a tortilla factory, a nightclub called Casa Grande, and Club Oasis. Last year, Casa Grande received a violation for serving alcohol to a minor. Taqueria Mexico on Independence Avenue got one in 2009 and one in 2010.
But Majors sounds almost paternal when he discusses local businesses, like they're children he has vowed to love equally. That includes Oasis.
"I like to think of myself as an eternal optimist," he says. "With Club Oasis, I just don't know yet. I like to think we could turn them around."
So despite Oasis' years of havoc wreaking, Majors offered Romo a choice: Take a three-day suspension or let the liquor board decide the club's fate. Romo opted for the suspension.
He reopened the club the following weekend under a new name, as if trying to baptize it clean of its sinful past. But the presence of ICE agents that night ensured that Oasis would struggle to survive. And according to some West Side stakeholders, it wasn't the only business to take a hit.
A few blocks north of Club Oasis is the Westside Community Action Network Center, a neighborhood hub that started as a place for men to piss. Back in the early 1990s, hundreds of day laborers would stand for hours at the corner of Summit and Southwest Boulevard, waiting for a truck to stop by with work. The men were known to urinate and defecate in public and even shower in neighbors' yards.
Around that time, the community-center concept — in which local agencies work together to reduce crime in certain neighborhoods — was taking hold around the country. Each CAN Center had police officers and a codes inspector who worked to minimize blight and the crime that came with it.