The Eyes and Ears of the Neighborhood

My special assignment for today was to keep an eye on the Rape Van. I've had to channel my inner Mrs. Kravitz.
The Rape Van is one of two vehicles owned by Creepy Old Guy. The other is a truck that he seems to live out of. Which I guess make the Rape Van (you know what I mean: white, non-descript, no windows on the side) his office. Creepy Old Guy has a friend: Aging 80's Hustler: skinny, dyed black hair, somewhere in his thirties, always has on sunglasses, wears a studded belt. A lot of thought and crystal meth went into this look.
I'm specifically trying to figure out if this unholy duo has moved in downstairs or are just good friends with the lads who live under us.
My husband and I rent the top half of a duplex in what was until two weeks ago a very nice neighborhood. Our downstairs neighbor is the son of the owners (the owners are a group of siblings, so he's the son of one, nephew to the rest). We'll call him X. Oh, and X lives down there with his boyfriend. (But please, keep that under your hats!)
I don't want to tattle on anyone. And I don't know if it would do any good. When we've hinted in the past that X is not the best person to live over, we haven't exactly gotten a rousing response. More of the glazed look of denial. I guess nobody wants to think of their little boy (now pushing 40) as being a mess. A big mess. A mess you don't mind foisting on your real tenants.
I mean, it can't be much of a surprise to them. A couple years back X called the cops on his Dad who'd dropped by. (Oh, and let me tell you, my husband was mortified at the five cop cars that pulled up out front! "Everyone's gonna think it's us!")
I'm torn between (rapidly dwindling) sympathy for somebody down on his luck and being seriously creeped out by Creepy Old Guy. (And not thrilled about the possibility of paying for the water that showers him.)
Oh, hey...Let me introduce myself. My name is Scot and I'm the Existential Househusband. Somehow, a combination of the weak economy, an indulgent spouse and some odd life choices (choices that range from the misguieded to the ill-advised to the downright self-destructive) have me staying home these days acting out some strange parody of American domestic life.
Welcome.