Unsafe Harbor (16 page)

I wondered if Tiffany was really that strapped for cash? And if so, how low would she stoop?

“As you can see, I don’t have that sort of problem,” Giancarlo pointed out with a haughty sniff. “Clearly, squealing on me was her idea of payback. She can’t stand the fact that I’m such a success.”

Not anymore, you’re not,
I thought.

“And what about ivory? Is she involved in that, too?” I asked.

Giancarlo tied his robe tightly about his waist. “Well, I know for certain that Tiffany has been trying to worm her way into the market. She’s gone so far as to approach my source about it. Who knows? Maybe she struck up a deal with somebody else.”

“Which brings us to the matter at hand. Just who is this source of yours?” I questioned, anxious to move things along.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Giancarlo said, and pinched his lips.

“Sure you can,” I replied, ready to apply whatever pressure was necessary. “It’s either that, or off to jail you go.”

“Journalists do it to protect their sources all the time. So I don’t see why designers shouldn’t, as well. Ooh, that
does
sound catchy, doesn’t it? In fact, I think that’s the first quote I’ll give to the press.” Giancarlo flashed a sly smile. “Besides, you know perfectly well that I’ll get off with no more than a slap on the wrist. And just think how good it will be for my business,” he gloated.

“While you’re at it, why don’t you contemplate how well Ralph Goldberg and his library of raunchy S and M videos will fly with the Ladies Who Lunch,” I countered.

Giancarlo’s complexion turned two shades paler than before.

“Excuse me?” he asked, his Italian accent promptly biting the dust.

“You heard me. I also have my sources,” I loftily informed him. “So, are you going to tell me what I want to know? Or do I spill your little secret?”

My Tuscan charmer angrily glared at me. “You really are a bitch. You know that?”

“Don’t try to flatter me. Now what’s it going to be? Remain designer of the moment, or switch to a sad-ass career of making second-rate porn videos?”

I let the question dangle.

“Come on, Ralphie. You should know by now that women don’t like to be kept waiting,” I prodded.

“All right,” he hissed. “But this didn’t come from me. And remember, I expect to walk away from this without any jail time.”

“Of course. I’ve already made a note of it,” I responded. “Just give me the information.”

“I work with a company called Tat Hwong Products,” he revealed, chewing on a freshly manicured fingernail.

“Who’s your contact?” I pressed, refusing to let him off that easily.

“A man by the name of Lau Cheong. He’s based in Hong Kong,” he divulged, and started to gnaw his way over to a cuticle.

“And exactly how are shipments of shahtoosh coming into the country?” I asked, determined to learn every little detail.

“Tat Hwong was paying airline stewardesses to bring them in with their luggage for a while. Nothing personal, but I doubt that your average Customs inspector reads
Vogue
magazine. Besides, if a stewardess was stopped and questioned, she’d just say it was an Hermès scarf and walk right on through,” he disclosed. “Only business grew too fast. They started packing shawls in boxes, marking them as children’s clothing, and flying them straight into Newark Airport. That is, until 9/11 happened. After that, air freight began to be looked at more closely and their mode of operation had to change again.”

“So what are they doing now?” I inquired, unable to guess and dying to know.

“They’re packed inside containers and shipped into Newark/Elizabeth Seaport, where almost nothing gets inspected,” he told me.

Of course. I couldn’t have come up with a better plan, myself.

“And you deal with the same contact for ivory?” I asked, just to double-check.

“Yes, until recently. But that’s also changed with the opening of this ivory factory in New York. The big boss is
here to make sure that everything is up and running smoothly. I’ve been told that I’m to deal with him for now.”

“And where’s all the ivory being shipped?” I asked, though already certain of the answer.

“Into Newark/Elizabeth Seaport,” he confirmed.

Terrific. It had been happening this entire time right under my nose.

“What’s the big boss man’s name?” I snapped, taking my frustration out on Goldberg.

“I don’t know yet,” he coolly responded.

“Don’t screw with me, Ralphie,” I warned, not in the mood to be jerked around.

“I don’t know because I haven’t yet placed an order,” he petulantly retorted.

“Then go ahead and do so today. You’re also to say that you want to meet with the big boss and would like a tour of the factory,” I directed.

“What are you, crazy? Why would I want to do that?” he questioned.

“You don’t.
I
do,” I replied, setting him straight. “When they call back with a time, tell them you’ve been unexpectedly called away but will send your trusted assistant, Cheri Taylor, in your place.”

“Cheri Taylor? That sounds more like a perky little candy striper, than someone that I would hire,” he scoffed. “Who is she, anyway?”

“You’re looking at her. Just do it and don’t ask questions,” I ordered.

“Fine,” he sulked and casually began to close his closet door.

If he was hoping that I’d forget about his stash, he was sadly mistaken.

“Hold on a minute,” I said, and walked over.

“What are you looking for?” he apprehensively questioned, as I began to rummage through the shelves.

“I won’t know until I find it, now, will I?” I responded and, starting at the bottom, worked my way up.

I figured something good must be hidden, or Ralph wouldn’t have been so nervous.

It was as I scrounged around the top shelf that my fingers finally struck gold. Pushed into a far corner was a box of DVDs. I pulled one from its container and read the title.

Fun and Games with Dick and Joe.

Whaddaya know? This was far more precious than if I’d actually found gold.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ralph exclaimed, as he saw what I held in my hand.

“Let’s just call it an insurance policy,” I retorted, and stashed it in my bag.

“If that gets out it could ruin me,” he groaned.

“I know,” I assured him.

“Personally, I think this is all a big waste of time. Tiffany Stewart is the one that you should really be after. Believe me, that woman has her claws into more things than you can possibly imagine,” he said in an attempt to divert me.

“Oh yeah? Then why don’t you just tell me about them?” I suggested.

“Well, I’m not the one who actually has the details,” he deftly sidestepped. “But I know where you can find out. You should go and speak to Sy Abrams, her former boss. Word has it he’s got all the dirt on her.”

“Does he own the club where she used to dance?” I inquired.

“If dancing is what you want to call it. But from what I
hear, she didn’t do all her bumping and grinding on stage,” he sneered. “The place where she worked is a dive. It makes the clubs I hang out in look like the Ritz.”

“What’s the name of this place?” I asked.

“The Beaver’s Den, over on Fortieth and Eighth. You can’t miss it. There’s a sign for Starburst Talent Agency on the second floor. That’s where they book the strippers.”

“Maybe I’ll check it out. In any case, I expect you to keep your mouth shut as to what went on here today,” I warned. “Otherwise, Muffy and the rest of her posse will get their own private viewing of this tape.”

I patted my bag so there’d be no mistaking what I meant.

“Make that call to your ivory contact and I’ll be in touch,” I instructed, and headed for the elevator.

I walked past the funereal web of shahtoosh shawls, through the picture-perfect living room, and down the celebrity-studded hallway to once more enter the rickety lift. As I pressed the button, Giancarlo seemed to think of one last thing that he wanted to say.

“So, are you really related to the Bushes, or what?” he questioned, thrusting his head so far forward that I feared it might pop off of his neck.

Unbelievable. Even now the guy was fishing for more business contacts.

I didn’t dignify it with a reply. Instead, I looked at him and smiled as the elevator emitted a long, drawn-out death rattle and the door slowly closed with a sigh.

A
fternoon rush hour traffic was already in progress by the time I reached my Chevy. The city streets were jammed bumper-to-bumper like an urban amusement ride. I wedged my way into line, figuring I might as well join in the fun. What the heck. My best thinking is usually done while I’m stuck in my car, anyway.

However, my thoughts remained focused on only one thing—the carnage inside Ralph Goldberg’s closet. I couldn’t help it. Now matter how hard I tried, the vision remained.

For the life of me, I’d never understand how people could wantonly slaughter elephants. The largest creatures on land, they’re also one of the most intelligent. They resemble human beings in so many ways. They have an intricate social life, love their families, and are led by the experience, memories, and knowledge of elders. Elephants are known to greet their family members with open emotion, racing toward them with rumblings and trumpetings as they happily flap their ears, and tears stream down their face.

They shed tears for other reasons as well. Pachyderms rarely leave their sick and wounded, but physically support them with their shoulders and trunks, bringing food and staying until they’re no longer able to move. Neither do they
desert a loved one once they’ve finally passed away, but linger in a ritual of mourning.

An elephant will sniff every inch of a fallen member’s body while gently attempting to prod and shake them awake. Finally, they gingerly explore the remains in what can only be a deep comprehension of death. Eventually the herd files past, two and three at a time, as if to pay their final respects. Even then, elephants often return to the spot where a close relative has died.

They’ll also carry the tusks and bones of other dead pachyderms that are found along the way, reverently passing them around to the rest of the herd. It’s said that elephants suffer such trauma and distress over death that they sometimes die of grief, themselves.

When they’re being attacked and killed by poachers, these whales of the land call to distant bands of elephants, either in warning, or as an anguished cry for help. The poachers brutally hack their faces, cut off their tusks, and leave their flesh to rot. Those few animals that manage to escape are forever scarred by such memories. It’s why elephants are believed by many to have very old souls.

But the irreparable harm goes even deeper, for poaching unravels the very fabric of elephant society. The older females, with their huge tusks of ivory, are more than just leaders of the herd. They’re also repositories of accumulated knowledge. Deprived of that wisdom, orphans are left without any guidance when it comes to locating ancient migrating routes and distant feeding grounds. No one is there to teach them where to find springs during a drought, or lush meadows after early seasonal rains. Nor can they learn how to avoid being killed by poachers.

I was jerked from my own deep, dark thoughts as I finally approached Midtown. Much as I hated to admit it, Giancarlo
had cleverly gotten me hooked. I had no choice but to pay Sy Abrams a visit.

It didn’t matter how often I came through Times Square. I was still blown away by how much it had changed. No longer was it a carny version of Sodom and Gomorrah. Rather it had become a soulless shopping mall with a giant corporate grin plastered across its face.

Most of the porn theaters, adult video/bookstores, and fleabag hotels are now gone, replaced by Toys “R” Us, the MTV store, Planet Hollywood, and the ESPN Zone. Forty-second Street has been transformed into a Disneyfied version of its former self—one in which
The Lion King
reigns supreme and Madame Tussauds wax museum sits on what had once been New York City’s grittiest block.

What had formerly been “Sleaze Central” is now an equally charmless conglomeration of every giant chain store and super-sized restaurant that’s laid claim to the U.S. The end result has been nothing less than death by fashion trend, “family values,” and good old American commercialization. The only remnant of the prior Times Square is the perennial man on a soapbox yelling about God and demanding that passersby repent.

I drove a few blocks west, toward the Port Authority Bus Terminal, and circled until I managed to find a restricted parking space. Pulling my parking permit from the glove compartment, I stuck it in the window and then strolled down a stretch of city where a sprinkling of Triple X theaters still remain. It was there that I found the Beaver’s Den.

A drab building, it stood lodged between a hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon and Joey’s Cheap Peep Shots. My hand landed on something sticky as I pushed open the door and walked into the club.

I was greeted by billowy blue smoke that languorously
curled and twisted around the forms of three topless dancers. They received little encouragement from the few men who sat listlessly at the bar and drank. Rather, their attention was focused on the basketball game being shown on TV.

That night’s free buffet of macaroni and cheese lay untouched in its tin pan, resting above a Sterno can, the contents having already begun to congeal. A topless waitress, with tired breasts and caked makeup, sauntered over carrying an empty tray in her hand.

“What can I get for you, darlin’?” she asked. “Why don’t you go and take a table up front near the girls? They’ll be happy for the company, and maybe it’ll even make them feel a little more like dancing.”

I found myself wondering how old she might be. The woman had stringy blond hair that begged to be washed, and she was so emaciated I could nearly see her ribs. The dim lighting did little to hide the track marks on her arms. I figured she could have been anywhere from a haggard twenty-five to a decimated forty.

“Thanks. But I’m looking for Sy Abrams,” I responded.

Only then did she give me the once-over, as though sizing up new competition.

“He’s up there,” she said, and pointed to a back staircase. “But I’ve gotta tell you, this place is already fully loaded. We don’t need any more waitresses or bartenders, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Her features abruptly transformed from slack to ferret sharp as she jealously guarded her territory.

“No. I just want to talk to him,” I replied, hoping to put her at ease.

“Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she advised, as I walked away and began to climb the stairs.

At the top stood a closed door with a sign that read
STAR
BURST TALENT AGENCY.
A gold star was pasted above it with a photo of a different topless dancer dangling from each of its five points. I wiped my hands on my pants and knocked on the door.

“Don’t be shy. Come on in,” responded a voice that crackled and wheezed with age.

The door squeaked with the high-pitched squeal of a mouse caught in a trap. I hesitated and then pushed it open. Peering inside, I spied a wisp of a man, barely visible behind a large wooden desk.

A pair of bushy eyebrows, wiry as two scouring pads, held reign over an ancient face There was as much hair growing out of his ears as there was on his head. The grandfatherly figure sat buried in a thick woolen sweater that was nearly as drab as his complexion. Only his piercing blue eyes appeared young for a man of his age.

“Excuse me, but are you Sy Abrams?” I asked.

“Yes, I am,” he cordially responded, digging into a takeout food container with a plastic spoon.

Even from where I stood, the smell of greasy Chinese pervaded the tiny room. It was the kind that makes you hungry while turning your stomach at the same time.

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” he asked. “Though I should probably tell you right off the bat that if it’s work you’re looking for, you’re a little over the usual age.”

How nice to know.

“But then, of course, I haven’t yet seen you without your clothes,” he added.

“And I can promise that you never will,” I pleasantly retorted. “I’m a Special Agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”

That response brought a smile to his lips. He smacked them a couple of times and then quickly ran his tongue over them.

“You don’t say. So what brings you here? Are you after some of my beavers?” he joked.

Great. An old man that had a sense of humor, in addition to being a lech. What a coup.

“No. I’m looking for information about one of your former dancers,” I told him.

“Go ahead. Take your pick,” he said, and waved his hand around the room.

The dingy walls were covered with photographs, both old and new, of what must have constituted his past and present stable of topless dancers. Most were black-and-white cheesecake shots of girls posed to show off their voluptuous goods. Each was signed
LOVE TO SEYMOUR
, their John Hancocks ranging from “Candy Kane” to “Scarlett Bottom,” to “Pussy Willow,” in what was clearly an homage to the adult entertainment industry.

“I remember them all as if they were my very own daughters. Each is a lovely girl. By the way, feel free to take your jacket off. I promise not to bite,” he added, and popped a piece of mystery meat into his mouth.

He must have noticed that I’d begun to break into a sweat. But then, the room was as hot as a sauna. I removed my jacket and immediately felt naked as his eyes brazenly focused on my chest.

Damn him,
I thought, and nonchalantly crossed my arms across my breasts.

I continued to peruse the room until I found the photo that most resembled Tiffany Stewart.

“What about this one?” I asked, pointing to a woman who arched her back and stuck out her boobs.

“Ahh, the troublemaker of the lot. I should have guessed. That’s Tiffany LaLou,” he replied, with a knowing nod of his head.

“Why do you say that?” I questioned. “Exactly what made her so much trouble?”

“Are you kidding me? You name it. No matter what rule I’d put into effect, Tiffany would go out of her way to break it.” Sy put the cardboard container down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay. Here’s an example for you. I’ve never allowed the girls to have sex with the clientele at the Beaver’s Den. So, what would happen? I’d go in the back room and catch Tiffany giving one of them a quickie. Can you imagine? They’d be
shtupping
right there next to the men’s room. It was that kind of thing that drove me nuts.”

Understandable,
I thought.

“Oh yeah. Here’s another good one,” he said, and slapped his palm on the desk with a laugh. “I remember one time when I told all the girls there were to be no breast enhancements. I wanted everyone in the club to look
au natural.
So, what did she do? Tiffany immediately ran out and got herself a giant set of knockers. I’m talking big bazoombas.”

Sy demonstrated by pretending to hold a large beach ball in each hand.

“I’ve got to give her credit, though. She was always quite a girl. And so limber! You should have seen the things that she could do,” he said, fondly reminiscing.

I wondered how much of this Muffy and the others already knew, and when they had found out.

“Anything else that you can recall?” I pressed.

“Only that she got nabbed a couple of times for hooking, and I had to bail her out. That girl could never learn to hold on to money. Which was why I was surprised when she finally paid me back one day. Not only that, but she said I wouldn’t have to worry about her any longer,” he revealed.

“Why was that? Because she’d married her husband by then?”

“No, that came later. She went down South on a trip home. All I know is that Tiffany claimed to have met someone in law enforcement while she was there. She said she’d secretly begun to work for him, and swore that there wouldn’t be any more trouble. Not while she knew someone on the job. And you know what? She was right. There wasn’t a bit after that,” he reported.

“Do you know where it was down South that she went?” I asked, my curiosity roused.

Sy Abrams shrugged, his bony shoulders rising up like the round, knobby tops on a vulture’s folded wings. “Who can remember? Besides, all those states tend to blur together. The only thing I know about the South is that they have grits and cornbread. And I’m not too crazy about either one.”

“I heard that she met her husband here at the club. Is that true?” I asked, ready to move on to a different topic.

“You mean Andrew? Or Bippy, as he liked to be called. Yeah, she sure did. He was quite the whoremonger, and Tiffany knew just how to play him. A little shake of the tush, a little feel of the rack, and she was leading him around by the nose. Or whatever other appendage she chose. Let me tell you, it’s not every girl that leaves here having married a millionaire. But that’s the thing about Tiffany. She has more than big tits. She also has smarts, and don’t let anyone ever tell you differently,” he advised, patting my hand.

His skin felt as dry and thin as parchment.

“So what’s your interest in her, anyway? What’s she smuggling? Exotic pussies?” he asked with a wink.

I chose to ignore the remark. “I’ve heard that Tiffany is having money problems these days. You know that her husband passed away, don’t you?”

Sy Abrams nodded, clearly miffed that I hadn’t responded to his joke. “Yeah. Bippy had the last laugh, all right. Tiffany thought for sure that she’d inherit his entire estate. But I guess that blood runs deeper than even the best lap dance.”

“I heard that she might be involved with dealing in illegal elephant ivory,” I revealed, and closely watched his reaction.

“Ivory, shmivory,” he responded with a laugh. “Tiffany wouldn’t waste her time on anything like that. It wouldn’t bring in enough money. At least, not the kind that she’s after.”

The old man looked at me closely. “Is that why you’re here? Because you think I might know what she’s involved in?”

I nodded.

“And what do I get in return if I tell you?” he slyly asked.

“How about I don’t phone my friends at the Health Department and have them come and harass you?” I promptly shot back.

A smile flit across his lips. “Seems fair enough. I’m beginning to think that you’re almost as smart as Tiffany.”

I decided to take that as a compliment. “So what is she mixed up in these days?”