Sister Ophelia is thrilled to hear such suggestions of generosity, especially coming from these very well-dressed and obviously wealthy people. She is not personally acquainted with any of them, and, in fact, is unaware of an uncomfortable social climate in Saint Mary’s parish. Sister Ophelia does not have a racist bone in her body and is sure that these people’s money will spend every bit as well as anyone else’s. She eases Mrs. Chang and her small group of potential benefactors into her office.
“Tell me, please, Mrs. Chang, what you have in mind,” she says.
“I think it would be wonderful to have the children come to the humble home of myself and my husband for a grand group birthday party the day after your June second launching of the Wednesday’s Child media campaign. Perhaps, we could—in some small way—provide a way for the children to see our culture and even to spend a few days with us. Who knows, there may be those among us who are yearning to adopt and have not known how to go about it. This would be a way for them to mingle with the children and get to know them without it being—how might we say it?—an uncomfortable situation where the children feel they are under scrutiny and are somehow being judged. Also, the children would be able to rest and relax out of the spotlight, which–I am sure we are in agreement–will likely be stressful for these lovely and innocent children.”
“You know, Mrs. Chang, that our June second kick-off ‘birthday’ celebration is planned to be limited to girls. Would that be a problem?”
“No, of course not. We just love little girls. Who doesn’t?” Mrs. Chang says with a broad and ingratiating smile.
“How many girls do you think you can accommodate?”
“Why, all of them. Every one of them would be made to feel special. We have a large house, several kitchens, and spacious grounds. We would like to make it into a temporary girls’ camp with tents, sleeping bags, barbecues and all of that. It should be such great fun for the dear ones.”
“That would be quite expensive. Can you manage such costs?”
“Well, not to be immodest, but we have done well in our wholesale import-export company over the years. And we would be only too glad to put on this party and to make a substantial donation to the orphanage as well. My friends here”—she points to everyone in her group—“are associates in our business, as well as fellow parishioners, and have the means and the desire to give generously to these less-fortunate children. After all, children are our future, are they not?”
“Indeed they are,” says Sister Ophelia, losing any sense of trepidations about these strangers—and now new friends—taking her girls under their generous wings.
For the next half an hour, Sister Ophelia and Mrs. Chang work out the details and agree to keep their plans a secret from the girls until after the launch day of the Wednesday’s Child effort on television. Mrs. Chang wishes her efforts to remain anonymous and to keep the news of the party quiet lest her fellow parishioners consider them to be seeking personal glory or gain.
Chapter Five
The van and the abandoned clothing and the other pitifully few belongings of the victims are all moved into a large deserted Holland-style factory building. The CSI unit sifts through the blood and excrement to try and determine the identities of the migrants—dead and alive. The excrement is evaluated to gather evidence about the starvation conditions in the death van, as it has come to be known by the police and the enraged public.
Mary Margaret says, “We have bodies and evidence of willful neglect amounting to second-degree murder at the least or intentional starvation and therefore premeditated murder in the first at the most for eighty-seven counts. New York City Health and Hospital called me this morning to let me know that another victim died. Martin, would you please go over there to Clarkson Avenue and see what you can find out? I am going to get together all of the data on the vics and get started on the preliminary reports. Let’s plan to get some lunch at Jim Cracker’s Grill by the precinct, and then we need to start hitting the Cosa Nostra CIs to find out what they know about the human trafficking business. We need some names, and we need to make some connections. The intelligence division has a lot on them; and we can get stuff from UNODC, Interpol, and the FBI. You and I are going to be the best informed cops in the world on human trafficking before we’re done, and then we are going to put a world of hurt on those conscienceless monsters.”
“Yessah massa,” Martin responds looking down at his feet and doing a shuffle.
“Get outta here,” Mary Margaret says with a threatening smile.
They both laugh.
Martin doesn’t learn much of what they don’t know yet: the new vic is a woman of about twenty to twenty-five. The autopsy reveals that she was three-months pregnant, and the condition of her genitalia reveals long-term cumulative trauma. She has cigarette burns on both arms and whip scars on her back.
“She had a terrible life, this little girl,” the ME says with a sigh. “Martin, my friend, you have to get these people. We are seeing this kind of horrific abuse all over the world. The journals are full of it, and doctors are mad and frustrated.”
“And so are cops, Doc,” Martin says, “We are going after whoever did this with all we’ve got.”
“And when you get them, another ten will take their place. It’s disheartening,” says the doctor. “It’s like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice … poem by Goethe.”
“I heard something about that, but I just went to CUNY to night school. Remind me.”
“It’s a German poem about an old sorcerer who has to be away from his workshop for a while and leaves his lazy apprentice with some simple chores to do. The apprentice quickly tires of getting buckets of water; so, he enchants a broom to do the work for him. He overestimates his magical skills and his judgment and ends up using magic beyond his training. The project turns to chaos, and the floor is soon flooded. The apprentice doesn’t know how to stop the broom, and he panics. He hacks the broom in two with an axe presuming that will put an end to the pesky broom; but each of the halves becomes a whole new broom and takes up a pail and continues fetching water, now at twice the speed and twice the degree of flooding. The apprentice thinks all is lost, and his boss will beat him for poking his nose in where he shouldn’t have. Finally, the old sorcerer returns, breaks the spell foolishly started by the lazy boy, and saves the day.”
“I guess we are in the part of story where the split broom and re-split brooms are getting out of control,” Martin says. “And we certainly need an old sorcerer to come and save our day.”
“Amen,” says the ME.
After a healthy lunch of burgers, fries, and beer—most of the main food groups—Mary Margaret and Martin take a drive out to Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, to talk to a couple of RCIs [Registered Confidential Informants]. The two RCIs the detectives are to meet are a very cautious pair; the detectives have to use disposable cell phones and meet each RCI in a different bar. They cross the 1889 Carroll Street Bridge—the oldest retractile bridge in the country—over the Gowanus Canal, which is the principal means of entry into Carroll Gardens. The neighborhood has an element of charm—tree lined streets, beautiful old brownstones with front and back gardens, a diverse array of restaurants and bars, good local delis and Italian markets. The main charm is that it is away from the Gowanus neighborhood. Gowanus’s only claim to charm is that it is close to Carroll Gardens. Smith Street today—like all days—is constantly buzzing with inebriated foot traffic with a bar between every other storefront. Angry Wade’s bar is on 222 Smith Street and is in full raucous operation even though it is only an hour after lunch.
Their first RCI—real name Ambrose Letchley, aka “Little Letch” for his alleged participation in the pimp trade—is ensconced in a back booth where no overhead light shines.
“Mornin’ detectives, what brings you down to our fair neighborhood on this fine morning?” Letchley asks with a gap-toothed smile.
The detectives take a seat on the opposite side of the booth; so, they can face Little Let
ch and avoid the BO and potential for transfer of lice or fleas.
Martin says, “We have some business for you—right up your alley, pun intended. We presume you heard about the stuff going on over by the canal?”
“Hasn’t everybody? I been axen around some, knowen that somebody would come a-knockin’ at my door. Got a little intel fur ya—if the price is right.”
“Depends on the intel, Letch. You get nothing for nothing, and you get a bad day if your information is bogus. Now, give us a sample, Letch; so, we’ll see if it is worth anything. We are having a very busy day and don’t have time for a nice chat, much as we would like to enjoy more of your company,” Mary Margaret says with a meaningful look.
“Hey, detectives, don’ I always come through? I don’t have that RCI certificate framed and hangin’ from my bedroom wall for nuthin’, ya know.”
“Out with it,” Martin says.
“I took some risks and had a word or two with some of the local soldiers over at the Terzaghi Wine and Dine on Hicks. You know the place?”
“We do,” says Mary Margaret.
Terzaghi Wine and Dine on Hicks is a well-known semiofficial headquarters for the Visentini set of the Lanza crime family, which took over when the Colombos all went to prison. It is an exclusive hangout–which actively discourages walk-in customers–and law enforcement only enters by appointment.
“Okay, so you two know that there’s some risk in goin’ in there.”
“Admitted. Get on with it.”
“I’m gettin’ there. I have to set the scene, you understand. Anyways, I meet a couple of younger-type soldiers—haven’t made their bones or nothin’ yet. I buy a coupla rounds, and we get ta talkin.’ Seems they’re kinda put out about bodies bein’ found in the canal, like they was dumped there by La Cosa Nostra in Red Hook. They convinced me that the people in the life had nuthin’ to do with dumpin’ no bodies. That stuff went on way back in the day of the Mustache Petes. Bad for business now. One a the capos overheard us talkin’ and says good and loud that ‘our thing’ don’t go in for that no more. I believe them.”
“What about the thing with the van, Letch? That’s more like what we need to know,” Martin says.
“Yeah, about that. When I brought that up, it was like somebody farted in church. Got to be real quiet. ‘How come you’re askin’?’ the capo says right up in my face. ‘Just curious,’ I say. ‘Don’t mean nuthin’ by it. Everybody in Red Hook is askin’ about it.’” He calms down, takes a good shot of his Titerno Red, and gets control. He says, “‘Maybe somebody ought to be askin’ the Fuk Ching over by “The Houses” or the Snakeheads.’ He had a good laugh when he said, ‘Maybe youse can get an appointment with Sister Chi.’”
“Anything else?” Martin asks.
“That’s all I dared to ask. Can’t look like you’re too nosey in Terzaghi’s, ya know what I’m sayin’?”
“Sure,” says Martin. “How about you keep digging, Letch? You got our numbers; give us a jingle if anything else comes up.”
“This should be worth a Benjamin, right, Detectives?” Letchley asks without a lot of hope.
“Get real. Here’s a pineapple. That’s what this is worth—fifty bucks. There’s more where that comes from if you can get some names—stuff like that. A witness would be worth a Benjamin, maybe two. A snitch with the goods could go up to half a large. Get out there and dig. You did good. Now, find us something more—something we can really use—and maybe we give you a good note for your file in addition to the five hundred,” says Mary Margaret and shakes the snitch’s hand.
He leaves first; and the detectives wash their hands, then leave for their next RCI appointment. The stretch of blocks between the Bergen and Carroll train stops offers a dense concentration of bars ranging from historic, to divey, to speakeasy, to sexy cocktail date spots, to rustic wine bars, and to rowdy sports crowds, all with little pretension or attention to updating or maintenance, but with copious character. The detectives are sure that someone in all of that crowded humanity knows something. The comment about the Chinese gangs could mean something; so, Martin calls it into the precinct and asks the Loo to send some unis out to use up some shoe leather canvassing Gowanus and Carroll Gardens to see what they can find out. Maybe it would be a good idea to spread out after a few days to check The Point and the areas around the projects.
“When we finish up with “Ugly,” you and I should follow up on the Chinese gang idea. I hope you brought your vest, Martin,” Mary Margaret says. “We might need to suit up for that bit of detecting.”
They drive over to Henry Street—a fairly main thoroughfare that was once an Indian path—and park across the street from an American restaurant called Bar Bruno in the 1500 block. “Ugly” is more properly known as Axel Zowie-Slaughter, his new name legally changed from Daniel Brown because that was not cool. He is called “Ugly” as a backhanded title of respect because he is classically handsome, and he likes the camaraderie of attractive women who are given access to him and who use the street name affectionately. God save anybody who uses the term to diss the tall, dark, and handsome thirty-year-old who wears a knife-cut facial scar as a badge of distinction. Ugly is a pimp, and no one could mistake his profession when he enters the bar with his usual flourish.
Martin and Mary Margaret are familiar enough with the semi-famous pimp to know not to smile at the theatrical appearance of the man his enemies called “Slaughter” rather than “Ugly” for reasons other than it might be his new last name. Ugly changes names on a whim about once every couple of years. He is decked out in a hot pink jump suit tight enough to show off his finely-toned musculature and some other bulges, knee-high swashbuckler buccaneer boots, a four-inch-wide belt, and a broad brimmed purple pimp hat sporting a large red feather plume. He wears his hair carefully coifed down to his shoulders, and he is flanked by two behemoths whose mothers never taught them how to smile.
He and his retinue stride confidently to the booth where the detectives are sitting and assume seats facing them. The bodyguards sit on barstools across from them; so, they are less than a couple of seconds away. Their mothers apparently have not taught them about blinking either.
“Hay, y’all, what brengs ya heah to ma turf?”
Ugly is a well-paid RCI and has been worth every penny when he was “consulted” in the past.
“Mr. Slaughter,” Mary Margaret says, “we need your help. It’s about the bodies and the murders over on the canal. We have some conflicting info about who put the bodies in the canal a while ago and who is responsible for the van full of starved and abused illegal migrants up the street. Got anything we can use? We are not looking to hassle the locals; we’re looking for some monsters. You won’t be blamed for any small stuff you have to tell us if you have something that’ll get us to the people who are terrible enough to treat their fellowmen like that.”
Ugly uses illegal migrant girls in his business, but he generally treats them fairly decently—pays them a good percentage and only employs corporal discipline when the occasional girl gets out of line with a john or puts too much nose candy to use. He does not allow any needles—all of that is bad for business. So far as the detectives know, Ugly is not involved in narcotics, even marijuana.
“Ah hope y’all know that this human trafficking stuff ain’t ma theng, Detectives. I don’ approve, bein’ a religious man And besides, it is not good fuh ma bizness,” he drawls, unable and not inclined to lose his soft, slow Louisiana bayou patois.
The detectives do not feel that it is necessary to debate the term “human trafficking” to the level of straightforward pimping and prostituting; so, they let his generalization pass.
“Ah heahs thengs. This kina info moves quick, don’t ya know? Ah may have a little somethin.’”
“We’re all ears.”
“Ya always been fair. Ah thenk this may be wuth somethin’, ya know. Somma ma gulls tol’ me they been hearin’ ‘bout the Chinee bunch bringin’ in a few new young ones ta New Yau
k fa the trade. Say this summa the gulls look purty beat up and skinny. Look doped up more’n usual. One a ma gulls says she saw a van with some real sick folks ‘bout a month ago stoppin’ in the bus station in The Point. Got some samwiches and drinks and stuff, then they wuz herded back into the back of the van and took off. My gulls tol’ me how good they got it and get the shivers when they think about what those po’ souls ah a goin’ thru.”
“Were there guards? Were the people in the front of the van Asians? Could your girl tell?”
“Not sure. Ah’ll have ta ax huh.”
“Do that, Mr. Slaughter. Here’s a fifty. Get back to us by dark, and there’s another one for you. We’ll go a pineapple if you can get us names and addresses. This is real RCI work, and we need your help. Nobody ought to be treated that way, don’t you agree?”
“Ah do. Ah’ll get on it. Still got the same mobiles, Detectives?”
Martin and Mary Margaret nod.
“Seems to me that we need to find this ‘Sister Chi,’” Mary Margaret says.
“Presuming that she’s a real person. I’ve heard of her before, but nobody has anything on her,” Martin responds.
Chapter Six
May 24–June 3, 2020
First-year medical students Cerisse Daniels Farrer and her husband, Drake, are finishing their pediatrics rotation at Howard University Hospital Georgia Avenue NW in Washington, DC. With four other freshmen, the prospective doctors Farrer are assigned to do a paper on childhood trauma and to obtain raw data from the hospitals and clinics in the poorer sections of the District.
Wednesday’s Child Page 3