Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  “That coat is one of our most fashionable items and made of the very best material. Here, let me help you try it on. I’m sure you’ll look lovely in it,” the saleswoman schmoozed, turning on the charm.

  “I just want to make sure that it’s warm,” I said, slipping my arms through the sleeves and zipping it up.

  “Trust me. Nothing will keep you more toasty. And check out the price. You’ve got yourself quite a bargain there,” she added, piling it on.

  “Hmm. I have to be honest with you. The material feels a little chintzy. My aunt said I could probably find a better deal a few doors down,” I replied, making my opening gambit.

  “How can you say such a thing? You might as well cut my heart out right now and get it over with,” the woman groaned.

  “Don’t get me wrong. The coat is fine. It’s just a little too expensive for the quality. Can you possibly do better?” I asked, hoping to snag her on my line.

  The woman folded her arms across her chest and firmly shook her head. “I’m sorry, but you’re already getting a very good deal. You’d be wise to buy it at that price.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll take my aunt’s advice,” I replied, and began to walk out of the store.

  “All right. Perhaps I can take off just a few dollars more,” she said before I passed through the doorway.

  I waited as she checked the coat’s tag and then entered some numbers into a calculator. I would have thought the woman was figuring the speed of light as she ran through a series of complex mathematical equations. She finally wrote down a number and slid the paper toward me.

  I looked at it, crossed out the figure, and replaced it with one of my own. We went through another round of haggling before each of us was satisfied. Then I paid the woman, took my package, and Terri and I left the store.

  “I never knew you were such a world-class bargain shopper, Rach,” Terri said in admiration as we set our sights on Chinatown.

  “And here I thought you would have seen that in your crystal ball,” I answered with a grin.

  No two ways about it. Bargain shopping was what I liked best, after catching smugglers and poachers.

  There’s something about the air on a night that’s cold. It brings back the area’s ghosts. A beguiling sound began to float toward me on infinitesimal flakes of snow.

  It was the faint tinkling of show tunes that Gerda used to play. She and my grandmother had liked to boast that Al Jolsen, Irving Berlin, and the Gershwin brothers had all once lived in the neighborhood.

  Goose bumps pricked at my skin as the distant echo of a scratchy recording reached my ears. I glanced around, curious as to its source, and found myself suddenly transported back into Old New York.

  I blinked and discovered that all the cars had mysteriously disappeared. In their place, the street was now jammed with a series of pushcart peddlers hawking their wares. Their wagons were filled with every imaginable item, from hot potatoes to fish, from produce to dry goods and clothes.

  “A quart of peaches for a penny! ‘Damaged’ eggs for a song!” vendors trilled, as I looked on in stunned amazement.

  Something hard bumped against me, and I turned to find a laundryman heaving a sack filled with wet, clean towels and sheets onto his back. He delivered them door-to-door, where women hung them to dry on their fire escapes. But that was only part of the hustle and bustle of this city within a city.

  Men in long coats and hats had their shoes shined by bootblacks, as cheeky young newsboys stopped to shoot craps in the middle of the street.

  Near a sweatshop, a rag picker scavenged for junk to be resold, while a peddler sang of tin cups and bandanas for sale at only two pennies a piece. The stench and the noise of it all were nearly overwhelming.

  I became lost among a crowd that jostled and shoved, as people shouted to each other in a Babel of foreign tongues. And for one crystalline moment, I felt sure I’d caught sight of my grandmother—or a woman that looked remarkably like her. She was as she must have appeared upon first arriving in New York—heartbreakingly young and filled with boundless hope. I could almost have sworn that the woman smiled at me. And then she was gone.

  Just as quickly, the vision vanished as we entered Chinatown.

  It struck me that Chinatown was exactly the same as the Lower East Side must have been nearly a century ago. Vendors and stores stood tightly crammed around the ramparts of the Manhattan Bridge as we picked our way through a never-ending stream of pedestrians. Most were Asian immigrants speaking in their native tongue—Mandarin, Cantonese, Cambodian, Thai, and Vietnamese, with Laotian and Filipino thrown in for good measure.

  Turning on to Canal Street, we were swept up in a colorful bazaar of knock-off Louis Vuitton bags, Gucci wallets, and Chanel sunglasses. Terri was torn between purchasing a “Rolex” watch, or an “Hermès” scarf, when my cell phone rang.

  “Hey, there. What’s all that racket I hear in the background? Don’t tell me that you’re out trying to pick up some guy in a bar, are you?” Jake teased.

  “I make no promises when you leave me alone at night,” I returned the banter. “Are you home yet? Terri and I are in Chinatown. We’re on our way to grab something to eat. Why don’t you come join us?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to. I almost hate to say it after your warning, but I have to work late again tonight,” Santou informed me.

  My stomach automatically tightened into a knot. Most of Santou’s time was spent on counterterrorism and homeland security these days. But I was beginning to worry there might be another reason why he was continually coming home late.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked, even though I knew he’d never be able to tell me.

  “Yeah. All’s quiet on the New York front. There’s just something I have to check out,” he replied.

  I only hoped whatever it was didn’t have voluptuous curves and two legs.

  “What’s the color code tonight?” I asked, attempting to lightly jest, though my heart was beginning to ache.

  “How about blue for missing me?” Santou replied, with a low, sexy growl.

  It didn’t matter how long I’d been with the man. He always knew exactly how to make my pulse race.

  “That goes without saying,” I responded, trying out my best imitation of Angelina Jolie. “See you later?”

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” Jake promised.

  By the time I hung up, Terri had settled on both the watch and the scarf, and I firmly put any doubts about Jake behind me.

  “Maybe bargain shopping isn’t so bad after all,” Terri declared, as we headed off to Doyers Street.

  This was the heart of old Chinatown. The tiny alley curved with the insouciance of a charming European lane; its storefronts filled with restaurants and barbershops. But it hadn’t always been so quaint. The bend in the road had once been known as the Bloody Angle, due to all the bodies that lined its gutters—the victims of violent ambushes and Chinese gang fights. Perhaps their ghosts were here tonight.

  We entered our favorite Chinese restaurant and slid onto a plastic red banquette. The place didn’t look like much. The décor comprised the usual black velvet paintings of tigers, white Formica tables, and bright bare bulbs. But the food was terrific, even if the waiters hardly spoke any English. Two large bowls of Shanghai dumpling soup were placed before us, followed by a platter of kung pao shrimp. I only picked, however, finding that I wasn’t really all that hungry this evening.

  “So, how are things going with you and Eric these days?” I asked, attempting to delicately broach the subject.

  “What do you want to hear? The good, the bad, or the ugly?” Terri glumly responded, in his own unique version of Clint Eastwood.

  “How about all three?” I suggested.

  “Well, the good thing is that I’m not alone, I suppose, although Eric is rarely at home anymore. The man seems to do nothing but constantly work all the time. And when he is around, we no longer have very much in common. I’m all glitter and
boas, while he’s into button-downs and J. Crew,” Terri complained.

  “Well, you wouldn’t want a clone of yourself, would you?” I responded, hoping Terri wasn’t about to jump ship as he did once before.

  “No. But I also have no intention of growing old gracefully, whatever the hell that means. Whoever came up with that sad-ass saying must have been trying to sell annuity funds,” Terri griped. “I mean, really Rach. These days, Eric’s idea of a good time is sitting at home and watching The Apprentice on TV. I’m not ready to spend my evenings bundled in a blanket and drinking hot chocolate. This is the Big Apple. I want to have fun!”

  Actually, a down comforter and a cup of hot cocoa sounded pretty good to me. However, I wisely kept my mouth shut.

  “And then there’s Lily. That girl is getting way out of line. Granted she’s a teenager, and has had her fair share of problems, but she has more than a dozen different boyfriends and is out partying all night. For chrissakes, she’s having a better time than I am.”

  “Hmm. I wonder which one of you she takes after,” I joked, but decided maybe it was time that I had a talk with her. “I have an idea. Why don’t you tell me about some of Eric’s good points?”

  Terri took a sip of his tea. “Well, he’s kind and certainly generous. And he believes in my psychic ability. In fact, he thinks I ought to quit Psychics on Call and go freelance. He wants to come up with an advertising campaign and market me as the Psychic to the Stars. Can you imagine it, Rach? I could tell Whitney Houston to cut out the drugs, drop that lowlife Bobby Brown, and put her daughter on a diet,” he said with glee.

  “Eric doesn’t sound half bad to me,” I responded. “In fact, he really seems to care about you.”

  Terri smiled and the worry lines on his brow began to soften a bit. “Yeah. I guess when I look at it that way, you’re probably right. Maybe things really are better than I imagined.”

  I felt as if I’d done my good deed for the day.

  “And what about you and Jake? Is he happier now that he’s back at work once again?” Terri asked.

  “Yes. Everything’s fine,” I said, and stopped any further conversation by popping a shrimp in my mouth.

  Only rather than a shrimp, it turned out to be a red hot chili pepper. Damn! It felt as though my mouth was on fire. Grabbing a mouthful of white rice, I promptly put out the flames.

  “See? That’s what happens when you lie,” Terri responded.

  “What are you talking about?” I growled, finding myself inexplicably angry at Jake and the chili pepper at the same time.

  “I know you too well, Rach. You’ve barely touched your food. And you’ve been distracted ever since that call came in from Jake,” he observed. “What’s the matter? You can give me advice but can’t talk about your own problems?”

  Oh, what the hell. I suppose that’s what friends were for.

  “I’m not certain that anything’s actually wrong. It’s just that Jake keeps coming home late. Maybe it’s the job, or it could be that he’s seeing someone.” I viciously stabbed a dumpling with my chopstick, having voiced my fears.

  Terri stared at me with his big blue eyes and then broke into laughter. “You really are crazy, Rach. But that’s what I love about you. Why on earth would you think that he’s playing around?”

  I squirmed in my seat, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the subject. “Let’s just say that our nocturnal activities have fallen off of late.”

  “For chrissakes, Rach. The guy’s probably tired from working day and night. Besides, how many years have the two of you been together? Tell me. In all that time have you ever tried spicing up your sex life?” Terri quizzed, morphing into Dr. Ruth.

  I didn’t respond, fairly certain that Terri and I viewed “spicing it up” from two entirely different perspectives.

  “Your silence speaks volumes. Here. I suggest that you give these a try,” he said, and pulled two pair of fuzzy red handcuffs from out of his bag.

  “You carry those around with you?” I asked in surprise.

  “I believe in being prepared,” he replied, and handed me the cuffs.

  “Thanks, but I already have a pair,” I informed Terri, and promptly gave them back to him.

  “Uh-huh. And are they for work or play?” he asked.

  “Well, Fish and Wildlife issues the fuzzy blue ones for use on the street,” I said, making a face at Terri. “They’re regular handcuffs for work. What do you think? That I’d actually use something like those on a lawbreaker?”

  “Of course not. Which is exactly why you need a separate pair for fun. Oh, come on, Rach. Loosen up. For chrissakes, don’t be so stuffy,” he scolded, and slipped them into my bag.

  I was about to respond, when my cell phone rang. I quickly picked it up, hoping it was Santou with news that he was on his way.

  “Agent Porter,” I answered.

  “Hello? Is that you, Rachel?” responded a woman with a heavy Eastern European accent.

  What came through loud and clear was the fear in her voice, and I immediately knew the identity of my caller.

  “Magda?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” she nervously imparted.

  “You can tell me anything, Magda,” I tried to reassure her. “No matter the problem, it will be all right.”

  “No, it won’t. What I did is terrible. It’s very, very bad.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure we can fix whatever it is. The important thing is that you’ve called,” I soothingly replied, having a fairly good idea what she was about to confess.

  “That shawl I was wearing? I lied,” Magda said, and took a deep, jagged breath. “My friend? She didn’t give it to me.”

  Magda exhaled as though she’d swallowed a handful of broken glass.

  “All right then. Where did you get it?” I asked, trying to make the process as easy as possible.

  There was a long pause, during which Magda began to whimper.

  “I picked it up in the field the other morning,” she reluctantly admitted.

  “What morning was that?” I pressed, trying to coax her along.

  “You know. The morning that the dead woman was found,” Magda whispered, as though afraid of Bitsy’s ghost.

  A sob began deep in her chest and worked its way up into her throat, as if a panicked animal were clawing to get out.

  “I’m sorry, but I was so cold and the woman was already dead. I know it was wrong, but I didn’t think it would do any harm.” Magda wailed, as if in mourning for her soul. “I hid the shawl in my truck, but someone must have been watching. And now I’m afraid that they’re coming back to get me.”

  She said something else, but it was lost in a flood of blubbering.

  “What are you talking about, Magda? Who’s coming to get you?” I asked, trying to make sense of her gibberish. “Have you seen someone hanging around or following you?”

  Magda sniffled and blew her nose. “No. No one. It’s just a feeling I have.”

  She added something else again, but this time in Polish.

  “Magda, I can’t understand what you’re saying. Please, you’ve got to speak to me in English,” I snapped in frustration, and quickly realized the words came out sounding too brusque.

  She muffled her whimpering, and I knew that I’d hurt her feelings.

  “Magda, listen to me. I think you should go to a shelter tonight. There’ll be people around and you’ll feel safe,” I gently advised.

  But it was Magda’s turn to vent. “No! No shelter. I already told you. I won’t stay in a place like that. What would people say?”

  “They’d say that’s what shelters are for. To help those in need,” I persuaded.

  But Magda’s mulish pride bristled straight through the phone. “I’m not in need, thank you. I’m fine on my own.”

  “All right then. How about if I drive out and pick you up? You can come back to the city and stay with me,” I suggested.

  There
was a pause, and I knew that Magda was seriously considering my proposal.

  “You have a boyfriend, don’t you?” she hesitantly questioned.

  “Yes, but that won’t be a problem,” I said, thinking little of it.

  “He lives with you, as well?” she asked, with the slightest trace of disapproval.

  “Yes, we live together. But I have a very comfortable couch that you can sleep on,” I responded, still not quite getting it.

  Then I heard the giveaway: the clucking of her tongue.

  “No, no. It’s beginning to snow again. There’s no need for you to come. Besides, I’m just being a silly woman. Everything is fine,” Magda insisted.

  This time she didn’t bother to disguise the coolness in her voice, and I became frustrated, angry, and embarrassed, all at once.

  How dare Magda judge me as if I were some kind of scarlet woman. To hell with it. Let her sleep in her damn truck with her precious pride and morals, for all I care, I fumed.

  “Fine. Do as you wish. But I want you to call the Port Authority police and ask them to keep an eye on you tonight. Will you do that for me?” I asked.

  “I’ll get in trouble if I call,” she replied. “They told me the other day that I can’t sleep in my truck anymore. Some silly rule about my being a vagrant, whatever that means.”

  It means that you should be sleeping at a shelter, I wanted to scream.

  “All right. Then tell them that you’re staying somewhere else, but are worried about your truck. Say a suspicious-looking character has been hanging around,” I instructed.

  There was a momentary silence, as if Magda were purposely trying to bait me.

  “Magda, did you hear what I just said?” I impatiently asked.

  “Yes, I heard you. All right, I’ll call,” she reluctantly responded in a tight voice.

  “Promise me,” I pressed, feeling as though I were dealing with a pigheaded child.

  “Yes, yes. I promise,” Magda grudgingly agreed.

  “Okay then. I have a gift for you. I’ll bring it by first thing in the morning,” I revealed, hoping that might help patch things up between us.

  “A gift for me?”

  Magda sounded genuinely pleased, and I wondered how many presents she had received in her life. “Rachel, I’m so sorry,” she said between tearful gulps that nearly swallowed each word.