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 STARBURST 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 c
ouple 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?”
“All I can tell you is what I’ve heard. Word has it that Tiffany’s dealing in hot rocks,” he confided, and crossed his arms on top of his desk.
“Hot rocks?” I asked, not quite sure what he meant.
“Yeah. You know. Ice. Diamonds,” he responded.
“Tiffany’s involved with stolen gems?” I questioned, finding it rather hard to believe.
All I could think of was Grace Kelly and Cary Grant in the movie To Catch a Thief. And Tiffany certainly didn’t fit either of those roles.
“Nah. She’s not a goniff.”
I looked at him thoroughly puzzled, having no idea what he was talking about.
“You don’t speak any Yiddish?” he asked, peering at me askance.
“I do, but just a little,” I responded, knowing that I’d never be able to admit now that I was Jewish.
“She’s not a thief, or anything like that,” the old man said with an impatient shake of his head. “These are some kind of diamonds from Africa that aren’t allowed into this country for some facockta reason.”
Though he didn’t bother to translate, I got the gist of what he meant.
“Tiffany’s the middleman of sorts. She’s getting them to the right people to be sold,” Abrams explained and, reaching for a pack of Marlboros, lit up a cigarette. Then he began to wheeze and cough and spit.
“So, she’s dealing in diamonds, huh?” I repeated, still having a hard time buying it.
“Sure. Why not? The girl knows plenty about them. God knows, she ought to. She has enough of them herself,” he declared.
“Do you have any idea who else might be involved in it with her?” I questioned.
“Sorry, sweetheart. But I’m afraid that’s all I know. By the way, do yourself a favor and don’t ever get breast implants. You don’t need them. It looks like you already have a lovely pair,” he said, glancing at my chest again.
I quickly put on my jacket.
“Thanks for the information,” I replied and turned to leave.
I caught one last glimpse of Sy Abrams before exiting the room. His wrinkled face was wreathed in cigarette smoke, and he was digging out the last of the Chinese food with his plastic spoon.
I shut the door and went back downstairs.
“So, what happened? Did you get a job?” my friendly cocktail waitress asked before my foot hit the bottom step.
She must have been hovering there the entire time, anxiously waiting for me.
“No. You were right. Apparently, the club doesn’t need any more help,” I responded, figuring that ought to make her night.
“Told you so,” she replied with a smile that barely dented her makeup. “Better luck someplace else. Hey, why don’t you try the Baby Doll House, down in Tribeca? I hear they’re looking for a few warm bodies.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that,” I said and walked past the three dancers. They seemed even more listless, probably having given up hope of making any decent tips.
I quickly walked through the exit door, not wanting to let in too much cold air. The weather outside was frigid, and the last vestige of light had been swallowed by the night. Even so, my mind was beginning to wander. All I could think was, what kind of diamonds wouldn’t be allowed into the United States? I’d never heard of such a thing before.
I pressed my arms tightly against my sides, and jammed my hands in my pockets. Damn! I’d forgotten my gloves once again. To make matters worse, I suddenly slid on a patch of ice, and my arms flew out, fingers clutching at thin air. I managed to catch myself only at the very last moment.
That did it. I promptly went into “old lady” mode. Hunching over, I kept my eyes glued to the ground and intently focused on each of my steps. Fortunately, there weren’t many people around to bump into. The frigid weather must have convinced them all to stay indoors. Besides, this was a lousy part of town. I turned down a side street and began to head for my Chevy.
Sy Abrams had been right. Tiffany certainly knew her diamonds. The woman could have worked in the business. Or perhaps she already did, and it was just that most people didn’t know.
My mind had started to wander once more, so that I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. That proved to be a mistake as my feet abruptly flew out from under me. Or so I thought. Only they never came back down to touch the ground. Instead, I felt myself lifted, like a weightless length of shahtoosh, and swiftly being carried through the air.
I frantically called out, but a piece of tape was rudely slapped across my mouth. It was then that fear set in. Though I tried to struggle and kick, it was all to no avail. At the same time, my purse was yanked from my arm. Naturally, my gun was in it. I realized that I was totally vulnerable and that this was the stuff of which nightmares were made.
I wildly glanced around for help, but no one was in sight—that is, except for the two men whose identities were hidden be
hind face masks and caps. They stood on either side of me and held tightly on to my arms.
My heart beat wildly, and my breathing grew rapid and shallow, as adrenaline percolated through my veins. A whiff of something rancid hit my nose, and I could have sworn it was the same greasy Chinese food that Sy Abrams had been eating. The odor mixed with terror to form a noxious lump that twisted inside me like a giant clenched fist.
Though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, it felt like forever as I was roughly dragged down a dark alley. Funny how in times of distress you focus on certain things while others slip by. All I could think of was that I’d be found like so much rubbish, thrown among the Dumpsters and garbage as rats skittered past. That was, until the pain began. Then all other thoughts receded from my mind.
I saw a fist coming at me and quickly turned my head. But that couldn’t stop a set of knuckles from slamming into my jaw. The punch threw me up against a brick wall, whose rough surface and sharp edges bit callously into my back.
Defend yourself! my brain angrily screamed.
However, I couldn’t even begin to try and use Krav Maga. It was as if the cold had insidiously penetrated my limbs and frozen every response.
That ended as a fist connected with my stomach and I doubled over as easily as a piece of origami. My head pounded and my eyes jerked, my gaze scuttling across the ground like a couple of severed crab’s claws. It stopped at the sight of an empty beer bottle that had been thrown nearby. Or at least, that’s what I imagined it to be. I couldn’t be absolutely certain since my vision was blurry. Not that it mattered. Whatever lay on the ground, I was bound and determined to go for it.
I threw myself down, grabbed what turned out to be a bottle of Bud, and viciously swung at the first set of knees. A loud grunt attested that I’d made contact.
The utterance of, “You bitch!” verified it.
However, it also unleashed a new wave of ferocity from my churlish attackers. Though I tried to protect myself, two pairs of feet now began to fly, fast and furious. They hit their mark as I rolled into a tight ball, grateful for what protection there was from my down jacket. Even so, kicks continued to rain down on my back and my ribs as I covered my head with my hands and just prayed that it would soon end.
Unsafe Harbor Page 16