She glanced at Lucy as if seeking confirmation. Lucy nodded her agreement but remained silent. I guessed that Lorraine was the public face of STAY. Anyway, everything they were telling us confirmed what we’d learned from Craig Hollister.
“The pimps are both physically and psychologically abusive,” Lorraine was saying. “It’s similar to domestic violence. Sometimes a perceived threat is all it takes. The police are finally realizing how many young children are being forced into prostitution and controlled in this way.”
Tom asked, “What about the Asian gangs? Do you think they are pulling street kids into prostitution?”
“Absolutely, without question.”
Her eyes again drifted toward her assistant but didn’t make contact because Lucy was staring at her lap and picking at her ragged cuticles.
“It’s fairly complicated,” Lorraine added, still watching Lucy.
I was becoming increasingly curious about the relationship between the two women. Obviously, some sort of stress or conflict underlay their communication.
Lorraine continued, “While the gangs are a big problem, we also need to help Asian families interact more effectively with their children. Gang members come from second and even later generations, some with affluent backgrounds. On the surface, they appear to be well assimilated into American culture, but that can be deceiving.”
After our chat, the women took us on a tour of a residential yurt, and I was impressed by the economic use of space. The round area under the dome contained four partitioned rooms, each with a twin bed. The seven-foot-high walls were lined with built-in shelves, drawers, and alcoves for clothing. A small central living area held two sofas, a round table with four chairs, and a TV.
A fifth partitioned area formed a bathroom. That was the only room with walls that extended to the top of the dome. Another bedroom was located up a ladder in the loft. There, another wall panel blocked the view into the rooms below. A powerful ceiling fan in the center of the dome seemed to circulate air efficiently enough.
Lorraine pointed to an alcove on one side of the central living space. “It isn’t a full kitchen. But there’s a small refrigerator, microwave, and sink. So they can have light meals. We cook over at the office and serve at least one meal a day for those who want it. Kitchen privileges have few restrictions other than being closed from midnight to six a.m.”
Lucy added, “We inspect each residence at least once a day at different times to make sure there are no prohibited items like alcohol or drugs.”
The only problem I saw from the teenagers’ standpoint was the lack of auditory privacy. Since most walls were open at the top, conversations could likely be heard by anyone in the yurt.
Lorraine made a sweeping gesture toward the ceiling. “This unit is identical to the others. We have about seven hundred square feet to work with in these units, and we think we’ve done a pretty good job of providing pleasant housing for the kids. We have Wi-Fi, and they can use laptops if they are in good standing with our rules.”
She was obviously proud of the shelter and their work with the street teens.
12
After leaving STAY, we returned to the hotel so Tom could pick up his rental car. Then he followed me to Sid’s. When they greeted each other and embraced, her eyes filled with tears. I understood how she felt. Although it had been several years since she was nearly killed on the ship where he was the security chief, the emotions rise easily to the surface. Sid literally owes her life to Tom as well as to Don and Charlie. Since then, we’ve all been connected to one another in a way that is hard to describe—like family. We’re always ready to look out for one another.
Brooks came home from work at about four thirty, and he and Tom spent some time catching up. Then as we started on a predinner martini, the conversation turned to our current problems. Tom and I took turns describing our visit to STAY and the connection between the street teens and Asian gang.
“The shelter appears to be another dead end,” Tom told Brooks. “I hate to say this, but no matter how much we want to help Don and Charlie, the girl is apparently choosing the life she’s in. If she wanted to be found, we would know it.”
I shuddered as if I’d been hit by a blast of frigid air as his words connected with my deepest fears.
“But, Tom, based on what we’ve learned, I’m worried that she isn’t able to communicate with us. What if she’s become a victim of the trafficking?”
Just then, the landline rang. Brooks and Sid looked at each other, and she reached for the wall phone. As she answered, her eyes remained on her husband. Then she nodded and held out the receiver to him. He sprang up and grabbed it.
“Whoever this is,” he said calmly, “stop these calls, or the FBI will be listening and tracing from now on. Do you get it, asshole?”
He listened for a moment, then ended the call. “They hung up,” he said.
Sitting down next to Sid, he took her hand and smiled reassuringly. “I’ll bet you don’t hear from them again, honey.”
“I hope you’re right.” She didn’t sound convinced.
I wondered if this menace could just be a spiteful action intended to frighten her and nothing more. I said, “I told Tom about the calls earlier and that we think it is Paul’s doing. I also told Mick, and he said he would see about contacting Murray if that’s what you want to do. I know you were only threatening the caller, Brooks, but the FBI really would be interested in this.”
“Sure,” Brooks answered. “But let’s see if there are any more calls. After all, Paul is not getting out of prison, whether he is convicted on the new ‘murder for hire’ charge or not. I don’t think his colleagues here are going to go beyond making phone calls for him.”
Tom shrugged. “If I understand this, it makes sense that Paul would engage in harassment. He’s all about revenge and still apparently runs a network of people who are still on his payroll. It wouldn’t hurt to bring Murray into the loop one way or the other.”
Brooks and Sid looked at each other. As if a silent communication had settled the question, Sid said, “Yes, let’s talk to Grant Murray. It can’t hurt.”
Before we left to go for dinner, I called Don’s cell, and he answered on the second ring. “Hi, Darcy, did you find out anything new?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m so sorry, Don. Are you at home yet?”
“Just got in a half hour ago.”
“STAY is an interesting place, and they knew about Pammie, of course. But it seems to be the same story. Because of her age, everyone assumes she’s independent and making her own decisions.”
I heard a muffled comment, which I presumed was directed at Charlie. “I understand their point on that, I guess,” he told me.
“How are Charlie and Penelope doing?”
His voice was barely audible. “Not too well. Seems Penelope now thinks it is her fault that Pammie left, and she feels guilty. Her therapist told Charlie it will take some time to get past this event. We never should have brought her here. I realize that now, but Charlie is still holding out hope of finding her.”
“Tell him we’ll keep looking for a few days, but it’s good to be realistic.”
I couldn’t bring myself to mention the trafficking and gang problems again. I told myself my pessimism about finding the girl was only my imagination careening in overdrive after hearing the horror stories about what can happen to kids.
Then I heard Charlie’s voice. Don had obviously activated the speaker. “We’ve made a lot of trouble for everyone. I guess we’re naive or something.”
“No, you both are such good, kind people. Your hearts were in the right place, but she probably needed a different type of help before she could assimilate into your home.”
Don said, “We realize she never talked about her experience with that program STAY. It makes us wonder whether she ever really opened up to us about any
thing. We think she was keeping her options open the whole time. She gave Seattle almost six months, then just gave up on us.”
Charlie added, “You know the history of her life and how she quit school at age sixteen. Once they do that, everything gets harder. With her mother dead and her father in prison for life, Penelope is the only relative we’ve been able to locate.”
His voice broke, and he abruptly stopped talking. There really wasn’t anything else to say. I reiterated my promise to keep looking a bit longer and disconnected, feeling miserable.
The Lakes community has a little shopping center, the Lake Town Center Plaza, home to a couple of restaurants, a mini market, a performing arts theater, a dry cleaner, and a variety of other commercial businesses. I rode with Brooks and Sid, and Tom followed us to one of these establishments, the Lakes Lounge. This was another of their favorite restaurants.
The outside was nondescript, but when we entered, I readily saw the attraction. On one side, a U-shaped bar with stools on both sides featured TVs and catered to gaming enthusiasts. The dining room felt warm and cozy, with low ceilings dotted with small spotlights, gleaming wood floors, and walls bricked with natural stone atop vertical wood planking. We slid into a yellow vinyl booth and perused the full menu of American and Mexican cuisine.
After ordering salads and spicy quesadillas, we spent about twenty minutes formulating a plan to more methodically stake out the Green Door. Brooks explained that it offers a day rate of twenty bucks and really is a magnet for street kids who live four or five in a room. They scrounge money each day panhandling and hand it over to an adult or older kid who pays the managers. Some work the streets as prostitutes at night.
“What apparently happens with regularity, especially for girls, is they hook up with a pimp who pays for a room where the girls entertain clients. If we are watching at the right time, we ought to be able to figure out who is living there now. Getting a girl or two aside and asking if they know Pammie would be good.
“It’s just that we might have to hang around for a while before we find anyone willing to talk. I’ll help for a few hours in the early evening, but you guys should plan to be there during the night. That’s when the kids involved in prostitution are most active, of course.”
We agreed that Brooks would meet us tomorrow evening at six o’clock near the motel. We finished our meal, and Tom stood up to leave.
“Darcy, I’ll see you at the El Cortez tomorrow, and we’ll figure out if we have any additional moves. Okay?”
“Sure, Tom. How about if I meet you for lunch around noon? Nothing much happens down there in the morning, and I can spend some time with Sid.”
13
Day 4
“I don’t know, Tom. If she stops at the motel, do you think we should try to talk to her?”
“Why not? All she can do is blow us off … poor choice of words, I guess.”
I scoffed and elbowed his ribs as I watched the skinny girl sauntering down the sidewalk about half a block away. It was four in the afternoon, and we’d been parked in front of the mission across from the motel for an hour. I was thinking that I didn’t know how cops did this stakeout gig for hours on end and wasn’t looking forward to spending all night out here. Trying to talk to the girl would break the monotony, if nothing else.
She was Asian and very young. Skintight red satin pants clung to her toothpick limbs, and she wore a sequined silver cropped tank top that revealed a tiny undernourished midriff. Long black hair hung limp and dull around her shoulders. It was thick but surely would benefit from shampoo and conditioner.
We’d planned our own attire for low-key engagements. Both of us wore jeans, T-shirts, and athletic shoes. My hair hung through the back of a black ball cap. We got out and jogged the short distance to the crosswalk at Fremont. When the light changed, we ambled slowly across to the other side of Maryland Parkway.
The Green Door was a short distance south, and we walked toward it as the girl approached from the opposite direction. We didn’t know for sure that she was headed for the motel, but it made sense, and what did we have to lose?
Chatting and trying to look like tourists, we slowed and stopped near the motel entrance. When she reached us, she began angling toward the driveway. Tom took two strides and stepped in front of her, smiling broadly.
Startled, she tried to move around him. I noticed that she was carrying a small black plastic shoulder bag decorated with tiny metal studs. I hoped it didn’t contain a weapon.
“Hi there,” Tom said. “How are you doing?”
She didn’t answer but gave him a look that said “Get lost.” Then she tried to avoid him by stepping across the dirt strip between the sidewalk and the parking lot.
Tom tried again. “Hey, we don’t mean you any harm. We’re just looking for someone who used to stay here.” He nodded toward the building. “A lot of people are really worried about her. Can you please just talk to us for a minute?”
Tom’s friendly expression and tone seemed to connect with her. I imagined she didn’t experience a lot of kindness on a daily basis. I took a step forward and placed myself in front of her. She was so short—less than five feet—that I towered over her. I was sorry about that, but there wasn’t much I could do other than try to match Tom’s nonthreatening attitude.
“My name is Darcy.” I gave her a big smile and waited for her to reciprocate. Still smiling as well, Tom dipped his chin at her, and somehow she interpreted the gesture as encouragement.
“I Banu,” she said quietly. I saw her glance toward the motel and wondered if she was afraid someone would see her talking to us.
“We want to ask you about a girl who used to stay here,” Tom said.
She backed up, looking even more wary. Tom lowered his voice and changed his tactic.
“Would you like something to eat, Banu? We haven’t eaten, and we’re just trying to figure out where to go. Can you help us?”
He was lying, but I understood his reasoning. This girl looked hungry. Up close, she had a beautiful exotic face, but she was painfully thin. Her tiny breasts were barely noticeable under the stretchy top. My heart suddenly felt heavy in my chest. How many more pathetic girls were there like this one?
“Oh yes,” I said. “Please come with us. We’d love to hear about the real downtown Vegas scene. I’ll bet you know a lot about it, right?”
Again, her eyes darted toward the building, but there was no one in sight. It was clear she was on the fence, so I tried to nudge her over.
“We heard about a German deli, Strohmayr’s? It’s supposed to be really good. Do you know where it is?”
Tom gave me a quizzical look and then nodded his understanding. Her eyes widened, and I almost thought I saw her begin to drool.
“Is good,” she said. Her limited grammar and heavy accent made it doubtful she was a Vegas native.
“Well, all right,” Tom said, slapping his thigh.
I tried not to laugh at his show of exuberance.
“Let’s go. We can drive you, and after we eat, we’ll drop you off back here or anywhere you like.” He began to move toward the street. “I’m starving,” he added.
She hesitated, and I peered down at her, trying to look friendly and harmless. “Please won’t you come with us? I promise you it’s all right.”
With one last glance at the motel, she nodded and followed Tom across the street to the car. I thought it was risky behavior since she didn’t know us but soon realized that compared to her daily and possibly nightly risk-taking, this was nothing.
On the way, we learned that she was South Korean, and her full name was Banu Mar. I meant it when I told her it was a beautiful name, and so was she. She smiled for the first time.
Following her directions, we drove back up Fremont and parked at a meter not far from the El Cortez. We walked a couple blocks farther and crossed North Las Vegas B
oulevard. Nearing the famous Fremont Experience, a famous overhead computerized light show that stretches for blocks in the no-car tourist zone, we passed the Heart Attack Grill on the right. I was not tempted to eat there. A little farther up toward the Glitz and questionable glamour, we turned right at Fourth Street. Tom stopped a moment to admire the Harley-Davidson Store on the opposite corner. I wondered if he would return to buy a souvenir T-shirt.
Banu seemed uncomfortable in the crowds of tourists and scurried ahead of us. The deli’s location halfway up the block between Fremont and Ogden was ideal for business since it was close to the entrance to the Experience.
The elongated domed ceiling formed of metal struts and grate-like mesh stretched for blocks, ending with the historic Golden Nugget and Binions at Main Street. It isn’t much to look at in the daytime, but at night, the colorful free spectacle is a big raucous draw. Near the entrance to the tunnellike venue, people were lining up for zip line rides.
When we arrived at the restaurant, five people were gathered around a glass display case filled with sumptuous-looking pastries. Behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with short brown hair chatted with customers while packaging their purchases. She looked up as we entered and smiled at Banu. The smile dipped when she saw me, but she nodded tentatively.
Banu smiled back and led the way to a vacant table in the far corner of the room. She obviously felt comfortable here. Wonderful savory aromas wafting from the kitchen made me wish I hadn’t already eaten.
Tom asked what she would like to order. Shyly, she looked up at him, and her wary expression changed to one of hope. It was heart-wrenching. The corners of her mouth twitched as she pressed her lips together. Then her eyes widened, and her features softened. She really was quite stunning.
“I like German ravioli,” she said quietly, never taking her eyes off his.
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