Currents of Sin

by Arleen Alleman

  “Really, is it good?” he asked.

  “Yes, good.”

  “Right then, what would you like to drink?” He glanced at the menu board on the wall at the back of the counter. “How about lemonade?”

  “Okay.” She slumped back in her chair as if allowing herself to relax and perhaps let down her guard.

  He got up and went to the counter to place the order. Returning to the table, he said, “That is Deborah behind the pastries, and I met her husband, Walter. He doesn’t seem quite as friendly.”

  Banu said, “Walter nice.”

  Then we finally asked if she knew Pammie. Tom showed her the picture of an attractive sultry girl with thick black lashes and hair. Her skin was smooth with the warm tones supplied by her Native American genes.

  She shook her head. “No, not know.”

  “Will you tell me how old you are, Banu?” I asked.

  I thought she would lie, but after a moment, she looked down and whispered, “Almost fourteen.”

  Tom and I shared a distressed look. I asked, “Can you tell me how you got into the situation you are in? Do you understand me?”

  “I understand. I come Vegas from LA. Run from family. Two men bring here.”

  Tom asked, “Do you mean you were living on the street in LA before this?”

  “Yes, few month. Men bring Vegas.”

  Gradually, despite her limited English, we learned that she did not want to go back to her abusive family in California but is becoming increasingly afraid of the people she is with, particularly the men who brought her from LA and someone she called Shimmer.

  “Who is this Shimmer?” I asked.

  Just then, a girl who looked a little older than Banu, but very well fed, brought the food to the table. I gave Tom an incredulous look. He’d ordered the same meal for himself even though we’d eaten at the El Cortez only two hours earlier.

  He shrugged and turned his attention to Banu and the generous portion of food. It really did look and smell delicious. She didn’t answer my question and instead offered unsolicited information.

  “Tina might know.” She tipped her head at the photo still sitting on the table.

  I asked who Tina was, but she would say only that she was a friend. “She here longer, older.”

  Tom watched her gobble down the ravioli, which was apparently a specialty of the restaurant. He stuffed a forkful into his mouth. His eyes rolled, and he made a soft appreciative sound.

  “Um, here, Darcy. Have a bite. You won’t believe how good this is.”

  “Okay,” I accepted a pasta envelope filled with a pork-and-spinach filling made succulent by some sort of beef or vegetable broth. “Delicious,” I managed with a full mouth.

  She smiled at me. “Thank you for food.” She spoke slowly, obviously trying to enunciate each word correctly.

  “You are welcome. Please will you at least tell us how to find your friend so we can show her the picture?”

  She chewed thoughtfully. “Tina sleep now. Up later for work.”

  “Oh, okay. We can come back to the motel later. How will we know her?”

  She was quiet so long I didn’t think she would answer. She looked up at Tom, obviously trying to decide whether to provide details. Finally, she set down her fork and pushed back from the table.

  “There is mission. Korean man run. Tadashi Ping. Tina trust, go there. Think he help with Shimmer.”

  “I know the place you mean. It’s across from the motel, right?”

  She nodded, and I asked “Will you please tell us who Shimmer is?”

  Still no answer. She pointed at the photo and repeated herself. “Tina might know. She go mission tonight.” She thought for a minute. “Hair like you.”

  Tom patted her arm. “Thank you so much. We’ll go there later and try to find her. Now tell us what we can do for you. Where do you want to go? Do you know about the place called STAY?”

  She looked around the room as if afraid someone had heard him. She leaned in closer and whispered, “No. Not go there.”

  This surprised me because she exuded a definite negative vibe about a place I assumed the kids would like. “Why don’t you want to go there?” I asked.

  She shook her head and would not answer. “Go Green Door please.”

  I wanted to talk to the Strohmayrs, but they were busy with their customers. Judging by his clean plate, I didn’t think I’d have any problem getting Tom to come back another time.

  We complied with Banu’s wishes and took her back to the motel. On the way, we again tried to talk her into something different, but she was adamant. We couldn’t force her, and it was frustrating. I began to sense what the authorities were up against.

  14

  After Brooks met us at the curb about a block from the motel, he left his pretty green Lexus LX parked on the street, and the three of us walked up the sidewalk toward the mission. He didn’t seem a bit concerned, but I worried about leaving the expensive car on the street like that.

  When we arrived, there was no indication that the place was open for business, whatever that might be. Tom tried the grimy knob, and the door opened easily into a spacious room with a makeshift plywood dais sitting on cement blocks against the back wall.

  Old mismatched folding tables and chairs were lined up facing the stage. Along the right sidewall, a cracked Formica counter separated the room from what appeared to be a small kitchen. The dingy stained walls might once have been a fresh white but now showed the result of years of nicotine buildup and other abuses. The décor consisted of paper travel posters pinned onto the plaster without much thought to the arrangement. I wondered if they were covering holes or major stains.

  “Hello?” Tom called “Anyone here?”

  The place was eerily silent but smelled as if someone had recently cooked a meal. Just as we were deciding to leave and return later, a short thin Asian man appeared on the other side of the counter. He peered out at us through greasy wire-rimmed spectacles, then quickly disappeared. In a few seconds, he emerged from the side of the dais and approached us warily.

  His hair was pulled back into a short tail, and he wore a long black garment that appeared to be part pulpit robe and part karate gi with wide three-quarter-length sleeves. The sides crossed in front and were held in place by a long purple sash, and a red floral motif spilled down the side from shoulder to hem.

  “Yes, can I be of assistance?” He spoke with a heavy accent, although his grammar was excellent compared with Banu’s. He had a decidedly suspicious expression and stopped several feet from us as if he was afraid we were going to grab him.

  Tom extended his hand. “I am Tom Smythe, and these are my friends Darcy Farthing and Brooks Larkin. We want to ask you about your mission here and whether you know a young lady we are searching for.”

  The man stared—mostly at me, it seemed—but did not speak. We waited, and in a few moments, he took two steps closer and shook Tom’s hand.

  “I am Tadashi Ping. I am a Korean spiritual leader for the neighborhood and hold AA meetings here. That is all I do.”

  I asked, “Mr. Ping, what is your association with the street kids, especially the ones from the motel across the street?”

  “I try to give them a safe place to hang out sometimes. I want to help, so I encourage them to attend my services. They know they are always welcome here.”

  I pressed on. “May I ask your religious affiliation, sir?”

  He straightened up as if trying to look more professional. “I am a self-taught counselor and also practice Eastern spirituality and some Christian too. I try to help alcoholics and addicts, but I don’t have much money to do more.” He waved his arm behind him as if to explain the impoverished surroundings. He smiled for the first time. “I cook some food for my parishioners too.”

  “It smells very good,” I told him. “I�
��m just wondering whether you try to direct the kids to social programs or work with the police to try to get them off the street.”

  He squinted through his thick lenses. “That is not my mission, I’m afraid. The kids are street savvy, and they know all about the available services. It is up to them to decide for themselves.”

  Tom pulled Pammie’s picture out of his jeans and held it out to Ping. “Can you tell us if you know this girl?”

  He studied it for a moment, then peered up at Tom. He pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. An odd expression came and went quickly, and he vigorously shook his head.

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know her. If you would excuse me, I have to get back to my cooking.” He began to walk backward while keeping an eye on us, presumably to make sure we were leaving.

  We complied. Outside, we compared our impressions of the strange little man. He hadn’t precisely explained his church affiliation, and there was no question that something about him and his work seemed odd.—then again, so did everything about this environment. We decided to stay in the area and watch for Tina since Banu assured us she would eventually show up at the mission.

  The three of us sat in Brooks’s SUV parked a short distance from the mission and chatted while we drank coffees Tom procured at a Starbucks up at the Fremont Experience. A number of kids crossed from the motel to the mission, but none with long blonde hair like mine. We kept our eyes on the street, and after about two hours, the vigil paid off.

  A tall, willowy girl was crossing Marilyn Parkway from the general direction of the motel and appeared to be heading to the mission. She was decked out in the finest hookeresqe attire, including a bright green satin skirt that barely covered her rump and a low-cut red-and-black-striped top. She looked a little older and more filled out than Banu, but her arms and legs were still sticklike, and she teetered dangerously on four-inch strappy leopard-print shoes. She had long blonde hair.

  We debated whether all of us should approach the girl. It would be intimidating, and we didn’t know if this was even Tina. Finally, it was decided I would go first and try to build some sort of rapport. I would try to get her to walk back to the car with me for a little chat. It had worked with Banu.

  I walked briskly up the sidewalk, hoping my jeans, ball cap, and athletic shoes gave me a “friendly sister” kind of look. I noted that her hair was indeed the same color as mine, but much thinner. It fell softly on her bare shoulders with just a hint of wave. I thought of another similar blonde—my Rachael.

  Seeing this unfortunate young woman and thinking of my daughter brought a moment of despair. Brooks and I gave Rachael up for adoption when she was a toddler. It is a miracle of sorts that we found her a few years ago and that her life turned out well in spite of our horrific mistake.

  I couldn’t help but wonder, given both girls’ circumstances, what random currents along with human influences orchestrated the difference between them. Rachael led a comfortable privileged life, while this girl lived with danger and depravity. As I drew closer, she met my gaze with stunning light brown eyes flecked with gold. The image of my lovely daughter quickly dissolved.

  This girl’s eyes were beautiful, and that was all. Despite being a teenager, she looked much older as if she’d already been beaten down by fear and neglect. A scar ran down the side of her cheek, new enough to be raw pink. Her lips, nearly as thin as the scar, were a slash of bright red presenting a startling contrast with her nearly colorless complexion. A prominent beak of a nose poked out of the emaciated face. What a tragedy, was all I could think.

  We were next to the door of the mission when we met in the middle of the sidewalk. I gave her a big grin and stopped in front of her.

  “Hi there, are you Tina by any chance?”

  She edged closer to the wall and watched me with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

  “How do you know me?”

  “Earlier, I met your friend Banu. She said you might know a girl I am desperately trying to find. She once lived over there.” I gestured toward the motel.

  Her eyes darted toward the motel. She reached out to grasp the doorknob.

  “Um, so are you Tina? I have a picture of the girl I’m looking for. Her name is Pammie, and Banu said you might know her. Would you please look at it for me?”

  Recognition was absolutely apparent in her expression. She sighed and dropped her hand from the knob. “Okay, I’ll look at it.”

  I pulled the photo out of my back pocket and handed it to her. She sighed again and handed it back to me.

  “That girl used to be here, but I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

  “So Tina, right?”

  She nodded but declined to answer.

  “When did you last see her?”

  A shrug was her only response.

  I took a deep breath. “Look, Tina, I have two friends in that green SUV down there.” I pointed at the Lexus. “We would like to talk to you about Pammie and also about your life here on the street. Do you have a minute to come and talk with us?” Right then, I had a quick epiphany. “We can pay you for your time.”

  She mulled that over, never losing her dubious expression. “How much will you pay me?”

  “How much do you normally get when you work?” That was presumptuous but seemed reasonable under the circumstances.

  Tina glanced at the motel in the same manner Banu had earlier. Her tongue flicked over her deflated lips. I suddenly realized she was probably going into the mission to eat before going to work on the street.

  “How about if we go for something to eat while we talk? We can discuss your price then.” The tactic worked before, and I figured it was worth a try.

  Again, she glanced over at the motel, then at the closed door a few inches away. She looked at me, and I favored her with another warm smile.

  “Okay,” she said quietly. “But I can’t be gone very long. I have to be back here before dark.”

  “No problem, Tina. Thank you so much. What is your last name, by the way?”

  “Just Tina.”

  “Okay. Will you tell me your age?”

  She thought about that as we quickly walked to the car. “I’m sixteen,” she finally answered.

  15

  We climbed into the backseat together. From the front, Tom and Brooks introduced themselves and thanked her for agreeing to talk to us. I explained that we had to get something to eat quickly. Brooks pulled away from the curb, made a U-turn, and headed toward the hotels.

  I turned to her and could see how frightened she was. Staring straight with a rigid posture, her front teeth completely covered her bottom lip. My eyes dipped to her hands, where they were clenched on her lap. Her nails were bitten all the way down with painful-looking raw patches at the corners. My heart skipped, leading me to think once again, how easily a life current can go off course, never to return to the normal flow.

  “Tina, what would you like to eat?” It was Tom who turned around in his seat to engage with her directly.

  She chewed the lip a while longer, glanced at me, then looked up at him. “I need to eat some protein and vegetables.”

  I doubt if anything could have surprised us more. Tom laughed. “Well, that sounds good to me.” He turned to Brooks and gave him directions back to the El Cortez garage.

  “I know the place well,” Brooks said.

  Seated in the cheery coffee shop once again, we ordered New York strip steaks with baked potatoes, broccoli, and salad. Tina looked around the restaurant with interest, and I noted with surprise that her obvious hooker clothing did not attract more than a glance from anyone in the place. Nor did anyone in the hotel lobby or the casino on the way in paid any attention. This was a whole different world, I reminded myself.

  During our dinner conversation, Tina willingly explained that she and others were engaged in the sex trade, but that some of them
, including herself, were getting help from the Korean preacher. When asked for details about him, she clammed up and concentrated on her food.

  I said, “Tina, we were at the mission earlier, and we met Mr. Ping. How does he help you besides cooking meals? Do you attend his meetings for alcoholics and addicts?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t drink, and I try not to take too many drugs. I want to be healthy. I hate this life, but pretty soon, everything will change.”

  “How do you mean? What will change?”

  A look came over her face that I interpreted as I’m talking too much. She chewed a mouthful of beef and kept her eyes on her plate.

  I tried again. “Aren’t there a number of programs in Vegas for kids like you, you know, to help you get off the streets? For example, have you heard of STAY?”

  She made brief eye contact, then studied her plate. “Not a good place. I just have to be ready, and Tadashi knows everything that will happen. None of this will matter then.” She made a gesture toward herself, which was heartbreaking.

  Tom and Brooks exchanged puzzled glances. They tried to get her to elaborate, but she would say nothing more on the subject of Ping. On the other hand, she had no reservations about explaining how she turned tricks during most of every night.

  She also told us she was born and raised in Vegas and left home when she was thirteen. Her father was abusive and hit her one too many times. She said she would never go back and that she’d attended school only sporadically since then. She was remarkably articulate.

  I asked her about Shimmer, but her reaction was similar to Banu’s. “I’m not talking about him. What time is it? I have to get back.”

  During the trip to the motel, Tina displayed a surprising knowledge about the human trafficking and gang problems of which she herself was an apparent victim.

  “Most of the street kids are between fifteen and eighteen. They’re mostly girls, but there are a few boys too. Lots of kids are black, but there are many white girls. Fewer Hispanics and Asians. The cops make arrests sometimes, mainly when they identify gang stuff going on. Other than that, they leave us alone.”