Currents of Sin

by Arleen Alleman

  Brooks glanced over his shoulder at her. “Tina, I’ve lived in Vegas for a long time, and I’m aware of a lot of this. It’s impressive that you are so self-aware. I guess I don’t understand why you stay in this life. You are obviously a smart girl.”

  She didn’t answer the question. Instead, she asked about the money we said we would pay her.

  “My quota is a thousand a night for between four and a dozen tricks. If I make the quota, I can keep fronts—a little spending money. It’s never more than ten bucks, and most nights, I don’t make it.”

  “We’ll give you that and a little more,” Brooks said. “But first, you have to tell us anything else you know about Pammie, okay?”

  “Like I said, I remember her from a while back, but I have no idea where she is.” She added as an afterthought, “She was a nice girl.” She couldn’t look him in the eye, and I was certain this was not the whole story.

  We let it go, and Brooks handed her a hundred-dollar bill. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw the money.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  She asked us to drop her off down the street from the motel. It was obvious she did not want to be seen with us. It was getting dark, and I assumed whoever she was afraid of—possibly Shimmer—might be out and about now. She got out, and we watched her until she entered one of the green doors.

  A thought occurred to me. “I wonder if she went back there to hide the money. It sounded like she has to fork over everything she makes in an evening. I hope it won’t get her into trouble.”

  Tom nodded. “Me too. I think we need to be very careful with talking to these kids. I sure don’t want to make their situation worse.”

  Before Brooks left us, he explained that earlier in the day, he called the federal prosecutor’s office in Denver.

  “I was able to talk to an assistant, and I provided as much information as I could about my connection to Denezza and about the calls to Sid. I think I got the point across that she’s still in danger. The woman I talked to assured me that she would pass the information to her boss, and at the very least, they would contact the prison.”

  That didn’t sound very encouraging to me. “I think they already know that Paul maintains contact with people on the outside. How can they stop him?”

  Tom answered, “Solitary confinement twenty-three hours a day is supposed to help. That is what they do with the most dangerous prisoners, like terrorist bombers. I don’t think Paul falls into that category, but he is at supermax. Anyway, there are always ways prisoners can get messages out to others since they have legitimate visitors and people with whom they are allowed to communicate.”

  I hadn’t given much thought to the idea of Paul entertaining guests. I guessed it made sense that family, attorneys, and maybe others could visit prisoners, even those in maximum security. A kernel of an idea momentarily tickled the back of my mind.

  16

  Day 5

  The next day before the noon rush, Tom and I paid another visit to Deborah and Walter Strohmayr’s Deli. During our talk with Tina, we learned that the kids consider this a safe environment and believe Mr. Strohmayr watches out for them. Her eyes opened wide, and her expression softened when she described how he stares down any pimp-like guys who try to hang around. We noticed that just talking about the deli and its proprietors seemed to relax her.

  We found Deborah setting tables. She was an attractive woman with a quick wiry build who looked to be in her fifties. Her close-cropped hair had an elegant white streak that swept across her forehead. We introduced ourselves and asked if she would talk to us about the street teen problem.

  “I don’t mind talking about it while I continue to work. I saw you in here with little Banu and wondered what was going on,” she said.

  Methodically, she placed small bud vases containing a single white rose on each red oilcloth-covered table and carefully arranged cutlery a top white paper napkins.

  It soon became apparent that she and her husband were familiar with many of the street kids in the neighborhood. During twenty years in this location, they’d gained a lot of street smarts themselves. At the same time, she expressed some fear of men who come and go and who obviously control the kids.

  “They’re not always the same guys,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at her husband.

  She’d briefly introduced us to Walter, but he remained standing behind the pastry display case. Following her eyes, I noticed a slight change in his posture as he drew himself up and folded his arms across his chest. He seemed strangely aloof and brusque compared to his wife. Although he was obviously listening to us, he declined to participate in the conversation.

  Deborah didn’t seem to have any trouble talking for both of them. She told us Walter was born and raised in Germany. Noting his tall muscular build, I thought he looked strong and formidable—as if he could take care of himself. I also wondered if he kept a weapon behind that counter.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “we’ve never had any real trouble from the men. I usually ignore the ones who look like pimps and provide minimal service to them.”

  Tom looked around the restaurant and smiled at Walter, who simply nodded. Undeterred, Tom approached the counter.

  “These look delicious,” he said, pointing at the pastries. “This is quite a place you have. We ate here the other night and tried your German ravioli. It was outstanding.”

  “Oh, I’m so pleased you enjoyed it,” Deborah answered. Walter’s mouth twitched, and he nodded but seemed happy to let her do the talking.

  “Maultaschen—that is the Bavarian name for it—is one of his specialties. It is traditionally served on Holy Thursday before Easter, but many people eat it every Thursday. Here, they eat it every day.” She glanced at Walter and smiled as if he were participating in the conversation.

  “Well, it is great,” Tom said. “By the way, Walter, we came in with one of the street teens, a girl named Banu. You know her, right?” His friendly overtures didn’t appear to register. It wasn’t clear that Walter was going to respond, but in any event, Deborah once again answered for him.

  “She is a very sweet girl. A bit shy, so we don’t understand how she gets along on the street. My heart breaks for the ones like her … so defenseless. I can’t help myself. I often give them free food.”

  I wanted to probe more into the plight of the street kids and what she was doing to help them, but Tom seemed content to ask questions about how they operate the business together and about the food preparation.

  Deborah seemed pleased to talk about their business. She explained that Walter prepared the traditional dishes they served while she baked a little and accepted most of the responsibility for managing the restaurant. She was quick to add that Walter taught her how to make many of the German delicacies, proudly explaining that he researched German cuisine and could improvise any recipe along with the best European chef. Obviously taking much pride in her husband’s culinary skills, she gave us a brief primer on their specialties.

  “Germans have honed the art of gingerbread baking to a fine art.” She laughed, and her eyes darted briefly toward her stoic husband. “Like we have soft cookie batters spread on top of these thin bases, sort of like Communion wafers, to help keep the cookie from falling apart during baking. People really like those. Then of course we have the lebkuchen, which literally means ‘life cake.’ Walter knows some of the variations that are unique to certain regions in Germany. Of course every town also offers versions of the classic gingerbread house. We make those at Christmas, and people from all over Vegas place orders months in advance.”

  I smiled at Walter, but he remained standing motionless behind the counter. He didn’t show any reaction to his wife’s ongoing monologue on his culinary talents.

  “At festivals in Germany, regardless of the time of year, they make giant heart-shaped versions of a crispy lebkuchen
with fancy icing piped onto the cookie with messages of endearment or seasonal sayings. These are worn on ribbons tied around their necks. Here, they just gobble them down. We’re very busy during the holidays.”

  Deborah’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Tom seemed happy to hear all about the menu items. I tried to curtail my impatience as she switched to the topic of bread.

  “We make delicious German farmer bread called bauernbrot. My favorite is sourdough with rye served with soft buttery cheese like butterkäse or hirtenkäse.”

  She pointed to a set of shelves along one sidewall laden with tins and packets of food. Beneath the shelves was a small glass-front refrigerated cabinet.

  “We sell some of the imported cookies and cheeses as well. They’re hand formed and very creamy. I really have to watch myself with those.” She laughed and glanced at Walter again.

  I sized her up. “You don’t look as if you have to worry much.”

  She giggled. “I’ve no desire to contribute to the obesity epidemic. Everything in moderation. But it gets tough with all of Walter’s delicious food. He makes our sauerkraut too, and you said you tried the specialty, the German ravioli with pork and spinach filling covered in beef broth. That one is from the Stuttgart area.

  “Of course Wiener schnitzel—thin veal cutlet breaded and sautéed crisp—and bratwurst sandwiches are also favorites. Oh, and he makes to-die-for spicy baked apples in these cute little ceramic pots called apfelbraters.”

  She was beaming at her husband by the time she finished. I thought it interesting that she didn’t seem to notice—or acknowledge—how disengaged he seemed. I gave Tom a look I hoped conveyed my desire to get to the point of our visit. He dipped his chin at me, and I interpreted that as a sign for me to go ahead.

  I searched for a suitable segue. “Deborah, you’ve made me hungry. I think I’d like to stay and have lunch after we talk a little.” I walked a few steps toward the packaged food shelves. “Also, I think I’d like to buy some of these cookies for the kids.” I pointed at little packets of Coppenrath- and Bahlsen-brand German cookies.

  “Okay,” Deborah said. “Walter will take care of that for you. Just tell him how many packs of each you want.” She went back to her table setting.

  All this was going to get me was fatter. I tried a direct approach. “Actually, we were wondering if you two could talk to us about your interactions and relationships with the kids. Frankly, we’re a little baffled about why so many of them don’t get help. We talked to a vice detective who explained the Asian gang and teen runaway issue, but we also know there are some services that could help get some of the kids off the street.”

  She bobbed her head knowingly. “It’s all about the pimps. They get hold of the kids, especially the younger girls, and it’s like they become brainwashed.”

  Walter stepped around to our side of the display case and cleared his throat. I figured we’d finally hit on a topic that interested him.

  “Deborah is right about that.” Surprisingly, his voice was soft and kind. “We try to talk to the girls, and when we see interactions that are obviously prostitution related, we call the police. Even if we have a name, which is unusual, and a description of one of these guys, they don’t stay locked up for long, if at all.”

  His tone was friendly in contrast to his cool demeanor. Maybe it’s a German thing, I thought.

  Deborah added, “Right, and now there’s a boy we think is being groomed to pimp for the girls. They call him Curtis. Not surprisingly, he’s an Asian guy. We’ve really seen that influence grow over the past few years. They’re just gang members dealing in drugs and prostitutes.”

  “Would you mind telling us about some of your experiences with the kids? We understand you’re involved with STAY in some capacity. It’s an interesting place, but do you think the shelter provides a useful service?”

  “Yes. We donate money to them. If you can convince the girls to go there, I think they can benefit. Getting them to agree to STAY’s terms is another thing. By the time they get there, they’ve suffered so much. They’re beaten down, and I think it’s hard for them to suddenly demonstrate autonomy and responsibility.”

  That is understandable, I thought, remembering the assistant director’s harsh tone.

  She continued, “It’s a complicated problem, but the city and county are trying to enact legislation that would help put the pimps away. There’s no question the girls often suffer physical and mental torture, but there are those in the community who don’t seem to think we need to fully crack down on prostitution.

  This was similar to something Hollister told us, but Tom asked, “Why on earth not?”

  “Some people say you never hear about the success stories where prostitution helped someone feed her family. They look at it as a legitimate profession and say it never dawns on anybody to invest in more social services to help the victims instead of implementing tougher laws to put away the pimps. There’s not enough money to do everything.”

  “That doesn’t sound completely logical,” Tom said.

  “I—I mean we—would agree.” She glanced at her husband. “We hear horror stories about abuse by pimps and clients all the time in the Vegas Valley. Often, they’re told by women who identify themselves as former prostitutes or the relatives of prostitutes.

  “One woman who stands out in my memory was beside herself with worry about her daughter who made it to eighteen before she was pulled into prostitution on the Strip. An older boyfriend basically turned pimp and dragged her into the life. He was eventually convicted of pandering and spent less than two years in prison. But her daughter visited him the whole time and went to live with him after he got out.

  “The mother, Phyllis, used to come in here a lot, especially when she was downtown for court appearances and such. She told me she and her husband provided a normal healthy environment, and until her daughter was seventeen, there was no sign of a problem. She said if it could happen to her family, it could happen to anyone.”

  She stared at a table setting, and her expression drooped into a sad frown. “I don’t know why I attract these women with such sad stories.”

  When she raised her eyes to Walter, who was still standing a few feet in front of the counter, she received an almost imperceptible head shake. Was he telling her that she’d said enough? If so, she turned back to me, apparently unfazed by the message.

  “I have this friend who’s in her thirties. She was forced into prostitution for six years, starting when she was a teenager. The story is unbelievable. She told me when she tried to run away from her pimp, he held her at knifepoint and beat her. He knocked her down and stood on her hair while he kicked her. He kept her compliant by withholding food. I’m worried that not much has changed when I look at some of these pitiful girls on the street. Half of them are malnourished.”

  “I can see that you care deeply about the kids,” I told her. I wanted to ask if the couple had any children of their own, but it seemed too forward. “They are very lucky to have you to watch out for them.

  “Before we eat, there’s one other thing we wanted to ask.” I took out the picture and held it out to her. “Do you remember this girl?”

  She looked at it while she walked over to stand beside Walter. Together, they studied it closely.

  Walter looked up and frowned. “Pammie, she was a smart one. A little older than most.” He met my eyes. “We even offered her a job here—she was very sharp.”

  Deborah added, “I couldn’t believe it when she turned us down. Then I’m sure she went over to STAY for a while. We don’t know what happened to her after that.”

  She handed me the picture, and I explained the basics of her story and why we were here looking for her. The couple exchanged a troubled look.

  “What is it?” Tom asked.

  “If Pammie was in Vegas now,” Walter answered, “especially downtown, there’s
no way she wouldn’t come in here to visit us no matter what she was into. You must be mistaken.”

  17

  Later that evening, Tom and I parked near the mission to wait for Tina to show up. Around seven o’clock, decked out for street work, she and Banu sauntered across the street from the motel. We left the car and met them a few yards from the mission entrance. Both girls stopped when they saw us and in unison glanced over their shoulders. It was a familiar gesture.

  Tom greeted them with a smile. “We’d like another word with you ladies. Do you want to go inside to talk or come back to our car?”

  They looked at each other in silence. Finally, Tina walked toward the mission entrance with her friend following close behind. Tom and I brought up the rear and entered Tadashi Ping’s realm.

  The girls headed for the counter across the room and waited until Ping appeared and handed them two plates of food. Then they found seats at a beat-up folding table with old wooden benches on both sides. Ten or twelve other teens, mostly girls, were seated at similar tables spread around the room. All seemed engrossed in their meals.

  Tom and I sat down across from the girls. I glanced up to see Ping watching us and gave him a smile and a nod. He blinked and scurried back behind the wall next to the stage.

  While they ate, we asked them about the boy named Curtis who Deborah described as a pimp in training. At first, neither would admit to knowing who we were talking about. After more prodding, Banu admitted that Curtis came around the motel sometimes but had little interaction with the kids. Both said they didn’t know anything else about him.

  Then we asked about Pammie again. “Look,” I said, “we’ve been talking to the Strohmayrs at the deli, and they knew her very well. If she frequented the deli like you do, it’s hard to believe you two don’t know more about what happened to her. Please will you tell us anything you can that might help us find her?”