“You’re so dumb.” Rory watched Tiffany’s face register hurt shock at Candy’s mean words to her former club mate. “You think just because Jameel and the Master are behind bars the rest won’t come after us? None of us are safe. I wish I had died back there.”
Just then a nurse walked in.
“I’m going to have to ask you all to leave now. I think Miss Candy here needs to rest.” The nurse shooed them toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” Tiffany said as they exited, but her words fell on deaf ears, and she was sobbing as soon as they were out in the hallway.
A few weeks later, Rory and Carlos sat in chairs offstage in the College of Southern Nevada auditorium. They had promised Tiffany they would attend her performance when she had asked them, but didn’t feel comfortable sitting in the audience.
Rory looked out at the nearly two hundred women seated there, ranging in age from their teens to their seventies, of every color, race, nationality and social status.
They were gathered to hear Tiffany speak.
At first depressed after all she had been through and then nearly suicidal with despair after visiting Candy, Tiffany was checked into Sunrise Hospital’s psychiatric unit with Susan’s help. The teen had worked hard each day with a counselor in an intensive inpatient program, and following two weeks of therapy, was released and ready to fulfill her community service time.
Her counselor had strongly recommended that she address some of the other girls who had gone through the same ordeal she had endured to share her story and hopefully save them from being trapped in the sex slave industry like she had been.
It was as if the hospital staff had worked a miracle. Tiffany went in a broken ragdoll; she came out as a whole new woman, ready to carry her message to anybody who would listen.
The FBI team and Sheriff’s department had corralled almost all of the women who had come in during the sting operation to attend the presentation. Some had been prosecuted and sentenced to community service, and others were free of charges but wanted to help in return for the support they had been given. They were joined by dozens of college students who had signed up for the seminar after seeing fliers plastered across local campuses. There were even a few victims who had healed enough to be released from the hospital.
Tiffany took the podium onstage with confidence, looking nothing like the stripper Rory had met that night at the club, nor the frightened girl he had accompanied to the hospital. She was dressed in a navy pinstriped skirt and matching blazer with a white blouse, all business. Behind her sat Agent Glover, Lieutenant McAfree, and one of Sheriff Thomas’s deputies who had worked on the raid. They had billed the event in promotional and marketing materials as a panel discussion on the local sex trade industry, and had titled the program “It’s Just Not Worth It,” featuring keynote speaker Tiffany, a former dancer at the now closed Wildcats.
“Hello, my name is Theresa Brindle.” Snickers erupted from some of the women who knew her by her stage name.
They’re not all here because they want to be, Rory realized. Some probably want to go right back to the clubs and are just biding their time.
“Ok, many of you know me as Tiffany, which was my stage name at Wildcats where I danced as a stripper.” The audience settled down to listen.
“But that’s not all I did, and that’s what brings me here to speak to you today. I did far more than dance or strip. If I hadn’t, if I had refused to do what I was told to do, no matter how degrading it was, I probably wouldn’t be standing here today.” Theresa’s voice caught in a wave of emotion, and she wiped a tear. “… just like my friend Danielle, who didn’t make it out alive.
“She was only sixteen with her whole life ahead of her. But when she didn’t turn over the money the pimps at Wildcats expected, they kicked and beat her so bad that she died on a cold cement floor in a cage not even fit for a dog.
“Those of you who have been in the industry know what I’m talking about. Those of you who haven’t, please trust me: you need to know what happens in these places so you will never walk in the door. Just like Danielle, if you do walk in, you may never walk out again. You see, they sell you on the idea that it’s a glamorous job, and more than that, it’s a high-paying job, dancing for the patrons. They tell you that all you have to do is look pretty, chat with the customers, take your turn doing a dance—you don’t even have to know how to dance, just move around the pole a little. They tell you to take off layers of clothing during the dance, including your top toward the end, never your bottoms, and then you’re done, and you collect anywhere between two and three hundred dollars a night, all for about three hours of work.
“I was working as a part-time waitress job in a diner making about three dollars an hour minimum wage plus tips and barely bringing home seventy-five bucks a night after a full eight hours of really hard, greasy, back-breaking work. And there were some real slimy guys that grabbed at me there. I was told the clientele at Wildcats would be high class since they paid big sums of money to get in, and that the staff didn’t allow just anyone in since they wanted to maintain the club’s sophisticated reputation. I figured it sounded like a huge step up from where I was.
“I needed the money to continue college. I was actually going here to CSN. I wanted to get a degree in sociology and become a counselor one day. I wanted to help people.” Theresa lowered her head slightly, and a small smile played across her lips for a fleeting moment. “When I saw the ad online for Wildcats, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to apply. I was too embarrassed to ask around campus to see if anyone else had worked there. Besides the money, they said they’d also provide free room and board if needed. I figured I didn’t have anything to lose. I was living with my mom, who was a pill addict and bringing home boyfriends all the time, a few who tried to have their way with me, and I was handing over most of my paycheck for rent, so it looked like I wasn’t going to have enough left for college if I stayed. I thought, why not live at Wildcats for free during the summer and save up enough not only for college but also for a place of my own.
“So I interviewed, got the job, and started that weekend. But it was nothing like they said it would be. The very first night I was given plenty of alcohol and the drug Ecstasy, did my dance, and then was shot up with heroin against my will and forced to have sex with a guy whose name I can’t even remember.” Theresa cleared her throat, the sound echoing throughout the silent auditorium.
“I was shy, and the alcohol and drugs made me feel numb to what I was doing. The second night was like the first, only instead of one guy, there were three. Every day after that I woke up bruised, ashamed, and addicted. I realized that my employer was taking more than half of my paychecks to pay for the drugs they had hooked me on.
“One night, when a customer was particularly rough and hit me in the face, almost breaking my nose and teeth, I swore I’d quit. That next morning I went in to tell Jameel, the manager. I’ll never forget the look he gave me. His eyes were filled with loathing and cruelty and rage. He said, ‘Tiffany, after all we’ve done for you, giving you a job, food, and a home, how could you even consider walking out on us? That would be ungrateful. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear this. You owe us far more than you know for all of the drugs you’ve been doing.’ He took out a folder from a file cabinet, apparently some type of file on me, and read from it. ‘It says here that you owe us fifteen hundred dollars for cocaine, heroin, barbiturates, and marijuana you’ve used over the past two months. I’d say that means that you’re going to be working here to pay that off for a long time. And unless you stop doing drugs, I think you might as well decide you’re going to work here until we don’t need you anymore.’
“When I protested that they got me hooked, he stood—and he’s a big guy, as some of you know—and said in this wicked voice that if I ever spoke about leaving again, I would be beaten, and I’d probably have to work the rest of my days as a cleaning woman in the club because I wouldn’t look good enough to be around the customers afte
r that.”
Some of the college students in the audience visibly shuddered, murmuring among themselves.
Theresa took a deep breath, exhaled, and continued.
“I know it sounds too horrible to be true. Maybe you think I was too weak, or should have found a way out. Believe me, I blame myself every day for walking into the club in the first place. But I can’t go back. I can only warn all of you.”
A young woman raised her hand and shouted out a question. “So you expect us to believe that it’s like that in all these clubs? Maybe you just had a bad experience. I mean, let’s face it, unless you were born yesterday, strippers have been around forever, and a lot of them are making good money and even moving on to modeling and movies.”
A deep, husky voice from the back of the auditorium spoke out.
“Things have changed.” Everyone simultaneously turned to look back for the voice that had made the statement. Their eyes fell on the former stripper known as Candy, who was now standing. “This is what happened to me.” She pointed to what used to be her right eye, now sealed shut. Rory had heard she had lost it after an unsuccessful surgery in the hospital. Then she pointed to a jagged pink scar that ran the length of her face, then to her arm, still in a sling. Some girls sitting nearby noticed a gaping hole where three of her front teeth used to be.
“Guess what? I played by their rules. I didn’t ask to leave. But when Tiffany … I mean Theresa, escaped, they took it out on me. They broke my arm, they punched out my eye, they took a knife to me—I have other scars you can’t see. Maybe this industry didn’t used to be so bad. But I’m living proof that it’s a whole new ballgame out there now with these Mafia guys running the show, and it’s evil.
“I tried to blame Theresa. But I know I only have myself to blame. And really, not even myself. Because they told me the same thing they told her. Of course, we can blame them all we want, but it won’t change anything. They’ve got to be stopped. And I think we’re the only ones who can stop them.”
Rory watched as Tiffany beamed a smile at her former club mate, her eyes shining with pride and affection.
“Thank you, Connie.” Tiffany stood at the podium beaming with pride, tears of gratitude in her eyes, and raised her hand in salute to her tall black friend in the back. “She’s absolutely right. If we don’t spread the word and stop other girls from going in those doors before it’s too late, we’re just as guilty as the guys who run the clubs. If we take away the strippers, there won’t be any strip joints. If we take away the girls, there won’t be any call girls or girls’ shows. If we take away the prostitutes, there won’t be prostitution. If we don’t have any porn stars, there won’t be any more pornography.
“That’s why we’re here today. Let’s join together and spread the word. We’ve got volunteer sign-up sheets in the back. Do it for Connie … for Danielle … for us all.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The 911 call came in at half past midnight.
A thirteen-year-old boy named Juan Ramirez had allegedly killed a neighborhood boy, bashing his skull in with a baseball bat, after smoking the latest local designer drug to hit the streets of Vegas known as Green Tobacco. The boy had reportedly been part of a small gang that had smoked the illegal synthetic drug, disguised as a legal herbal blend, and then turned on the victim, who happened to be black instead of Hispanic like they were, and thus considered “the enemy.” When the police arrived on the scene, the other teens fled, managing to escape, but Juan had been caught, bat in hand, dripping blood.
When the police arrived, Juan looked at them, confused. He had been too high and dazed to think to escape, and even if he had tried, he was overweight and probably would have been too sluggish to run fast enough.
The victim was fifteen-year-old Nicholas “Nicky” Brown, the youngest son of a working-class single mom who lived on the outskirts of Las Vegas. He had been alone, playing basketball on a neighborhood court that night, and they had followed him home and attacked him in his front yard.
Neighbors later reported that they heard Nicky’s mother wailing into the night for what seemed like hours, mourning her lost son.
The terrible tragedy would have made headlines or the nightly news in most other cities or towns, but not in Vegas, where gangs gathered every day on nearly every street corner, and kids were seen smoking Green Tobacco like cigarettes.
Synthetic drug blends had come and gone for years—bath salts, jewelry cleaners, herbal incense—with names such as “K-2” and “Blaze” and “Spice”—harmless household items until they were laced with a variant of THC, the compound found in marijuana, or synthetic hallucinogens. They were usually sold legally in convenience stores until most were banned as illegal once the FDA investigated them.
But this new synthetic drug Green Tobacco had cropped up specifically in Vegas and was being sold by members of gangs reportedly employed by the ISM. Police had discovered that this new “Green T” was being secretly manufactured right in Sin City itself, and that it was far more potent and powerful that its predecessors had ever been, providing higher highs and wicked lows.
Abuse of the drug often led to vomiting, seizures, hallucinations, high blood pressure, organ damage, loss of consciousness, and extreme acts of violence. Las Vegas hospitals were seeing an increasing number of emergency room visits due to drug overdoses and the brutal acts committed by users, mainly young people between the ages of twelve and twenty-nine.
Many users—and their victims—weren’t surviving.
“So the sting was largely a success,” Chief Steele said, standing in front of the men eating take-out pizza at their desks in the Condo. “The city has shut down seven of the ten strip clubs along with two major prostitution rings and a few X-rated girls’ shows.”
“Yeah, I heard the Foo Fighters are coming in concert to take the place of one,” John Dade said, scratching his head. “I’m not sure who they are, but I think they’re big.”
“Big? Heck yeah they’re big.” Carlos affectionately smacked John on the shoulder. “Hey, can anybody get me tickets? I love the Foos.”
“Gentlemen, I’m still talking.” The chief shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress a wry smile. “As most of you know, seven Mafia members who ran the strip clubs have been arrested so far. Unfortunately, many of the others escaped. Of the seven, only three have been arraigned and are awaiting trial. The others have crackerjack lawyers who got the charges dropped, claiming the raid was illegal.”
Steele turned and faced a large screen behind him. The face of an Islamic terrorist wearing a black turban on his head filled the screen—a man in his forties with brown skin, a large hawk nose, a short black beard and mustache, and menacing black eyes.
“For those still unfamiliar, this is the infamous Jameel who was arrested but is one of the leaders with a good attorney. These guys have already bought enough judges in town to purchase their freedom. So Jameel was released and has managed to slip back underground.
“None of the guys arrested have given up any information during their interrogation about the Mafia, much less anyone called the Master. So while Operation No Dice has scored a win as far as cleaning up some of the prostitution and sex trade business, we still haven’t made much progress in rooting out the real Mafia leaders, who have just slithered back into their snake pit.
“That’s why we’re having this little party tonight. We’ve got to come up with a new plan.”
One of the police officers working the phones shouted out, “Chief, we may have a lead.”
Rory, Carlos, and John hurried down to the Sheriff’s department to listen in on the interrogation of young Juan.
They were instructed to glean any tidbit of information that might lead them to the source of the drugs that Juan and his gang had acquired. They were hoping the kingpins behind the drug cartel were also ISM members who might lead them closer to finding the nuclear weapon.
Rory stood with the others behind the two-way mirror, realizing he had sat in
the same room when he had first come to Las Vegas, wanted for the same alleged terrorist plot he was now helping to investigate.
Life is full of irony, Rory thought, watching as the sheriff’s deputy paced menacingly around the teenager, diving in, raising his voice, beating his fist on the table, all an act of intimidation. Or more accurately, life is full of God’s ironic justice.
The deputy didn’t have to work too long or hard at using intimidation tactics. With no lawyer there to guide him, Juan broke down in terrified tears.
Juan had amazingly waived his right to an attorney on the shocking advice of his mother, Isabel Ramirez, who sat with him quietly through the police interrogation.
The thirty-five-year-old Isabel, originally from Puerto Rico, had moved to America with her family when she was ten. A Christian who believed in the Old Testament’s teachings that everyone must pay for their sins, she told the police that her son must face up to what he had done, no matter the consequences.
She was called in to sit with Juan in lieu of an attorney. “I don’t r-re-remember,” the kid blubbered in response to the deputy’s questions, tears streaming down his chubby pink cheeks.
The deputy was pacing across the table from where the mother and son sat, and suddenly pulled a bat, streaked with dark blood stains, from behind his back. “You don’t remember holding this in your hands and swinging it against the head of that black boy, Nicky Brown, like your gang leader told you to do, to teach him a lesson?”
“N-n-no!” Juan cried. “I swear!”
The deputy laid the bat down hard on the metal table with a crack, making the mother and son jump in their seats. Isabel wrapped her arm around her son protectively, glaring at the deputy, who then produced a plastic bag filled with a used hash pipe and bits of green tobacco leaves.
“How about this? Do you remember smoking this?” The deputy yelled the question.
Rory shuddered involuntarily, feeling pity for the boy.
The Runaway Prophet Page 13
