Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  Exclusive nightclubs and bars had been lured to the spot by the neighborhood’s Old World charm. But the stench of decaying meat still wafted in the air, where it mingled with the scent of expensive pastry.

  I headed over to Gansevoort Street, where a few trannies huddled together in the cold. A blast of winter wind whipped at their vinyl knee-high boots, black fishnet stockings, and excessively short miniskirts. They howled with laughter as a woman in designer spike heels stepped into discarded en-trails lying outside a wholesale meat market. I dodged a small pile myself, while jumping across a gutter. No question but that this area had yet to lose the grittiness of New York’s good old, bad old days.

  I continued on to a warehouse that boasted a steel awning over its abandoned loading dock. Sharp meat hooks hung from the rafters above me. A check of the address verified that this was the abode of society’s latest darling.

  A static voice burst from the intercom after I rang the bell.

  “Take the elevator up to the third floor,” it instructed, as I was buzzed inside.

  I stepped into the hallway, where my gaze was drawn to the concrete floor. Dried bloodstains formed a gruesome variety of abstract patterns. Either this had once been a meat market, or I needed to call in CSI.

  I struggled with an accordion steel gate and entered what appeared to be the elevator. Actually, it was more of a death trap. It rose three excruciatingly slow flights accompanied by a disgruntled chorus of creaks, groans, and moans.

  I was beginning to wonder if I was about to enter a designer house of horrors when the lift roughly jerked to a halt. It felt like forever before the elevator finally settled. Only then could the door be opened. I found myself faced with a combo of all four men from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy rolled into one.

  Giancarlo Giamonte stood in purple satin pajama bottoms and a tight white T-shirt, complete with plunging neckline, over which he’d thrown a long, flowing robe. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought that Ralph Goldberg was a bad movie version of an Italian gigolo.

  “Please come in,” he said and, taking hold of my hand, guided me over the threshold.

  Giamonte’s voice was as smooth and sensuously warm as a bowl of macerated cherries; his hair, richly dark as a slick of premium motor oil. Giancarlo’s eyes never left mine as he brought my hand to his lips and seductively kissed it. This guy had acquired more than just an accent. He’d also learned all the right moves to make.

  Entwining his arm through mine, he led me down the hallway. Photos of Giancarlo, accompanying an array of New York socialites, lined his walls. We entered a spacious room in which every piece of furniture, every exquisite accessory, had been ever so carefully placed. All the while, Giancarlo whispered a stream of sweet nothings into my ear.

  How nice my figure was, what lovely hair I had, and how much I resembled a younger, more vibrant version of Muffy.

  “No, truly. The two of you must be related,” he insisted, and gently squeezed my hand.

  For a moment, I wondered if Terri had gotten it wrong and Giancarlo might actually be straight. Anyone looking on would have thought we were not only the best of friends, but possibly even lovers.

  Then it hit me. Of course he was gay. No straight man would ever have been so thoughtful and attentive.

  Giancarlo ushered me to a large chair, where I sank into leather as luxuriously soft as butter. Then, sitting across from me, he poured two cups of ginger tea sweetened with honey.

  “Now tell me how it is that your aunt knows Muffy,” he quizzed, as if preparing me for an exam.

  “Auntie Barbara and Muffy were roommates in college,” I fibbed. “They stayed in touch afterward and Muffy occasionally came and spent time at the ranch.”

  “The ranch?” he asked, obviously yearning to know more.

  “Yes, the ranch,” I teased. “It belongs to Auntie Barbara and Uncle George.”

  “You aren’t referring to the Bushes by any chance, are you?” he eagerly questioned, and intently leaned forward.

  I opened my mouth to speak and then shook my head, as if suddenly thinking better of it.

  “Auntie Barbara doesn’t like it when I brag,” I responded, knowing the less I said, the more Giamonte would gobble it up.

  “Of course. And we wouldn’t want her to be mad at us, now would we?” he replied with glee. “Not when you’re planning to order a fabulous new gown. So tell me. Exactly what sort of event it is that you’ll be attending?”

  “A gala in support of domestic oil exploration,” I said, figuring the Bushes, Texas—it made sense.

  “And will it be coming up soon?” he asked.

  I watched as his eyes discreetly took note of my riffraff outfit. But he was smart enough not to say a word. That’s another thing about having money. You can get away with wearing whatever you like.

  “In about four months,” I replied, and took a sip of my ginger tea.

  “That’s odd. I know all the comings and goings in this city and I haven’t heard a thing about it,” he remarked, sounding slightly perplexed.

  “That’s because it’s in Austin,” I swiftly responded, neatly saving my rear end. “I’m just here for a visit and to do a quick bit of shopping.”

  “What a shame. You’d make such a lovely addition to our social scene,” Giancarlo oozed. “But I suppose we’ll just have to enjoy your company whenever we can. Here, let me show you my designs and see what you think.”

  Giancarlo loosened the ribbon on a portfolio and began to show me page after page of drawings. I thought they all looked terrific.

  “I particularly like this one,” I said and pointed to a sleek, strapless gown.

  “Of course you would. What marvelous taste! That design is brand new. You’ll look absolutely exquisite,” Giancarlo gushed.

  “The only problem is that Austin gets rather chilly at night. What kind of wrap could I possibly wear?” I asked, allowing the slightest hint of frustration to slip into my voice.

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, my dear. I have the perfect thing,” he said with a wink. “Just follow me.”

  My pretty little head and I brought up the rear.

  We entered Giancarlo’s bedroom, where I was instantly transported into an exotic new world. An explosion of shahtoosh shawls lay draped over every square inch of space, transforming the room into an Indian bazaar. Rainbow-colored clouds of fluff were tossed about everywhere.

  “My goodness. What is all this?” I asked.

  “The king of wools; the most exquisite material in the world. Here, feel it.” Giancarlo picked up a pure white shawl and gently rubbed the fabric against my skin. “See? It’s as soft as a lover’s touch, as light as an angel’s wings.”

  “Is this pashmina?” I asked.

  “Oh, my dear. Please, don’t ever mention that word again. Pashmina is so out that the mere whisper of it will get you thrown off the best-dressed list. No, this is something far superior. It’s shahtoosh,” he said, in near reverence.

  Gotcha, I thought.

  “Anyone can buy pashmina. But only the truly elite can afford shahtoosh,” he continued. “It’s like a fine work of art.”

  Hmm. Now where had I heard those words before?

  “You mean it’s rather like a Lamborghini as compared to a Mini Cooper?” I ventured.

  “Precisely. In fact, I’m a surprised that you don’t know about them yet. Everyone from Bel Aire to Belgravia is wearing shahtoosh,” he remarked, and looked at me somewhat perplexed. “Really, you must start spending more time in New York. It’s all the rage among the most fashionable women in the world.”

  He leaned toward me, ever the trusted confidante.

  “Truth be told, I know one society matron that takes her shawl to bed with her every night. Though, of course, even shahtoosh is no substitute for good sex.”

  I quickly glanced over to see if he was serious. Giancarlo maintained a straight poker face.

  “You’re right. They truly are gorgeous
. But will it keep me warm in winter?” I inquired, doing my best to appear naive.

  “Absolutely. I’ve heard that an egg wrapped in one of these, and left in the sun, will cook in a matter of hours. In fact, the very best fashion magazines have declared shahtoosh to be the survival tactic of the season for getting through one’s holiday parties. Here. Why don’t you try it on?” he suggested, and placed a shawl over my shoulders.

  Then he guided me toward a mirror.

  “See how wonderful it looks? They drape in this special way that’s extremely luxe,” he said, ever the perfect salesman.

  I was once more on the verge of being seduced as I gazed at myself wrapped in something so exquisite. I couldn’t help but wonder what my life might have been like had I been born a different person—one raised with tons of money. Would I also have felt that my wealth placed me above the law?

  I’d never know as I glanced in the mirror again and this time saw the bloody pelts of five Tibetan antelopes slung across my back. I quickly removed the shawl.

  “Do you own any of these yourself?” I asked, curious if what Muffy had told me were true.

  “I’ll let you in on secret since we’re becoming fast friends. It may seem a bit obsessive, but I own over two hundred of these scrumptious beauties. Each is specially dyed to match an article of my clothing. There’s mauve, and cream, and periwinkle,” he said, and began to prance around the room.

  I watched in bizarre fascination as, with each color named, Giancarlo plucked a corresponding shawl from off a chair, the bed, a bureau as if it were a flower. But it was as he removed a loden green shawl that I stared in disbelief. Revealed was a stool that had been made from a severed elephant’s foot. I continued to gaze at the amputated appendage in horror.

  However, the revelation didn’t end there. Giancarlo lifted shawls off what I’d thought were two poles on either side of his bed. Instead, they turned out to be enormous ivory tusks that looked to be six feet in length. Each was intricately carved from its base up to its tip and must have weighed close to eighty pounds apiece. The tusks stood lifeless as a pair of Egyptian mummies.

  I now realized that my first instinct had been correct. I was indeed inside a little shop of horrors. Still, I couldn’t help but walk over and run a hand along one of the ivory tusks.

  My fingers slid across a series of elaborate designs that had been cut, smoothed, and polished, telling the tale of endless herds that had once roamed the African plains. Those same savannas now stood silent and empty. Perhaps it was because all the elephants had been sacrificed on the altar of vanity, fashion, and greed.

  My hand lingered on the ivory as though it might reveal a hidden secret: how long this particular elephant had lived and how it had died. For a moment, I almost thought that I felt a heartbeat.

  “I have plenty more ivory, if that’s what you like,” Giancarlo declared, and flung open a closet door.

  My breath caught in my throat upon catching sight of the exposed stockpile. Giancarlo’s shelves were jammed with ivory jewelry and statuettes; each piece pale as a dollop of clotted cream.

  Trade in ivory had been banned since 1990, after a decade of bloody poaching. Africa’s 1.3 million elephants were systematically gunned down and slaughtered during that time, until less than half their number was left. All the carnage had been carried out for a single purpose: so that hundreds of tons of ivory could be shipped to Hong Kong and Japan to feed a voracious multimillion-dollar industry. Even now, I found it hard to believe that more than a million of these magnificent creatures had been reduced in that time to nothing but trinkets.

  Elephants are visible symbols of all that is wild in this world, not resources simply to be cut down like trees. Nor are their tusks commodities to be hacked off and turned into chess sets and billiard balls. The ban may have slowed trade for a while, but black-market demand remained insatiable. And by the look of things, poaching was once again on the rise.

  I tried not to shiver as Giancarlo slipped an elegant bracelet onto my wrist. The slender round of ivory felt cold and dead against my skin, all the life of its previous owner having been drained out of it.

  The animal that died for this bauble had once swayed through tall savanna grass like a huge sailing ship, its life intertwined with a family unit of mothers, grandmothers, and aunts, all of whom shared enduring bonds of affection. They lived and played together, cared for one another in sickness and health, and like their human counterparts, were haunted by terrible memories. I’d heard them lift their trunks and rumble, the sound deeper than any church organ, the volume louder than thunder. The sight of all that ivory made me sick.

  “I also have earrings and necklaces, along with any number of other articles,” Giancarlo assured me.

  While that was clearly true, I didn’t buy that Giamonte was the principle source for these items. He had neither the cunning nor savvy to be a major player, much as he might have wanted to believe. Most likely, he was simply the middle man; a satin-clad conduit with ephemeral ties to the upper echelon of Manhattan society. That was fine, as long as it eventually led to the head honcho.

  I continued to gaze in veiled disgust at all the booty in the room. Possession, in and of itself, wasn’t a crime. Rather, I needed to prove that the importer knew he was trafficking in illegal goods. Then he had to be caught in the act. I was betting on the fact that Giancarlo hadn’t the slightest idea concerning such pain-in-the-ass legalities. With that in mind, I slowly began to weave my trap.

  “My goodness. Where did you find all of these wonderful treasures?” I asked. “Did you bring them back with you from trips?”

  “No. I haven’t much time for extensive travel. I’m far too busy dressing beautiful women, such as yourself,” Giancarlo said flatteringly. “However, I’m fortunate to have found a very good source for shahtoosh and ivory.”

  His fortune was about to turn into my field day.

  “I have lots of friends in Texas who would kill for these sorts of things,” I said, taking in the array of carved Buddhas and geishas, fancy napkin rings, and ornate walking sticks.

  “Have them contact me and I’ll be happy to sell them whatever they like,” Giancarlo eagerly replied. “Of course in return, you’d have first pick of my designs.”

  “How kind,” I said, and coquettishly smiled.

  I was impressed that Giancarlo was cocksure of having access to such a steady flow of illegal goods.

  “Are you really able to obtain that much stock?” I pried, hoping to whet his appetite. “You know Texans. They like to live large and spend big. I have no doubt that some of my friends would place hefty orders.”

  “That’s no problem,” he confirmed. “My supplier is the largest of this kind in the world. He never runs out of ivory.”

  How interesting.

  “Really? And where do you get everything?” I asked.

  “The shawls come from a company in Hong Kong,” Giancarlo disclosed, shrewdly withholding the name of his source.

  That information caught me off guard. I’d assumed the stoles were imported from Europe.

  “And what about the ivory? Does that come from Hong Kong as well?” I asked, knowing that had to be the case. “I’d love to buy a few large pieces for my home.”

  I figured the more I used as bait, the more likely it was that Giancarlo would talk.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied, and wrapped himself in a lovely pink stole.

  “There’s something I still don’t understand. You said that you have only one source. Does that mean both the shahtoosh and ivory come from the exact same company?” I probed, while playing with the fringe on a shawl.

  Perhaps I’d pushed too hard. Giancarlo’s stole fell from his shoulders, his eyes grew wary, and his voice took on a rough edge.

  “What’s with all the questions, anyway? What do you want to know for?” he asked, his Italian accent starting to slip.

  I pretended not to notice, but worried that I’d overplayed my hand.


  “My goodness, Giancarlo. I didn’t mean to upset you. Aunt Muffy would never forgive me, to say nothing of Auntie Barbara. In fact, she asked that I call later this evening and let her know how our visit went. All I meant was that it must make it so much easier for you to keep track of your orders if they all come from the same company,” I said in a trembling voice, as my eyes welled up with tears.

  Ha! Let Vinnie try and beat that bit of acting, I smugly thought to myself.

  Giancarlo’s demeanor quickly reverted back to his former charming Tuscan self.

  “My dear Rachel. Did you think I was angry with you? Don’t be silly. Of course I’m not. It’s just that all these business questions tend to be so boring.” He kissed each of my fingers, and then began to stroke my hand. “That’s how we creative people are. But I’ll be happy to tell you whatever I can, if it will help to put your mind at rest.”

  Maybe so. But that glimpse into Giamonte’s dark side proved enough to keep me on my toes.

  “Here’s what I know,” Giancarlo intoned, as if about to break into a lullaby. “My source has ivory shipped from South Africa to Hong Kong, where it’s carved. However, he has businesses in both places. He’s also recently begun sending ivory shipments directly to the U.S.”

  I pulled out a tissue, while continuing to sniffle, and gently dabbed at my eyes. “And why would he want to do that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Of course not,” Giancarlo assured me, and held up a powder blue shawl. “By the way, this is definitely your color.”

  “Do you really think?” I asked, and allowed him to drape it around me. “I’m sorry. Now, what were you saying again?”

  “Oh, yes. Well, he’s apparently decided to set up a carving factory here in New York. That can prove to be quite an advantage for my clientele.”

  “How so?” I questioned, wondering what he was getting at.

  “Say you decide to order a custom piece of ivory and there’s some kind of problem. I can send it back right away to be fixed. See? Everything is working out perfectly for you and your friends,” Giancarlo explained, as though talking to a child.