Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  That bit of information instantly set my mind awhirl. The fact that ivory was being shipped from South Africa made perfect sense. The country had long been a major smuggling route for everything from drugs and artwork, to forged stocks and bonds over the years. It had also been a portal for ivory. So, why not still? As far as I could tell, the country remained hot, hot, hot when it came to dealing in contraband.

  As for setting up a carving factory in New York, that was also totally logical. Once poached ivory slips into a country, and is carved, it becomes that much more difficult to prove illegal. Taken a step further, the U.S. has one of the most active ivory markets in the world. American consumers, both at home and abroad, help to fuel the illicit trade. At times the situation had seemed so futile that I wanted to throw up my hands and scream.

  I focused my anger on nailing the law-breaking sucker in front of me.

  “Didn’t I read something silly about ivory being illegal?” I nonchalantly questioned.

  “Yes. Absolutely ridiculous, isn’t it? What else are tusks good for?” Giancarlo scoffed. “But then so is shahtoosh. Can you believe it? What’s a poor designer to do? To my mind, the fact that they’re taboo only makes them all the more desirable. You know. It gives them that naughty-but-nice feel.”

  “So then, it doesn’t bother you at all?” I inquired, curious if he felt any remorse.

  “What? That a bunch of elephants and antelopes are killed?” he asked, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh please. Not the least little bit. That’s what they were put on Earth for. To provide those of us who can afford it with beauty and pleasure.”

  Funny how we defined those terms so differently. I viewed elephants and chiru as living, breathing creatures that should be allowed to roam freely, while Giamonte saw them as nothing more than high-priced fashion accessories.

  “Don’t tell me that you’re secretly one of those animal rights activists. Are you?” Giancarlo playfully teased.

  “Actually I’m a Special Agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” I revealed.

  “Very funny,” he replied with a burst of laughter. “All right. You caught me. I suppose that now I’ll have to give you a discount.”

  “No, I’m dead serious,” I replied, and pulled out my badge to show him. “I really am an agent.”

  Giamonte’s mouth fell open and his complexion turned as pale as ivory. Then he slowly began to gather his wits.

  “Does Muffy know of this?” he asked, still not quite certain if I was truly serious.

  “She had no idea who I was when she mentioned your name,” I assured him.

  “Ha! In that case, this amounts to entrapment,” he exclaimed.

  “No. It just means that she never thought to ask,” I informed him.

  “Then it must have been that bitch Tiffany Stewart that set me up,” he angrily spewed.

  “Why would you say that?” I asked, surprised to hear her name again.

  Tiffany was turning out to be quite the pariah within her own community.

  “Because that bitch is jealous of me,” he fumed.

  “I find that hard to believe,” I replied with a chuckle, taking in the scene.

  Giancarlo looked as if he’d been hit by an out-of-control fashion tornado. He stood amidst a shower of shawls in his paisley robe and purple pajama bottoms.

  “You find it amusing? She only wishes that she had my business. That skank actually tried to steal my clients away from me,” he nearly screamed.

  “And how did she do that? Don’t tell me. One day she decided to become a fashion designer and all your clients took her seriously,” I needled, hoping to obtain more information.

  “No. The backstabbing bitch claimed that my shawls weren’t really shahtoosh, but pashmina,” he raged. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. She then had the nerve to announce she was setting up shop in her own living room. It was absolutely pathetic. She’d invite groups of women over and put out these horrid little hors d’oeuvres as if they were all attending some sort of Tupperware party. Tiffany would try to sell them cut-rate shawls in between serving New York State wine and Sara Lee cake.”

  I raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Believe me. I have spies. Really. They told me. I swear, that woman doesn’t have an ounce of class. Do you know she even had the gall to claim that what few shahtooshes I had came from slaughtered goats, while hers didn’t?” he accused.

  “So then, the two of you are competitors,” I concluded.

  “Fat chance. Naturally, her shawls were of far inferior quality. My clients aren’t the type that have to shop for bargains. It wasn’t long before they saw through her ruse and came running back to me,” Giancarlo said, and busied himself returning each shawl to its proper place.

  “That’s an interesting story. However, all that matters right now is that you’re the one that got caught,” I retorted, and patiently awaited his next move.

  “So, what are you going to do? Arrest me?” he asked, with feigned amusement.

  “Now there’s a thought,” I remarked.

  It would serve him right to let him hang from his own shahtoosh for a while.

  “In that case, you’d better have plenty of handcuffs because I’m not the only one in town who’s doing this. Every two-bit divorcée and strapped-for-cash aristocrat is trying to sell shahtooshes from out of their apartments on Fifth and Park Avenues,” he disclosed. “I happen to know of a doctor’s wife, an art director, and a magazine editor that are involved and they’re making damn good money at it, too.”

  “Really? How much money are you talking about?” I questioned, curious to know.

  “If I talk, will you let me go?” Giancarlo shrewdly asked, positioning himself to negotiate.

  “That all depends on how good your information is. Tell me what you know and I’ll see what I can do,” I replied, having no such intention.

  “All right then. Scarves will sell for a thousand, good shawls for twenty, and specialty items, like throws, can command up to fifty thousand dollars apiece.”

  No wonder these people could afford to live such extravagant lifestyles.

  “That sounds intriguing. I bet they also have a better clientele base than you,” I responded, attempting to reel him in.

  “Like hell they do,” Giancarlo indignantly replied, neatly taking the bait. “I’ll have you know that my clients include princesses, dowagers, models, actresses, heiresses, and the very best trophy wives. Besides, those shahtoosh parties can get pretty ugly. I heard a fight broke out at the last one that Tiffany threw. Apparently, she didn’t have enough good colors to go around.”

  I wondered if Tiffany was really that strapped for cash? And if so, how low would she stoop?

  “As you can see, I don’t have that sort of problem,” Giancarlo pointed out with a haughty sniff. “Clearly, squealing on me was her idea of payback. She can’t stand the fact that I’m such a success.”

  Not anymore, you’re not, I thought.

  “And what about ivory? Is she involved in that, too?” I asked.

  Giancarlo tied his robe tightly about his waist. “Well, I know for certain that Tiffany has been trying to worm her way into the market. She’s gone so far as to approach my source about it. Who knows? Maybe she struck up a deal with somebody else.”

  “Which brings us to the matter at hand. Just who is this source of yours?” I questioned, anxious to move things along.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Giancarlo said, and pinched his lips.

  “Sure you can,” I replied, ready to apply whatever pressure was necessary. “It’s either that, or off to jail you go.”

  “Journalists do it to protect their sources all the time. So I don’t see why designers shouldn’t, as well. Ooh, that does sound catchy, doesn’t it? In fact, I think that’s the first quote I’ll give to the press.” Giancarlo flashed a sly smile. “Besides, you know perfectly well that I’ll get off with no more than a slap on the wrist. And just think how
good it will be for my business,” he gloated.

  “While you’re at it, why don’t you contemplate how well Ralph Goldberg and his library of raunchy S and M videos will fly with the Ladies Who Lunch,” I countered.

  Giancarlo’s complexion turned two shades paler than before.

  “Excuse me?” he asked, his Italian accent promptly biting the dust.

  “You heard me. I also have my sources,” I loftily informed him. “So, are you going to tell me what I want to know? Or do I spill your little secret?”

  My Tuscan charmer angrily glared at me. “You really are a bitch. You know that?”

  “Don’t try to flatter me. Now what’s it going to be? Remain designer of the moment, or switch to a sad-ass career of making second-rate porn videos?”

  I let the question dangle.

  “Come on, Ralphie. You should know by now that women don’t like to be kept waiting,” I prodded.

  “All right,” he hissed. “But this didn’t come from me. And remember, I expect to walk away from this without any jail time.”

  “Of course. I’ve already made a note of it,” I responded. “Just give me the information.”

  “I work with a company called Tat Hwong Products,” he revealed, chewing on a freshly manicured fingernail.

  “Who’s your contact?” I pressed, refusing to let him off that easily.

  “A man by the name of Lau Cheong. He’s based in Hong Kong,” he divulged, and started to gnaw his way over to a cuticle.

  “And exactly how are shipments of shahtoosh coming into the country?” I asked, determined to learn every little detail.

  “Tat Hwong was paying airline stewardesses to bring them in with their luggage for a while. Nothing personal, but I doubt that your average Customs inspector reads Vogue magazine. Besides, if a stewardess was stopped and questioned, she’d just say it was an Hermès scarf and walk right on through,” he disclosed. “Only business grew too fast. They started packing shawls in boxes, marking them as children’s clothing, and flying them straight into Newark Airport. That is, until 9/11 happened. After that, air freight began to be looked at more closely and their mode of operation had to change again.”

  “So what are they doing now?” I inquired, unable to guess and dying to know.

  “They’re packed inside containers and shipped into Newark/Elizabeth Seaport, where almost nothing gets inspected,” he told me.

  Of course. I couldn’t have come up with a better plan, myself.

  “And you deal with the same contact for ivory?” I asked, just to double-check.

  “Yes, until recently. But that’s also changed with the opening of this ivory factory in New York. The big boss is here to make sure that everything is up and running smoothly. I’ve been told that I’m to deal with him for now.”

  “And where’s all the ivory being shipped?” I asked, though already certain of the answer.

  “Into Newark/Elizabeth Seaport,” he confirmed.

  Terrific. It had been happening this entire time right under my nose.

  “What’s the big boss man’s name?” I snapped, taking my frustration out on Goldberg.

  “I don’t know yet,” he coolly responded.

  “Don’t screw with me, Ralphie,” I warned, not in the mood to be jerked around.

  “I don’t know because I haven’t yet placed an order,” he petulantly retorted.

  “Then go ahead and do so today. You’re also to say that you want to meet with the big boss and would like a tour of the factory,” I directed.

  “What are you, crazy? Why would I want to do that?” he questioned.

  “You don’t. I do,” I replied, setting him straight. “When they call back with a time, tell them you’ve been unexpectedly called away but will send your trusted assistant, Cheri Taylor, in your place.”

  “Cheri Taylor? That sounds more like a perky little candy striper, than someone that I would hire,” he scoffed. “Who is she, anyway?”

  “You’re looking at her. Just do it and don’t ask questions,” I ordered.

  “Fine,” he sulked and casually began to close his closet door.

  If he was hoping that I’d forget about his stash, he was sadly mistaken.

  “Hold on a minute,” I said, and walked over.

  “What are you looking for?” he apprehensively questioned, as I began to rummage through the shelves.

  “I won’t know until I find it, now, will I?” I responded and, starting at the bottom, worked my way up.

  I figured something good must be hidden, or Ralph wouldn’t have been so nervous.

  It was as I scrounged around the top shelf that my fingers finally struck gold. Pushed into a far corner was a box of DVDs. I pulled one from its container and read the title.

  Fun and Games with Dick and Joe.

  Whaddaya know? This was far more precious than if I’d actually found gold.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Ralph exclaimed, as he saw what I held in my hand.

  “Let’s just call it an insurance policy,” I retorted, and stashed it in my bag.

  “If that gets out it could ruin me,” he groaned.

  “I know,” I assured him.

  “Personally, I think this is all a big waste of time. Tiffany Stewart is the one that you should really be after. Believe me, that woman has her claws into more things than you can possibly imagine,” he said in an attempt to divert me.

  “Oh yeah? Then why don’t you just tell me about them?” I suggested.

  “Well, I’m not the one who actually has the details,” he deftly sidestepped. “But I know where you can find out. You should go and speak to Sy Abrams, her former boss. Word has it he’s got all the dirt on her.”

  “Does he own the club where she used to dance?” I inquired.

  “If dancing is what you want to call it. But from what I hear, she didn’t do all her bumping and grinding on stage,” he sneered. “The place where she worked is a dive. It makes the clubs I hang out in look like the Ritz.”

  “What’s the name of this place?” I asked.

  “The Beaver’s Den, over on Fortieth and Eighth. You can’t miss it. There’s a sign for Starburst Talent Agency on the second floor. That’s where they book the strippers.”

  “Maybe I’ll check it out. In any case, I expect you to keep your mouth shut as to what went on here today,” I warned. “Otherwise, Muffy and the rest of her posse will get their own private viewing of this tape.”

  I patted my bag so there’d be no mistaking what I meant.

  “Make that call to your ivory contact and I’ll be in touch,” I instructed, and headed for the elevator.

  I walked past the funereal web of shahtoosh shawls, through the picture-perfect living room, and down the celebrity-studded hallway to once more enter the rickety lift. As I pressed the button, Giancarlo seemed to think of one last thing that he wanted to say.

  “So, are you really related to the Bushes, or what?” he questioned, thrusting his head so far forward that I feared it might pop off of his neck.

  Unbelievable. Even now the guy was fishing for more business contacts.

  I didn’t dignify it with a reply. Instead, I looked at him and smiled as the elevator emitted a long, drawn-out death rattle and the door slowly closed with a sigh.

  Thirteen

  Afternoon rush hour traffic was already in progress by the time I reached my Chevy. The city streets were jammed bumper-to-bumper like an urban amusement ride. I wedged my way into line, figuring I might as well join in the fun. What the heck. My best thinking is usually done while I’m stuck in my car, anyway.

  However, my thoughts remained focused on only one thing—the carnage inside Ralph Goldberg’s closet. I couldn’t help it. Now matter how hard I tried, the vision remained.

  For the life of me, I’d never understand how people could wantonly slaughter elephants. The largest creatures on land, they’re also one of the most intelligent. They resemble human beings in so many ways. They h
ave an intricate social life, love their families, and are led by the experience, memories, and knowledge of elders. Elephants are known to greet their family members with open emotion, racing toward them with rumblings and trumpetings as they happily flap their ears, and tears stream down their face.

  They shed tears for other reasons as well. Pachyderms rarely leave their sick and wounded, but physically support them with their shoulders and trunks, bringing food and staying until they’re no longer able to move. Neither do they desert a loved one once they’ve finally passed away, but linger in a ritual of mourning.

  An elephant will sniff every inch of a fallen member’s body while gently attempting to prod and shake them awake. Finally, they gingerly explore the remains in what can only be a deep comprehension of death. Eventually the herd files past, two and three at a time, as if to pay their final respects. Even then, elephants often return to the spot where a close relative has died.

  They’ll also carry the tusks and bones of other dead pachyderms that are found along the way, reverently passing them around to the rest of the herd. It’s said that elephants suffer such trauma and distress over death that they sometimes die of grief, themselves.

  When they’re being attacked and killed by poachers, these whales of the land call to distant bands of elephants, either in warning, or as an anguished cry for help. The poachers brutally hack their faces, cut off their tusks, and leave their flesh to rot. Those few animals that manage to escape are forever scarred by such memories. It’s why elephants are believed by many to have very old souls.

  But the irreparable harm goes even deeper, for poaching unravels the very fabric of elephant society. The older females, with their huge tusks of ivory, are more than just leaders of the herd. They’re also repositories of accumulated knowledge. Deprived of that wisdom, orphans are left without any guidance when it comes to locating ancient migrating routes and distant feeding grounds. No one is there to teach them where to find springs during a drought, or lush meadows after early seasonal rains. Nor can they learn how to avoid being killed by poachers.

  I was jerked from my own deep, dark thoughts as I finally approached Midtown. Much as I hated to admit it, Giancarlo had cleverly gotten me hooked. I had no choice but to pay Sy Abrams a visit.