Bitches & Bastards
It’s been two days since Tony’s yacht capsized in flames at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. It’s been at least twenty-four hours since Sara died. I hadn’t eaten since Sara and I shared a handful of chocolate, and Sara finished the wine.
I should rewind; Sara and I have been friends since elementary school; she was the curious cat, and I was the quiet mouse. In our twenties, Sara became reckless and missed arrests at least twice a month. While I was attending the police academy, Sara was earning money as a stripper.
I can’t begin to count how many times I had to collect Sara from random places and hold her hair back while she prayed to the porcelain god. If she wasn’t drunk, she was high, and it seemed Sara never knew what pill she swallowed. All she knew for sure was that I would be there on speed dial.
Late one night, I received a call from Sara, “I met the man of my dreams. Come on down to the Blue Moon and meet him.”
Using her six-year-old voice, “Come on, Netty,” always Netty instead of Annett when she was using her whiny beggar voice, “Netty, please? You know I need your approval. Come on. Please,” she rarely talked with such genuine excitement.
“Sara, I am sipping a glass of wine and am under my covers. I’ll meet him another time.”
“Netty, you always said that when I found the right one, you wanted to approve first. Come out and see what you think.”
“Sara, you make my brain hurt. Let me get ready, and I will see you soon.”
She giggled with glee, “Thanks, Netty,” and hung up.
When I entered the Blue Moon Lounge, Sara was sitting on the lap of a tall, handsome, distinguished man; he had salt and pepper hair, and his close-cut facial hair matched. He was well-dressed and wore authentic Italian leather shoes. Sara was all smiles swinging her long blonde hair back and forth.
“Hi, Sara. Is this the man of the hour?” I asked with a hint of sarcasm.
Sara jumped off his lap and hugged me. She smelled like champagne and joy, “Yes, this is Tony.”
Tony stood up and shook my hand and then kissed it. He had dark brown eyes and full lips — lips even I would like to kiss. With a strong exotic accent, he smiled, oh, those pearl white teeth, “Hello, my name is Anthony. Please call me Tony.” He motioned for me to sit.
From that day on, Sara was always with Tony. When she was working, he would be there. I couldn’t tell if he was watching her or the handsy men gawking at her. All I know for sure is he was never far from Sara. She labeled it as affection and I defined it as possessive.
I needed a tall glass of wine and time to unwind, plus I wanted to check on Sara. As usual, Sara was up on the stage showing the world her gorgeous body — decorated with a diamond belly button ring and earrings. They glistened in the spotlight. Tony always sat at the far cocktail table just out of the house lights sipping his Disaronno — almost stealthily. I thought about sitting with him, but I didn’t want to disturb his concentration. I sat at the bar.
While sitting at the table, a small gun in a calf holster peeked out from under his pant leg. Another man came up to him, and they shared a few words; the man handed Tony a small brown package and left. Tony placed the box in his coat pocket. An engagement ring or some deal between the two men? I can’t walk up to him and say, “Hey, Tony, what do you have there?” I finished my wine and headed back home.
The morning started very early, at precisely 3:35 am. The phone rings, “Netty, guess what!? Come on, guess?”
“Has the world come to an end? Otherwise, I should not be on the phone. Listen, I’ll meet you at the diner in a couple of hours,” and hung up before she could answer.
I called her before I left home. Tony answered, “Yeah?”
“Hi. Can I talk to Sara? I am meeting her for brunch.”
“Yeah, I’ll let her know,” and he hung up. What the hell, really?
I sat in the booth a few tables from the entrance waiting patiently for Sara. Finally, a black, undercover-looking car pulled up. A man with a fitted suit and sunglasses opened the car door, and out steps, Sara, giggling and flicking her hair over her shoulder.
“Netty?” She danced into the diner, flashing her enormous diamond ring with ruby accents in the faces of people she whirled by, “look, just look!”
“Sara, over here.” I waved to her. Annoyed people were trying to smile and be considerate of her obnoxious assertiveness.
She announced that she and Toni were engaged, “Sara, you just met him.”
She lowered her sunglasses, and I noticed swelling just under her eye. I gently rubbed my fingers over the redness, “What the hell happened?”
“Annette, you worry too much. I am a grown woman, madly in love, and finally, someone loves me back.” With that, she walked away; she looked back, winked, and pulled her sunglasses over her bruised eye.
Later in the day, I sat sipping a lovely herbal tea when the phone rang, “Netty, I am sorry about earlier. I was hoping for your blessing. Sadly, I was disappointed. Even with that letdown, I am hoping you will come on the yacht for our engagement party.” She hung up without saying goodbye.
My first thought was, “You are disappointed?”
I arrived at the party boat, adjusted my hidden badge, and tucked my service weapon into my second-hand store purse.
I was surprised that there weren’t many people attending — a handful of well-dressed men with slicked-back hair. Elegant women accompanied the men. Tony and Sara arrived as though they were celebrities walking on the red carpet. They held hands and she waved to us as they made their way onto the boat.
Naturally, Sara was displaying her beautiful ring. Tony was expressionless, emotionless, and flashing dominant looks at the men.
A butler-looking gentleman served the women champagne — I took a flute glass. The gentleman served bourbon in rock glasses to the men. The serving man raised his glass, “To fortune and future.” Everyone cheered and drank. I dumped mine in the plant next to me. After the cryptic toast, the men seemed to smirk as they watched the women drink.
The women began to appear weak and tired. Almost as if they were succumbing to tainted champagne — this was alarming — I imitated the women. I didn’t dare stand out. The men guided the women to a closed door that led to another part of this sinister yacht. Sara leaned on me, “Netty, I don’t feel well.”
We were all herded into the underfloor of the boat and the doorknob quickly locked behind us. Other women in this poorly lit room appeared drugged; they all began to fall asleep.
I pulled a hairpin from Sara’s hair and quietly unlocked the door. I cautiously open the door. I could hear the men clinking their glasses together, “Cheers! When we reach California, we will be wealthy men.”
Another clink of glasses, I hear Tony, “and cheers to pathetic women in search of love — makes the trade so simple. Gullible bitches.” They all laugh.
Sex trafficking animals, I pull my gun out and step into the light, “Gentlemen… one shot is a warning.” I shot the server in the leg, “Anyone else? Before I turn this piece of shit around.”
Tony lit a strand of cloth — the flame danced along the silken material to a keg, “A bitch will not take us.”
My eyes followed the fabric — the barrel had a fire hazard warning. A blinding flash of fire spread quickly. The men sat without movement. They smirked as though they made a pact to die rather than suffer prison time.
I ran back and grabbed Sara. I noticed an escape float; I pulled the cord while Sara lethargically grabbed a bottle and a handful of chocolate. We barely made it onto the float as the flames engulfed the yacht. I couldn’t save any of the women, which haunts me today.
After two days of floating aimlessly, a police boat came to my rescue. They assisted me onto the vessel and gently pulled Sara’s lifeless body into the boat. I waited too long to stop the trafficking — why couldn’t solid evidence have shown up sooner? Sara and at least nine other women would be alive today, and those men would rot in prison. They didn’t deserve a planned and quick death — they deserved life-long pain and suffering — bastards.
THE END
MaryAnn Lindquist & Mojha R. MacDowell 2021
Estimates suggest that about 50,000 people are trafficked into the US annually, most often from Mexico and the Philippines. In 2018, over half of the criminal human trafficking cases active in the US were sex trafficking cases involving only children. In 2016, the United States State Department estimated that 57,700 people were trafficked into the country yearly. 70% of those were females trafficked for sexual exploitation.
If you are a human trafficking victim or have information about a potential trafficking situation, call the National Human Trafficking Resource Center (NHTRC) at 1–888–373–7888 or text 233733.
