BRA STRAP VENDETTA

Alissa (not her real name), shortly after our meeting, told me of the trap. A new kid was hanging around the school when she would leave, at two, to go onto her part-time job. She believed he was a new student with a similar schedule. He seemed somewhat aloof and did not have other guys walking with him. She felt compelled to befriend him. Not long after, he asked if she wanted to blow off work long enough to get something to eat. This made her uncomfortable, having never ventured outside of her schedule or her parent's rules. But here was the possibility of this new guy wanting to spend time with her. Typically, she was overlooked and was known as a math nerd or brainiac, “Sure, Just for an hour!”

She walked off with blue jeans, a pink tank-top and pink hoodie with PINK sequined on the back, a book bag that held a composition book, and her algebra book. No one heard from her for five years. Her parents had stopped hanging up flyers, probably assuming she was dead. Most likely moved to their property, in Upper New York. Away from coastal living; away from reminders.

She was a girly-girl. Her favorite things in the world were her dolls that she made historical costumes for and math. Her dream while calculating figures was to work at NASA. Like the great women mathematicians who discovered the exact exit, re-entry time, and location; that led to the first successful orbit around the earth, by John Glenn.

When taken into the trafficking ring, she was just to turn sixteen. She submitted to her hell but refused to give up her book bag. She was beaten many times to break her, but she never released it. They finally said,” What is the harm in having a math book.”

I would meet her shortly after her release or more accurately, her escape. The group came into the Lounge Blue, maybe six men, a few ladies that seemed rather young and one woman who appeared to be in her late forties. The group did not look like the typical Corporates that came through for happy-hour. They could have been tourists, but the dynamics did not seem right.

That Thursday, I was performing at the piano. My four-hour gigs supplemented my income as a theater performer. The ladies sat on barstools turned away from the bar, facing the men, the older lady was not paired with anyone and appeared quite intoxicated. May have been given ecstasy, as that was common at Lounge Blue. I kept being drawn to this group, each time my gut was telling me- do something. “Do something about what?” At one point, as I glanced over, she locked into my gaze, however brief, I felt a connection, a plea, a longing. I knew I would always remember her large brown eyes; beautiful but something was missing.

Taking a break, I headed to the restroom. On my way, I slipped into the employees' lounge and took my costume into the restroom. I had come straight from a theater rehearsal. Usually, I would have left my costume at the theater, but I wanted to take it home to put some more period embellishments on the bodice. In the handicapped stall, I hung it on the hook behind the door. Through the wire hanger, I slipped a rather cryptic note. I let the long waist sash hang to be seen under the stall door. By now my heart is pacing at a high beat. “What if I am imagining her plea? What if someone comes in, finds the costume, and brings it out to be reclaimed? What if she is in danger and I am risking my own safety? But what if this is necessary and I can help?”

After my break, I sat back at the piano, signaled Margie the server, so she, in turn, would bring my glass of rose’. As I gestured, I glanced over at the group, she looked up briefly. Locking eyes with her intently, then let my gaze go in the direction of the restroom and quickly down at the keyboard. I began playing ‘It's been a long time coming’, by Sam Cooke. Unsure of what would happen next, if anything, I heard someone gag. I look up-all eyes shifted. Awkwardly, the men removed the barrier. The disoriented woman automatically followed her to the back. I extended the piece, typical nightclub-style, as it is more for background, rather than anyone actually listening. My knuckles could barely bend to hit the notes - palms clammy- fear gripping my chest. Out of the corner of my eye, the costume passed me and exited.

The costume was returned the next day to the theater, which was a relief. A note gave a location and time where she would be if I were interested in meeting. And so, we met. From time to time in plain envelopes, with only my initials, notes would be at the theater. Always extending her gratitude and providing me with an algebra problem with some alphabet letters. Quirky. I have never been good at algebra, but I kept the letters. This was our link. I knew she was all right.

Almost a year had passed since our brief encounter at Lounge Blue. As I sat at the piano, an envelope was waiting for me, in a different script, informing me that Allisa is believed to be dead or abducted. Inside was a series of random numbers-letters, and a silly sentence that left me baffled. I repeat-I am not good at algebra and certainly not hieroglyphics! Lastly, an address, security code for entry, and a small key.

I started looking over my shoulder now. Not sure if I was in danger, but I knew she was and someone else knows I am involved. Involved! That night, I went through the alley, circled around to the front, used the code, and proceeded either into her apartment, or a trap. Opening the door, I was flooded with compassion. The apartment was decorated in shabby chic. From the fringed linens, in light creams and pinks, to the wall hangings of the same rough-edged linen strips, to the bows and swags on the mirrors, chairs, and bedposts, it was all a bit overdone. Giving the impression that a child resided here, playing house. Obviously trying to find comfort after her life had been shattered. Would she be back? Was she alive?

Not sure what I was looking for, but I needed answers. Everything was neat and organized in the cupboards and hutches. For clothing, she had a few sets of athletic tops and leggings. The large shapeless black overcoat she wore when I met her. A few evening-dresses; basic black cocktail dresses and a long black gown. I believed I was not finding anything of importance. Opening one last door, it was a utility closet: old, dusty, draped in webs. I found a small polished-leather case. It held some electronics, something that looked like a glass-button, a USB cord, a memory drive, a little black book, and something like an iPod.

Ready to leave, I surveyed the streets below. All was empty and quiet except for a cat in heat. I decide to wear the overcoat. Slipping my hands in the pockets, I run into lace, pulling it out, it is a black bra. A note instructs me to attach the glass-button to the left strap. This is all too much! This gal has been doing some espionage! Amazing!

Needing to sit and catch my breath, I open the little black book. Etched out, it appeared to be nothing more than a mathematician's algebraic quadratic formula, with entries always ending with a single word. That was going to take a while to figure out. I had never done well at math. Do I want to risk my predictable life to be involved in something I know nothing about? I had heard that these ladies are bought at a great price from powerful people. Obviously, she has been endangered since her escape.

Gathering my thoughts, I pack a suitcase and head out to the alley to find my way back and slipped off the overcoat a few blocks away from home. Curiosity got me-instead of sleep-I started mapping out clues. Some entries were only initials. I looked back over the notes she had left in the past year and realized she was offering up the code little by little. Unlocked, the pages came alive with locations, counties, and states. People emerged on the page with identities, birthdates, height, eye color, and stats. I got to a point where the date had not arrived yet, a listing a location, a date, people attending, and who needed to be approached. The day arrived. I knew the place and what to say. Just small talk and wait for an offer.

Now the hard part. I am a very simple woman who wears pants even to funerals. My hair is usually tossed on top of my head with a claw-clip. By five, I was washed, waxed, buffed, and jelled. I wore the bra charged and assembled. I slid into the one-shouldered basic-black, black nylons, heels, and red lipstick. I am amazed that men of such worldly power and reputation can find pleasure in the enslavement of young women and children. I am also amazed at how distracting a bra strap and red lips can be. The very things they lust for will be their demise. I did a few more meetings such as this. I can't disclose any more of my actions, as indictments and litigation are still underway.

As if she knew or believed enough in me that I would finish her quest,one more algebraic equation was left to decode, different from the others, yet it revealed a location. Googling- it was a bank in St. Petersburg. Taking the small key to the teller, I am directed to a safe deposit box. I open it to discover $20,000.00 cash, an open-date airline ticket, and a note. ‘Thank you! I am alive. Come see me!’ I made a final stop at the regional post office, with the envelope provided.

As I waited for my flight, the monitors had CNN and MSNBC flashing images of multiple arrests. In the customary response of predators, they were cowering behind a hat, jacket, and one with a newspaper. Interrupted by a -Happening Now News Break- ’shots were fired as FBI agents arrived at a Manhattan office with a subpoena, a man was found slumped over the keyboard of the security-systems monitor.’