“He was blind and now he can see,” I shouted, waving my hands like a Pentecostal who’d just received a directive from on high and hallelujah.
A smart woman would have taken down the license number and made some quiet inquiries. A smarter woman would have called a certain teddy bear police officer and asked him to check on the couple. And the smartest woman of all would have minded her own darned business and left the mystery to professionals. If they recast
Dumb and Dumber X
count me in for an audition. I did the only really normal-for-me thing and sprinted across the parking lot.
If you’re squeamish, then now’s the time to look away or skip the next part. Why? It probably wasn’t pretty when I heaved my less-than-petite body straight on top of the hood of their car. Yes, and trust me, they stopped the car. I hadn’t worked out what might happen if they didn’t.
Greta and Drexel’s car lunged as the formerly blind man hit the brakes. The jolt tossed yours truly backwards where I ended buttski down, facing the ever-present sizzling sun of Vegas. And baby, what a ride. I certainly got this couple’s attention, yes, sir.
My guardian angel, I’m certain, is swapping stories around the angelic water cooler with the others definitely thanking their stars Jane Angieski wasn’t under their angelic care.
How I ended up without a concussion can only be attributed to the above-mentioned GA because after the flip, I flopped on a parking strip that had grass the softness of down. I shook my head, and nothing rattled. While my cold pills had stopped my nose from running while I was inside the PSA office, the crash switched it like a faucet at full blast.
Among plenty of screaming, including my own, Drexel hopped from the car and Greta leaped to my rescue. Greta screamed and screamed at me and at him. Then she shouted to Drexel, “What is the number for 911?”
• • •
Greta grabbed the car door, nearly swooned, and dropped her cell before her finger could find any numbers. I wasn’t road kill, I quickly realized, so I checked for blood, of which I found none, and questioned my sanity. Okay, I didn’t do the third thing, nor did I move my backside from the grass. What I did was say, “Listen, you two, see here, since you actually can see, Drexel, tell me what you really know about PSA and their handicapped kids. What’s the skinny?”
He was in my face and spittle flung as he yelled, “Why in the hell did you throw yourself on my car, madam?” Even yelling, Drexel’s voice sounded like a news announcer.
“You tell me first and then I’ll explain.” Okay, it was a bluff because I had just been nearly killed by a moving car driven, I might add, by a man who had been blind.
“You are a lunatic. You could have been killed. And it is none of your business why we’re at PSA. We will do whatever is necessary to get answers.” Drexel ground out the words.
“So you’d murder Delta Cheney to stop this?” Now where did that come from, I wondered? “If you’d do anything, why not just drive over me?” A girl doesn’t get to ask that kind of question often, especially when this same girl was the one to accost the car.
“Yes, I would.” He kicked the curb. “No. I don’t know.”
Greta, seemingly fully recovered, yanked at the sleeve of his shirt. “Tell her, Drexel. Tell the woman why we’re here in Las Vegas.”
I looked at Drexel. He squinted, giving me the feeling that he trusted me about as far as he could throw me with his moving vehicle. So I jumped in where words failed him. “You’re here to stop the PSA from their black-market baby agreements, their return policies, or their sex-slave pregnancy homes?”
“See, Drexel, she knows.” Greta was crying, pulling her jacket around her chest, tighter and tighter. “Everyone knows. We are the fools. How can we find out any more?”
“Oh, my dear Greta,” he said. He plunked on the grass next to me and sat there, as if he were too tired to move. Finally he said, “We need to find out what happened to my nephew. What is your name?”
“I know we introduced ourselves, but you were blind then so maybe you didn’t hear? It’s Jane, Jane Angieski.”
He grabbed me and suddenly all the extra air that I’d managed to recapture after my tumbling act was squished out of my lungs. “Another Pole? You are an answer from heaven.”
Drexel kissed me on both cheeks as Greta, on her knees, brushed grass from my hair, grabbed my body, and rocked me like a baby. Me? In a rather icky way, it was nice. Then reality set in. “Wait a minute, you two.” I pushed them aside and got to my feet, feeling that my ankles, knees and thighs were still where they previously had been. “You aren’t Feds?”
“Feds? Police? We are dance instructors.” The couple said in unison. Like peas in a pod, they struck a waltz pose straight from the end of
Dancing with the Stars
.
“Give me a freakin’ break. Dancers. You know Petra, don’t you? Are you in cahoots with her?” If that were true, then this wasn’t just one woman’s vendetta against a shady adoption agency. Like, duh.
Greta pulled a tissue from her pocket. Guess she couldn’t stomach me wiping snot off my face. Heck, if a girl creates a collision with her body, fluids leaking from the nose are hardly worth a second thought. But I accepted the tissue as Drexel said, “Petra, Greta and I, and many others must stop the killing. In Poland, orphaned young women are sold into slavery, underfed and without medical care, and forced to have sex to produce babies. The babies, most in bad health, are sold and resold and then resold again by the PSA and in the name of God, for God’s sake.” Drexel’s hoity-toity Brit accent had turned into a guttural Polish one. He might be a ballroom dancer, but he was frightening at that second.
“But you’ll do it legally. Right?” I asked. It was like a ping-pong match, with the looks the couple exchanged. “We’re in the United States. We of course have fine legal systems. But were you handicapped and adopted?” Other than the evil-tinged scowl on Drexel’s face and the tears on Greta’s, they looked as normal as a couple could be who had just crashed, bammed, and slammed into a preacher.
Drexel scowled. “First tell us what your interest is in PSA? Who are you really? Are you one of those fat bureaucrats or some overpaid federal office that doesn’t seem to care about anything except asking inane questions, gathering information never to do anything with it?” He spat into the roadway.
Point taken, but it didn’t stop me. “I take exception to that well-padded remark, mister. I’m a pleasingly plump, pushy, and prodding preacher, I’ll grant you, but I’m here because I want answers. Hey, can we head into this McDonald’s and stop standing in the blistering sun?” I’d been verbally manhandled before by better stuff than this guy. I turned around and walked into the fast-food joint and plopped into the first booth, my legs suddenly feeling a bit like mush.
“So you’re from the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I thought so, from your look. And it’s about time you finally made it here after so many of our calls,” Drexel said, glowering over me.
“Wrong again, Drexel. And sit down. I simply care.” Now it was my turn to growl.
He folded his frame into the booth and looked down, smoothing manicured hands on the table and flicking away crumbs from the previous customer’s lunch. “Unlike Petra, I am not afraid. My sister was impregnated by a man she hated, had a baby she had to give up for adoption, in Warsaw, five years ago. It’s a sad story, and now she regrets it, as do I. The baby was sold to PSA from the Child’s Play Baby Home.” He spewed out the name.
Greta came to the table balancing three large cold drinks. I grabbed one. Diet or not, I needed liquids.
She said, “We know Drexel’s nephew had physical problems. We do not know the extent. Through a private investigator in Warsaw, we found that he was transported to the United States, to New York with one family, and then to a fancy Beverly Hills city near Los Angeles to another family. These were very rich people who wanted to have a playmate for their biological son.”
Drexel swore in Polish and looked like he wanted to spit, turning to see where the projectile should go, then swallowed. “Such stupid rich people.”
Greta interrupted, “The Polish people we know here in Las Vegas, who are only a social club, think the boy was rejected and returned to PSA. They lost contact with him when he was sent to the PSA home in New York, an unlicensed orphanage where they keep the disposable children. Then a family in the Las Vegas area put in an order and got him. We have lost track since then.”
I didn’t know much about blood types, DNA, or anything medical, but I knew who to ask: Captain Tom Morales. What were the odds that Mikel was the child they were search for? In my world weirder things happened.
Drexel took the plastic straw and twisted it violently. “We have politely — yes, politely — asked your government and the Polish Consulate and so many others for help, for our cause, for the children’s sakes. Deaf ears. What happens to babies who aren’t desirable? The PSA tosses them for the street wolves to devour. The survivors end up in prostitution, drug running, begging on the corners, and living in the subways. Some die. Now our people who are part of the Polish American Club are asking to look at the PSA’s records. Still, nothing comes of it. We have no voice. I’ve been in the States for a year, and we are this close.” He held his index fingers about ten inches apart.
I asked, “What came of your effort today?”
“We learned that they’re hiding the fact that the children are disabled.” Drexel stood, smoothing the creases in his perfectly unwrinkled slacks.
“What will you do with the information?”
“In order for the adoption of children into the United States, the Polish government has to approve the papers. They believe, I am certain because I love my country and always try to believe the best, that the PSA is helping special babies and children find loving parents. Everyone knows that you people are too rich and have too much money and eat too much. Everyone knows that you buy whatever you want. Including babies.”
Greta linked her arm in Drexel’s, attempting to smile, patting his hand. “Americans will help correct deformities that Polish families, especially unwed parents, may not be able to.”
“We’re not all rich, you know,” I replied, thinking of the people I’d met at the Daily Bread Mission that afternoon. Some of those were thankful to get a meal, a bed, and a shower.
“Now we know this, but in Poland, we did not,” he replied. “Our country is only just coming out of the economic depression caused by your Wall Street. There is so much corruption and abuse of power. It’s happier now than when my parents were alive and when the Soviets held us by the throats, but life is never easy. Now I have told you too much.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Drexel Bendyk and Greta is my bride. We married a few weeks ago. She’s also an actress; she teaches dance and does the early morning traffic and weather report on KTNV, Channel 13.”
“I thought I knew your face, Greta. I’m happy to officially meet you.” I stuck out my hand.
“You will help us? Help us find my baby nephew, my
siostrzeniec
?
That is the word for ‘sister’s boy’ in the Polish language. Yes, together we end the tyranny.” He raised a fist in the air.
“Wait one darned second, m’friend. You’re not looking at a miracle worker.”
“I saw you with Ms. Cheney. She likes you. She smiles and winks at you. That’s right, isn’t it, Greta?”
Should I burst their bubble and tell them Delta was putting the moves on me? Greta, thankfully, interrupted. “Her face changed with our questions. But you, Jane Angieski, you can continue to go through the adoption process and find out all you can about the babies, where they come from, and who knows where they end up? This is perfect. It’s the answer to our prayers.” They hugged each other and attempted to reach across to make me part of the group.
“Hold the phone, folks.” I pulled away and held up my hand. This had to stop. I could not single-handedly stop the human trafficking or the abuse. “Are all the babies imported by PSA deformed or handicapped?”
“Most. Some just have, how do you say this … ” He stuttered as the Polish accent shone through. “Some handicaps don’t show up until the child is older. Like autism and dyslexia. You Americans think it’s the luck of the straw.”
“Draw? Straw? It doesn’t matter,” I said, and Drexel wrinkled his perfectly youthful and perfectly perfect forehead, looking ten years younger than the face that had recently been yelling at me when we came eye to eye, nose to nose, with only his car’s windshield between us.
Greta whispered for our ears only, “Some believe it’s God’s will that they receive a special child; others do not want anything but perfect. They demand flawless babies. So they send back the baby, and PSA sells the infant again. That’s what happened with Petra, you know. She was one of the first to be rejected. This has been happening for fifteen years. Now, as foreign adoptions have become popular, Cheney, that heartless witch, has become more merciless. More babies have died. Slaughtered.”
The images of babies being neglected and deserted would haunt me unless I did something about it. The mental picture of slaughtered babies had already haunted my heart. I knew I had to do something, but did I want these two to know? I hedged. “Greta, Drexel, let me mull this over, and I’ll let you know.”
No three ways about it. It was time to call Tom or Officer Christy to find out about Mikel’s limp and what exactly was wrong with the child.
“Come to Petra’s class tonight, Pastor Jane. Please, and tell us your decision,” Greta whispered.
WWJD? Even with Jane as the J, it came out the same. It’d be impossible to look myself in any old mirror if I looked away. Hopefully I wouldn’t find myself out of a job, in a jail cell, or forced to date Delta Cheney to get the goods on PSA.
We said our good-byes, and I rifled in my purse for Tom’s business card. After popping in the numbers into my cell, he picked it up on the first ring. “Morales, here.”
“Tom? Jane Angieski. I need advice. About PSA.” I wasn’t that surprised when Tom huffed straight into my ear. “Are they breaking laws when the kids offered for adoption are supposed to be in good health, with sturdy little bodies, and they’re not?”