Archives for posts with tag: white slavery

Donna Louise here. Last night Clarice and I entered Vivian’s house to make sure Vivian was okay. It doesn’t look good—the situation, that is, not her house which she kept immaculate. Something about the feeling inside the place creeped me out. It’s not right.

Clarice headed to Vivian’s bedroom while I searched the front room. Her scream about made me wet my pants. As I rushed into the bedroom, I found Clarice sitting on the bed holding a cup with dentures in it. That’s not a good sign, I don’t think, but then I never knew she wore dentures.

“Someone took her, Donna Louise. She’d never leave the house without her teeth or her wig.”

“Her wig? I looked around the room to see if I could locate a wig, but not one was in sight. I never knew she wore a wig either.

“Yes, she wore one every day of her life after an illness in her 40s left her bald as a bowling ball. She bought sixty of the same style because she figured, if she lived to be a hundred, she’d have enough to last her lifetime. Here. They’re all in this closet.” She flung open the doors. I gasped.

The closet was lined with fake heads all of them wearing the same hair as Vivian wore in real life. The things we don’t know about our neighbors. Some of them we should never know.

Clarice had sat down in the bed to have a good boo-hoo. “She’s gone. Poor woman, they took her without her teeth. Those white slavers have only one thing in mind:  turning elderly, Christian women into whores. The scum.”

Without thinking I said, “I understand that women without teeth can perform great oral sex.” As soon as the last words left my mouth, I knew I’d regret sharing that little bit of information. But, Dr. Ruth had mentioned that fact on a program she did about oral sex.

Clarice rose from the bed. “Young lady, I’ll have you know Vivian would never stick something like …like…THAT in her mouth. She was raised to be a proper lady.”

So was I, but…well, never mind, it isn’t relevant to this story.

I returned to the dining room where I found Vivian’s land-line unplugged. Her cell phone sat in the middle of the dining room table.

“Clarice, I’m calling the police. We need their assistance.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1 operator, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“Missing person.”

“How long has the person been missing?”

“Ninety-six hours, I think. Is that 24 times 4?”

“Yes, ma’am. What is your relationship to the missing person?”

“A friend and neighbor.”

“I’ve sent a police car to the address associate with this phone. Please remain on the line as I have some additional questions to ask you.”

“You better send them to Vivian’s address. She’s the one missing.” I gave her the correct address and then I gave her my name, address and phone number.

“Now, ma’am, do you have any idea what may have happened to your friend?”

“We think she was kidnapped and sold into white slavery.”

“Then she’s Caucasian.”

“Well, yes, but women of any race or color can be sold into white slavery.”

“Really?”

Why don’t people know more about white slavery? Before I could educate the operator, someone who identified himself as a police officer knocked on the front door. I shut my phone and went to let him in.

The officer and his partner came in the house and asked questions. They asked us what we had touched. We cooperated with them. After about an hour, they called the detectives.

When I opened the door, I came face-to-face with Detective Yank Kaiser, my old friend from my nunnery days.

The corners of his mouth turned up and he said, “I should have known it was you. After all, you live just down the street, don’t you? This must be a doozie of a case.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Yank.”

He walked into the front room. “I know you’re right. If you’re involved, the case must be bizarre.”

I chose to take that as a compliment, but I’m not sure he meant it that way.

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Donna Louise here. Vivian looked horrible when I opened the door last night. She rushed into the house and looked around. “Are we alone, Donna Louise?”

“Yes, as far as I know. I haven’t let anyone in the house all night. Why?”

She plopped down on the sofa. “I just wanted to make sure there were no children present.” She scooted to the edge of her seat. “You’re not going to believe what I heard from Larry, my beautician.”

“The guy who lives two blocks over? What’s going on in his ‘hood?”

“Sit down, honey. You’ll need to sit when I tell you.”

I joined her on the sofa.

She grabbed my hand. “It scares me to death.”

“Would you just tell me what happened?”

She leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Two women in their mid-fifties have disappeared without a trace. Gone. Vanished. Larry says the police think they were sold into white slavery. I don’t understand that part because one of the women is African-American so it can’t only be white slavery.”

I suppressed a giggle. “Vivian, ‘white slavery’ is a term that means they were sold into prostitution. It has nothing to do with their race..”

She screamed. “I’m too old to be a prostitute.”

“You were thinking of becoming one? I don’t understand. You’ve seen the ‘girls’ on the avenue and they don’t look like they’re having a good time. Times are hard all the way around…uh, no pun intended.”

Vivian asked for something to calm her nerves so I brought her a shot of whiskey which she downed with a little blue pill.

“You aren’t mixing alcohol and sedatives are you?” That combination can kill a person.

“I need something to put me out for the night. What if they take me? Where will I end up? Some foreign country? In some harem? Oh, my God. What am I going to do?”

“Vivian, why do you think you’ll be next? Two women in the ‘hood have disappeared. It’s not that unusual for people to go missing. Maybe they just ditched their lives and moved somewhere exciting.”

She looked at me as if I were nuts. “Vianna and Lucille were not that kind of women. They’d never done anything unusual or exciting in their lives.”

“It’s never too late, is it?”

“For them it was wayyyyyyyyyyyy too late. Trust me on that one. I’m feeling sleepy. Guess I better go home and prepare to be taken by the pimps.”

“I think they’re called ‘white slavers.'”

“Whatever.” 

I offered to walk her home to make sure she arrived safely, but she refused. “What if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Call me when you get home. Okay?” I helped her up off the couch and out the door. She looked a little unsteady on her feet so I watched her until she disappeared into the darkness. Three minutes later she called. “I’m home. If I vanish, promise me that you’ll find me and rescue me. Okay?”

I laughed. “I promise.”

This morning at 3:30 a.m. my phone rang. By the time I crawled out of bed, it had stopped ringing. I checked the number. It was Vivian’s. I called her back, but no one picked up. She probably butt-dialed me. I’ll check on her in a few hours.

Didn’t white slavery disappear in America with the advent of the sexual revolution? Guess I’ll google it.