Soon

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Paul found himself studying every face as he moved around the Strip, staying within the shadow of the Babylon. The blood-shot-eyed redhead Morty was his main target, of course, but he found himself constantly on the lookout for Angela Barger too.

  Once, while on a monorail car so crowded he had to stand shoulder to shoulder with others, Paul thought he saw her again. He couldn’t be sure because she had her back to him, but it looked as if she was talking with two or three ladies of the evening—who were not, of course, limited to the evening in that town.

  Paul fought his way to the front and got off as soon as he could. He ran back to where he thought he had seen Angela. The hookers were still there, but she was gone.

  He approached, shopping bags still dangling from his hand.

  “Looking for a date, stranger?” one of the women said.

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to bother you, but—”

  “You a cop?” another said. “’Cause we’re working and we’re licensed.”

  “No, I’m looking for the woman who was just here talking to you.”

  “She more your style?”

  “Well, no, I—”

  The girls giggled and looked at each other. “She’s not even a working girl, honey. You don’t want her.”

  “Yes, I do. Did she tell you her name? Do you know where she is?”

  They shrugged. “You’re blocking traffic, man. If you’re not buying, move on.”

  “Just tell me where I can find her,” Paul said.

  One of the girls laughed aloud. “Try a church. Oh yeah. They don’t have those anymore.”

  23

  WHEN PAUL FINALLY CRASHED into bed after midnight, three things were rattling in his brain: how dangerous Morty/ Jonah was, how badly he wanted to see Angela again, and what the hooker had said about church.

  Paul listened to his New Testament discs for an hour, slept fitfully, and was up early. Vegas still advertised itself as the city that never sleeps, and the activity and crowds seemed hardly abated even at six in the morning. Paul wasn’t looking forward to a day of quizzing working girls to try and track down Jezebel’s employees and, of course, Angela Barger.

  Paul had zero interest in even attractive, alluring women who made sex their business. He felt a strange emotion, however, as he made the public rounds. As he talked to various women, finding it easier one-on-one than with a pair or three, he actually felt compassion for them. Paul ran that through his mental grid. If God loved everyone and cared for every soul, and if He, as Straight had quoted to him over and over, “does not want anyone to perish,” He must love these women too. Living in out-and-out sin, selling their bodies, and yet worthy of love and compassion and forgiveness. Then it struck him: If Angela was a believer and made a professional woman think of the ancient concept of church, perhaps that’s what she was feeling for them too—and talking to them about.

  Many of the women brushed him off as soon as they realized he was not a customer. Others were kind and tried to be helpful. None admitted knowing Jezebel’s girls, and few recalled seeing anyone of Angela’s description.

  God, Paul said silently, I know she’s here. Help me find her.

  That afternoon Paul saw a working girl who looked so doped up, distracted, and forlorn he almost avoided talking with her. “I’m looking for someone and wonder if you could help.”

  “What’s your pleasure?” she said without enthusiasm.

  “I’m looking for a dramatically pretty blonde, about thirty, who might have come around talking to working girls.”

  “About God?”

  “Possibly. Yes.”

  “She talked to me. Told me I could get off the streets, that she knew people who would take care of me, protect me from my employer, help me find Jesus.”

  “When did you see her?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, late.”

  “Where?”

  “About six blocks north.”

  “If I gave you my number, would you call me if you see her again?”

  “You gonna get her in trouble? What she’s doing is dangerous—and illegal.”

  Paul contemplated the irony of that, considering the source. “No, she’s a friend. I just need to find her. Will you call me?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’d really appreciate it. And look, even if you don’t call me, it’s probably worth listening to what she has to say.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Definitely.”

  “If you say so . . .”

  Paul turned to leave.

  “Hey, mister?”

  The girl dug in her tiny purse and pulled out a card. “She didn’t tell me her name, and I don’t blame her. But she invited me to a meeting tonight at a place called the Meadows. Here’s the address. It’s in the basement of a bungalow.”

  Paul jotted it down quickly. “You going?” he said.

  “Nah. I gotta work till midnight. She said to come at ten and if anybody else was going in at the same time to just walk around the block and come in alone. She gave me this too. I guess it’s like a ticket. You can have it. I’m not gonna use it.”

  It was a flat, smooth white stone. Paul guessed it was a token, like the ailanthus leaf, that underground believers used to identify each other. Just the night before he had heard a verse from Revelation that would have inspired it: “And I will give to each one a white stone, and on the stone will be engraved a new name that no one knows except the one who receives it.”

  That would make it the emblem of Pergamum, which Paul supposed correlated with Washington, D.C. He was definitely on Angela’s trail.

  “Sure you don’t want this?” he said. “What if you change your mind?”

  “I won’t. You don’t know my employer.”

  The rest of the day proved futile in spotting Jonah, but Paul couldn’t get his mind off the possibility of seeing Angela that night. He rented a car, then called Bob Koontz from his hotel.

  “When you going to need backup?” Koontz said. “You closing in on this guy or what?”

  “I got a pretty good lead on his alias and where he stays, but he’s playing hard to get right now. Trust me, I’ll find him.”

  “Let me know when you need a team, and we’ll have ’em there in minutes.”

  “Thanks. Meanwhile, could you run the name Mortimer Bagdona, alias Morty Bagadonuts, and send me whatever you find?”

  “Sure. I’ll have somebody from the local bureau run it over to you.”

  “Okay, but I don’t want them trampling all over my case.”

  Paul considered how best to approach Angela’s meeting. He wondered whether any men had been invited, and if they had, were they employers? The old pimp concept was gone with the legalization of prostitution, but men still played a huge role in these women’s lives. From the looks of the girl who had put him on to Angela, he was certain she was a junkie and that her employer was a pusher.

  So it was unlikely that men would be welcome at the meeting. What would he look like, showing up with a white stone? Maybe his presence would be intimidating. What if he was turned away at the door, before he even got a chance to see Angela? He decided to stake out the house and watch for his opening.

  At nine-thirty he parked a few houses from the bungalow and slouched behind the wheel. He saw a young woman—a hooker?—jump from a cab halfway down the block, then wait till it pulled off before heading for the house.

  No lights were on upstairs, and the basement windows were boarded up. Looking around, the woman made her way up the driveway. Paul gave her a moment, then followed. A large dark mass at the end of the driveway was angled into the yard—a van. He hugged the shadows of the house for as long as he could and then slipped behind the van.

  Peering through the driver’s-side window, he could see the woman standing at the basement door at the back of the bungalow. She didn’t have to knock. Someone inside must have been watching—someone who didn’t see him—because the door opened.
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  “Welcome, welcome,” a young woman said. “Were you followed?”

  “No, I was super careful.”

  Not careful enough.

  From behind the van, Paul watched eight more women arrive. Seven looked like working girls—two arrived together—and one looked like a runaway.

  Angela was thrilled at the turnout. She smiled at each woman, remembering most by name, which seemed to make them more comfortable.

  “First,” she said, “I applaud your courage in coming tonight. I don’t plan to keep you long, because we realize it’s as dangerous for you as it is for us. So let me get right to the point. Tonight can change your life.

  “As I told you in town, I believe in God. I believe in Jesus. We’re here from far away because God has put it on our hearts to reach out to working women like yourselves. If you were happy with your life and your lifestyle and whomever you report to, you wouldn’t be here. We are offering you a way to get out of this lifestyle and turn to God. We have a shelter where we can hide you, feed you, and teach you about becoming a believer in Christ. I have some literature I want to pass out, which you should feel free to study.

  “Now here’s the exciting news. I know this is all new to you, and you may feel that you have a lot of loose ends to tie up before you could even consider such a thing, but hear me out. You may be like many of the women in your shoes who have told us they were ready to make the break immediately. You may be in trouble with your employer right now. He doesn’t know where you are, and unless you come up with a very creative and convincing lie, you’re going to suffer for having been here tonight.

  “Here’s our offer: Leave everything behind. Disappear. We can transport you to our center tonight, and we have clothes and food and everything you need to start over. We’ll put no pressure on you, we won’t force you into any decisions, and we’ll never ask you to do anything against your will. You will be presented with the claims of Christ on your life, and we hope you’ll see that God loves you and that Jesus died for you. If at any point you decide this is not for you, you are, of course, free to go. And we will never ask you for a dime.

  “Now, while you’re thinking about it, I’d like to ask my compatriot who met you at the door—let’s call her Freda—to tell you her story.”

  Freda said she had been a prostitute in Washington, D.C., when someone invited her to a meeting “just like this one. I’ll tell you, I couldn’t wait to go. Somehow I was ready for a change, and I knew I was putting my life on the line just being out of touch with my employer. I came and I listened. Know what? I discovered I believed in God already. I had all my life, no matter what the government or my parents or teachers or society said. I just knew there was a God. I mean, come on. Look around.

  “But I didn’t feel worthy. I was a druggie. Had three abortions. Been married twice. Had a record a mile long. Made a bunch of money and blew it all. I was so dependent on my employer that I thought I’d die before he did. Ladies, I came running after this with all that was in me. I was ready. And when I found out I didn’t have to change a thing, that I could come to Jesus the way I was, man, that was it. He did all the changing in me.

  “If this all sounds too good to be true, trust me, it’s true. Your life may not get any easier. Think about that. You can live in public as a prostitute, but we Christians have to sneak around in the dark. But you decide. What’s the better life? Life with Jesus and your sins forgiven? Or going back to the streets and selling yourself for someone else’s benefit? I hope you’ll all take that ride tonight. If you don’t, all we can ask is that you trust our motives and don’t tell anyone about us. We mean only the best for you, and we appreciate your confidence. And for at least the next month, you can find us here every night.”

  Angela was gratified to see that all the women were hanging on Freda’s words. She was a powerful speaker who pulled no punches and really hit the women where they lived, a tremendous asset to the ministry.

  “Questions?” Angela said.

  “What time’s the bus pull out?” one girl said, and the others laughed.

  “Soon as we’re done here. We have a driver, and Freda will go with you. How many would like to go?”

  Five immediately raised their hands. The runaway waited until they were counted, then asked, “Is this only for hookers? I’m not one yet, but if I stay on the street I’m not gonna have any choice.”

  “This is for you too, dear,” Angela said.

  “Then count me in.”

  “Willie?”

  Angela’s partner appeared and told the women he’d be escorting them to the van. They went in groups of two, while Angela talked to the three who had decided not to go.

  “We’re really packed in, Angela,” Willie said, after delivering the last group. “Do you want to go and swing back to get me?”

  “Oh no. We’re still talking anyway. I’ll be fine till you get back.”

  Two of the women left after the van pulled out. One lingered another ten minutes, clearly regretful she hadn’t had the nerve to make the break. Angela didn’t persuade her, ultimately, and she left promising to come to the next meeting. “I think I’ll be ready,” she said. “Pray for me?”

  Angela saw her out, watching until she turned, with a wave, to head down the driveway. There was no moon, and Angela felt spooked by the impenetrable shadows. She imagined she heard something. Is someone in the yard?

  With a shudder, she backed into the house. As she was locking the door, she heard a light knock. She jumped back. The knock came again.

  “Hello?” she said softly. “Did you forget something?”

  “No.” A man’s voice. “I’m just here to see you.”

  “I’m not, uh—seeing anyone right now,” Angela said. “It’s late, and—”

  “Angela, it’s me, Paul Stepola.”

  “Paul!” She yanked open the door. “Are you here as NPO?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m here as one of you.”

  Once inside with the door locked, he gushed his whole story, about his healing, the New Testament, Straight, his conversion, seeing her at Thyatira’s and on the street, everything.

  Shaken, she rushed to embrace him. “You scoundrel! You scared me to death.”

  “Your security’s not so hot,” Paul said. “I’ve been out here the whole time. You need to be more vigilant.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Tell me what you’re doing here, Angela.”

  “Well, I had to leave D.C. for a while, and this seemed like a place where I could do some good.”

  “A missionary effort.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where are your boys?”

  “Believe it or not, they’re here. We have young people with us who serve as nannies.”

  “But surely they’re not here where you might be raided.”

  “No, no. They’re in town. We’re at the Fremont Towers.”

  “Angela! I’m just up the street. How’re you getting back?”

  “Willie and Freda will take me after they drop off the girls.”

  “Call and tell them you’re riding back with me, and let’s get dessert or something.”

  “I’d love that, Paul. And you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

  24

  IN THE RESTAURANT, Paul couldn’t stop staring at Angela. He loved her look, her compassion, everything about her. He had felt drawn to her from the first time he saw her and now, the way things were with Jae . . .

  Angela was beaming—“high,” she said, from seeing all those girls make the right decision and also from seeing Paul again, having learned from Straight that he had become a Christian and that his vision had been restored.

  She was aware, of course, of the horrible Jonah incident. “It just makes our work all the more important,” she said. “I keep looking for girls who have been associated with him, but so far no one has shown up—or they don’t admit they worked for him. They’re all terrified of him.”

  Paul told h
er about the young woman who had directed him to the meeting and given him the white stone.

  She nodded. “I know that girl. Name’s Lucy. At least that’s what she goes by. I’ve talked to her more than once. She’s got a really bad-news employer too. She’s petrified of him. He doesn’t split the money with the girls. He gets them addicted, makes them buy their drugs from him, also makes them sell, and then takes all the cash and gives them a tiny bit to live on.”

  “Charming.”

  “Yeah. Lucy seems so sweet and so lost. I’d love it if she would break away and come see us. But even when I’m talking with her, she’s looking past me, worried Mort is watching. We even had to go around the corner before she would take my card.”

  “Wait—what? Who’s she worried about?”

  “She’s one of Morty Bagadonuts’s girls. I don’t think that’s his real name, but he’s notorious. Lives in a pent—”

  “Penthouse at the Babylon, yeah.” Paul told her what he knew.

  She looked ashen. “Lucy’s Mort is Jonah?”

  Paul nodded. “You could help me nail this guy.”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  Until the wee hours of the morning, they concocted a plan, and at one point Angela reached across the table and took both his hands in hers. Looking deep into his eyes, she said, “This is exciting. You’re brilliant.”

  And Paul realized she had no idea he was married. He had never mentioned a word about his family.

  He took Angela back to her hotel and walked her to her room.

  She looked up at him expectantly. “Until tomorrow then,” he said, and she reached for him.

  She pulled him toward her by his shoulders, and he offered her his cheek. Giving him a peck, Angela whispered, “Chivalry lives.”

  Back at his hotel, Paul stopped at the desk to pick up Koontz’s package with the background on Bagdona. As he headed up-stairs, he felt a confusing jumble of excitement, guilt, and surprise. For most of his marriage he had succumbed to—or even actively sought—temptation from women for whom he cared little, with Jae waiting at home. But tonight—while estranged from Jae—he’d been with a woman he’d dreamed of for months, who more than fulfilled those fantasies, and who was single to boot. Yet he had upheld his marriage vows.