“And our girls are also trained to persuade these marks they really are the most impressive men they’ve ever seen. In another setting, other circumstances, it could be true love. The more they believe it, the more they pay for it. So Morty found a tall tale people would literally buy into.
More power to him. But really making them believe this stuff? Getting my girls to take enough dope to snuff ’em? No, uh-uh, that crosses the line.
He’s got to pay.”
“Where do you think Jonah is?”
“I think Jonah as we knew him, the robe and all, is history. But Morty’s not far. No way he’s going to abandon this gravy train. He rents a penthouse at the Babylon under his own name. Nobody there knows Morty is Jonah. When he’s doing the Jonah bit he wears a dirt-colored robe, a long wig, and a fake beard. So many people bought into his story that he broke them up into what he calls congregations. There are literally too many to all meet in the same place without it getting around. So they’re in little pockets here and there, and he uses different girls in different places for the rituals.
“But when he makes the rounds of the casinos, recruiting, he’s just a balding, middle-aged redhead with stubble and bloodshot eyes. If you want to find him, the Babylon is the place to start.”
“He’s responsible for sixteen deaths we know about. The cops must be all over this.”
She snorted. “They were all over the news, carrying out bodies, making pronouncements. So far they haven’t connected Morty with Jonah—or if anyone has, let’s just say payoffs are not unheard of in this town. I wouldn’t even be talking to you if it weren’t for the girls. The only way I can see to deal with him is on his own terms. Someone needs to take him out.”
“If I can persuade you that he will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, will you help me?”
Jezebel studied him. “You look all squeaky-clean like you might actually be trustworthy.”
“Like you said, we’re on the same side here.”
Jezebel gave Paul a list of six employees who had done part-time work for Jonah. None had been seen for days. “They’re adults, but I’m worried.
If you find them, keep them safe.”
“Deal.”
* * *
There were various ways to get around Vegas, from the limos of the well-heeled to rental cars, taxis, an elevated monorail, and sidewalks. Paul chose to blend in and used the monorail that ran the length of the Strip. He always disembarked a few blocks from his destination and tried to look like a tourist, gawking at the gargantuan hotels and casinos, moseying here and there.
At the Babylon, the second-largest establishment after Thyatira’s, he bought trinkets at a couple of stores and carried his shopping bags around the gambling floor and in and out of the theaters, trying to get the lay of the land.
Paul found himself studying every face as he moved around the Strip, staying within the shadow of the Babylon. The bloodshot-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.
“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.
&n
bsp; 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?”
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