by Harlan Coben
"Okay."
"I'm pregnant."
"Hey, that's great." I started to rise to offer up a congratulatory hug.
"Squares isn't handling it well."
I stopped. "What do you mean?"
"He's freaking out."
"How?"
"You didn't know, right?"
"Right."
"He tells you everything, Will. He's known for a week." I saw her point.
"He probably didn't want to say anything," I said, "what with my mother and all."
She looked at me hard and said, "Don't do that."
"Yeah, sorry."
Her eyes skittered away from mine. The cool facade. There were cracks there now. "I expected him to be happy."
"He wasn't?"
"I think he wants me to" she seemed out of words "end it."
That knocked me back a step. "He said that?"
"He hasn't said anything. He's working the van extra nights. He's taking on more classes."
"He's avoiding you."
"Yes."
The office door opened without knocking. Squares leaned his unshaven mug into the doorway. He gave Wanda a cursory smile. She turned away.
Squares gave me the thumb. "Let's rock and roll."
We didn't speak until we were safely ensconced in the van.
Squares said, "She told you."
It was a statement, not a question, so I didn't bother confirming or denying.
He put the key in the ignition. "We're not talking about it," he said.
Another statement that required no response.
The Covenant House van heads straight into the bowels. Many of our kids come to our doors. Many others are rescued in this van. The job of outreach is to connect with the community's seedy underbelly meet the runaway kids, the street urchins, the ones too often referred to as the "throwaways." A kid living on the street is a bit like and please pardon the analogy here a weed. The longer he's on the street, the harder it is to pull him out by the root.
We lose a lot of these kids. More than we save. And forget the weed analogy. It's stupid because it implies that we're getting rid of something bad and preserving something good. In fact, it's just the opposite. Try this instead: The street is more like a cancer. Early screening and preventive treatment is the key to long-term survival.
Not much better, but you get the gist.
"The feds exaggerated," Squares said.
"How so?"
"Sheila's record."
"Goon."
"The arrests. They were all a long time ago. You want to hear this?"
"Yes."
We started driving deep into the gloom. The city's hooker hangouts are fluid. Often you'll find them near the Lincoln Tunnel or Javits Center, but lately the cops have been cracking down. More cleanup. So the hookers flowed south to the meat-packing district on 18tt Street and the far west side. Tonight the hookers were out in force.
Squares gestured with his head. "Sheila could have been any one of them."
"She worked the street?"
"A runaway from the Midwest. Got off the bus and straight into the life."
I'd seen it too many times to shock me. But this wasn't a stranger or street kid at the end of her rope. This was the most amazing woman I had ever known.
"A long time ago," Squares said as though reading my thoughts. "Her first arrest was age sixteen."
"Prostitution?"
He nodded. "Three more like that in the next eighteen months, working, according to her file, for a pimp named Louis Castman. Last time she was carrying two ounces and a knife. They tried to bust her for both dealing and armed robbery, but it got kicked."
I looked out the window. The night had turned gray, washed out. You see so much bad on these streets. We work hard to stop some of it. I know we succeed. I know we turn lives around. But I know that what happens here, in the vibrant cesspool of night, never leaves them. The damage is done. You may work around it. You may go on. But the damage is permanent.
"What are you afraid of?" I asked him.
"We're not talking about it."
"You love her. She loves you."
"And she's black."
I turned to him and waited. I know that he didn't mean the obvious by this. He was not being racist. But it's like I told you. The damage is permanent. I had seen the tension between them. It wasn't nearly as powerful as the love, but it was there.
"You love her," I repeated.
He kept driving.
"Maybe that was part of the initial attraction," I said. "But she's not your redemption anymore. You're in love with her."
"Will?"
"Yeah?"
"Enough."
Squares suddenly veered the van to the right. Headlights splashed over the children of the night. They didn't scatter like rats under the onslaught. They, in fact, stared mutely, barely blinking. Squares narrowed his eyes, spotted his prey, and pulled to a stop.
We got out in silence. The children looked at us with dead eyes. I remembered a line of Fantine's in Les Miserables the musical version, I don't know if it's in the book: "Don't they know they're making love to what's already dead?"
There were girls and boys and cross-dressers and transsexuals. I have seen every known perversion out here, though and I'm sure I'll get accused of sexism here I don't think I've ever seen a female customer.
I'm not saying that women never buy sex. I'm sure they do. But they don't seem to cruise the streets to do it. The street customers, the Johns, are always men. They may want a buxom woman or a skinny one, young, old, straight, kinky to unfathomable levels, big men, little boys, animals, whatever. Some may even have a woman with them, dragging a girlfriend or wife into the fray. But the customers trolling these byways are men.
Despite all the talk about unfathomable kink, these men for the most part come here to purchase a certain .. . act, if you will. Something performed on them, one that can easily take place in a parked car. It makes sense for both, when you think about it. Convenience, for one thing. You don't need the expense and time of finding a room. Your concern about sexually transmitted diseases, while still there, is lessened. Pregnancy is not an issue. You don't need to fully undress.. ..
I'll spare you further details.
The street veterans by veterans, I mean anyone over the age of eighteen greeted Squares warmly. They knew him. They liked him. They were a bit wary of my presence. It had been a while since I'd been in the trenches. Still, some of the old-timers recognized me and in a bizarre way, I was glad to see them.
Squares approached a hooker named Candi, though I deduced that Candi was probably not her real name. No flies on me. She pointed with her chin at two shivering girls huddled in a doorway. I looked at them, no more than sixteen years old, their faces painted like two little girls who'd found Mommy's makeup case, and my heart sank. They were dressed in shorter-than-short shorts, high boots with stiletto heels, fake fur.
I often wondered where they find these outfits, if the pimps had special hooker stores or what.
"Fresh meat," Candi said.
Squares frowned, nodded. Many of our best leads come from the veterans. There are two reasons for this. One the cynical reasoning is that taking the newbies out of circulation eliminates competition.
If you live out in the streets, you get ugly in a hurry. Candi was, quite frankly, hideous. This life ages you faster than any black hole.
The new girls, though forced to stay huddled in doorways until they earn turf, are going to get noticed.
But that view is, I think, uncharitable. Reason two, the bigger reason, was that and please don't think me nai've here they want to help. They see themselves. They see the fork in the road and while they might not readily admit they took the wrong prong, they know that it's too late for them. They can't go back. I used to argue with the Candis of the world. I used to insist that it was never too late, that there was still time. I was wrong. Here again is why we need to reach them quickly. There is a certain point t
hat once passed, you cannot save them. The destruction is irreversible. The street consumes them.
They fade away. They become part of the night, one single dark entity.
They are lost to us. They will probably die here or end up in jail or insane.
"Where's Raquel?" Squares said.
"Working a car job," Candi said.
"She coming back here?"
"Yeah."
Squares nodded and turned to the two new girls. One was already leaning into a Buick Regal. You cannot imagine the frustration. You want to step in and stop it. You want to pull the girl away and reach your hand down the John's throat and rip out his lungs. You want to at least chase him away or take a photograph or ... or something. But you do none of that. If you do any of that, you lose the trust. You lose the trust, you're useless.
It was hard to do nothing. Fortunately I'm not particularly brave or confrontational. Maybe that makes it easier.
I watched the passenger door open. The Buick Regal seemed to devour the child. She disappeared slowly, sinking into the dark. I watched and I don't think I ever fdtso heJpJess. Hooked at Squares. His eyes were focused on the car. The Buick pulled away. The girl was gone as though she'd never existed. If the car chooses not to return, it would forever be that way.
Squares approached the remaining new girl. I followed, staying a few steps behind him. The girl's lower lip quivered as though holding back tears, but her eyes blazed with defiance. I wanted to pull her into the van, by force if necessary. So much of this task is restraint. It was why Squares was the master. He stopped about a yard away, careful not to invade her space. "Hi, "he said.
She looked him over and muttered, "Hey." "I was hoping you could help me out." Squares took another step and pulled a photograph out of his pocket. "I'm wondering if you've seen her."
The girl did not look at the picture. "I haven't seen anyone."
"Please," Squares said with a smile damn near celestial. "I'm not a cop."
She tried to look tough. "Figured that," she said. "You talking to Candi and all."
Squares moved a little closer. "We, that is, my friend here and I" I waved on cue, smiled "we're trying to save this girl."
Curious now, she narrowed her eyes. "Save her how?"
"Some bad people are after her."
"Who?"
"Her pimp. See, we work for Covenant House. You heard of that?" She shrugged.
"It's a place to hang out," Squares said, trying to downplay it. "No big deal. You can stop in and have a hot meal, a warm bed to sleep in, use the phone, get some clothes, whatever. Anyway, this girl" he held up the photograph, a school portrait of a white girl in braces "her name is Angie." Always give a name. It personalizes it. "She's been staying with us. Taking a couple of courses. She's a really funny kid. And she got a job too. Turning her life around, you know?" The girl said nothing.
Squares held out his hand. "Everyone calls me Squares," he said.
The girl sighed, took the hand. "I'm Jeri." "Nice to meet you."
"Yeah. But I haven't seen this Angie. And I'm kinda busy here."
Here was where you had to read. If you push too hard, you lose them forever. They burrow back into their hole and never come out. All you want to do now all you can do now is plant the seed. You let her know that there is a haven for her, a safe place, where she can get a meal and find shelter. You give her a way off the street for just one night. Once she gets there, you show the unconditional love. But not now. Now it scares them. Now it chases them away.
As much as it ripped you apart inside, you could not do any more.
Very few people could do Squares's job for very long. And the ones who lasted, the ones who were particularly good at it, they were just... slightly off center. You had to be.
Squares hesitated. He has used this "missing girl" gig as an icebreaker for as long as I've known him. The girl in the picture, the real Angie, died fifteen years ago, out on the street, from exposure.
Squares found her behind a Dumpster. At the funeral, Angle's mother gave him that photograph. I don't think I've ever seen him without it.
"Okay, thanks." Squares took out a card and handed it to her. "If you do see her, will you let me know? You can call anytime. Any reason."
She took the card, fingered it. "Yeah, maybe."
Another hesitation. Then Squares said, "See you around."
"Yeah."
We then did the most unnatural thing in the world. We walked away.
Raquel's real name was Roscoe. At least that was what he or she told us. I never know if I should address Raquel as a he or a she. I should probably ask him her Squares and I found the car parked in front of a sealed-off delivery entrance. A common place for street work. The car windows were fogged up, but we kept our distance anyway. Whatever was going on in there and we had a pretty good idea what was not something we cared to witness.
The door opened a minute later. Raquel came out. As you may have guessed by now, Raquel was a cross-dresser, hence the gender confusion.
With transsexuals, okay, you refer to them as "she." Cross-dressing is a bit trickier. Sometimes the "she" applies. Sometimes it's just a tad too politically correct.
That was probably the case with Raquel.
Raquel rolled out of the car, reached into his purse, and took out the Binaca spray. Three blasts, a pause, a thought, then three more blasts. The car pulled away. Raquel turned toward us.
Many transvestites are beautiful. Raquel was not. He was black, six-six, and comfortably on the north side of three hundred pounds. He had biceps like giant hogs wrestling in sausage casing, and his six-o'clock shadow reminded me of Homer Simpson's. He had a voice so high pitched it made Michael Jackson sound like a teamster boss Betty Boop sucking helium.
Raquel claimed to be twenty-nine years old, but he'd been saying that for the six years I'd known him. He worked five nights a week, rain or shine, and had a rather devoted following. He could get off the streets if he wanted. He could find a place to work out of, set up appointments, that kind of thing. But Raquel liked it out here. That was one of the things people did not get. The street may be dark and dangerous, but it was also intoxicating. The night had an energy, an electricity. You felt wired out on the street. For some of our kids, the choice may be a menial job at Mickey D's versus the thrill of the night and that, when you have no future, was no choice at all.
Raquel spotted us and started tottering in our direction on stiletto heels. Men's shoes size fourteen. No easy task, I assure you. Raquel stopped under a streetlamp. His face was worn like a rock battered by centuries of storms. I didn't know his back story. He lies a lot. One legend had him as an all-American football player who blew out a knee.
Another time I'd heard him say that he'd gotten a college scholarship based on high SAT scores. Still another pegged him as a Gulf War veteran. Choose one of those or create your own.
Raquel greeted Squares with a hug and peck on the cheek. He then turned his attention to me.
"You looking so good, Sweet Willy," Raquel said.
"Gee thanks, Raquel," I said.
"Tasty enough to eat."
"I've been working out," I said. "Makes me extra yummy."
Raquel threw an arm around my shoulder. "I could fall in love with a man like you."
"I'm flattered, Raquel."
"Man like you, he could take me away from all this."
"Ah, but think of all the broken hearts you'd leave in these sewers."
Raquel giggled. "Got that right."
I showed Raquel a photograph of Sheila, the only one I had. Weird when I think back on it now. Neither one of us were picture-takers, but to have only one photograph?
"You recognize her?" I asked him.
Raquel studied the picture. "This your woman," he said. "I seen her at the shelter once."
"Right. You know her from anyplace else?"
"Nope. Why?"
There was no reason to lie. "She's run off. I'm looking for her."
&nb
sp; Raquel studied the picture some more. "Can I keep this?"
I'd made some color copies at the office, so I handed it to him.
"I'll ask around," Raquel said.
"Thanks."
He nodded.
"Raquel?" It was Squares. Raquel turned to him. "You remember a pimp named Louis Castman?"
Raquel's face went slack. He started looking around.
"Raquel?"
"I gotta get back to work, Squares. Bidness, you know."
I stepped in his way. He looked down at me as if I were dandruff flakes he might flick off his shoulder.
"She used to work the streets," I said to him.
"Your girl?"
"Yes."
"And she worked for Castman?"
"Yes."
Raquel crossed himself. "A bad man, Sweet Willy. Castman was the worst."
"How so?"
He licked his lips. "Girls out here. They just a commodity you know what I'm saying. Merchandise. It bid ness with most folk out here.
They make money, they stay. They don't make money, well, you know."
I did.
"But Castman" Raquel whispered his name the way some people whispered the word cancer "he was different."
"How?"
"He'd damage his own merchandise. Sometimes just for fun."
Squares said, "You keep referring to him in the past tense."
"That's 'cause he ain't been around in, oh, three years."
"He alive?"
Raquel became very quiet. He looked off. Squares and I exchanged a glance, waited.
"He still alive," Raquel said. "I guess."
"What does that mean?"
Raquel just shook his head.
"We need to speak with him," I said. "Do you know where we can find him?"
"I just heard rumors."
"What kind of rumors?"
Raquel shook his head again. "Check out a place on the corner of Wright Street and Avenue D in the South Bronx. Heard he might be there."
Raquel walked away then, steadier on the stiletto heels. A car drove up, stopped, and again I watched a human being disappear into the night.
Chapter Nine.
Most neighborhoods, you'd hesitate about waking someone at one in the morning. This wasn't one of them. The windows were all boarded up.