Tony nodded. “We’ll hit hard and fast. As soon as someone finds one of them, word will spread and the rest will be ready.”
I got in the car and started the engine. I had a good idea where I’d begin. I remembered a day when I was a kid, driving down Anderson Avenue through town with Pap. At a stop light, a woman wearing a short skirt and tank top had leaned in the car’s open window. Pap hit the button to put the window up before she could say anything, causing her to jump back and then start swearing at him. When I asked who she was, he told me to never talk to the girls on that street, which later became Dr. Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard.
As I got older, Pap told me about other parts of town I should avoid, one of them being Pine Manor, which wasn’t far from the marina.
Ten minutes later, I turned onto US 41, known locally as Cleveland Avenue, and headed north. In downtown Fort Myers, Cleveland intersected MLK, just before crossing the Caloosahatchee to North Fort Myers.
The stretch of 41 I was on was rundown, with many of the businesses closed and boarded up. Those still in business had bars on the windows.
I drove slowly, with the windows down. I don’t know why, but whenever I was driving and looking for something—a street sign or address—I always put the windows down, as if it allowed me to see better.
Approaching a green light, I saw movement behind the big concrete power pole that supported the traffic lights. A woman stepped out of the shadows and I slowed, then came to a stop.
“Wanna date?” she asked, stepping closer.
A date? I suddenly realized I had no idea how to pick up a hooker.
“How much?” I asked, deciding that would be the correct response.
“Are you a cop?” she asked, stepping closer still. “Cuz if you are, you gotta say so.”
I doubted that was the case.
“No, I’m not a cop,” I replied. “Just a lonely guy, new in town.”
She pulled on the door handle, but it was locked. I clicked the button, and she opened the door and got in.
“Start drivin’,” she said, her voice a little slurred. “A cop jes’ went by, and I think he seen me.”
I started driving, still heading north.
The girl was Hispanic, with dark hair and eyes. She was young, probably early twenties.
“It’s ten bucks for a hummer,” she said. “Twenty if you wanna screw.”
I looked over at her as we approached a streetlight. She looked emaciated and frail. Her face appeared droopy, like an Andy Warhol portrait. She was obviously a meth user—probably an addict.
“I didn’t actually pick you up for a date,” I said. “Will you listen to a different kind of proposition?”
“You some kind of sicko or something?” she asked, shrinking back away from me.
“No,” I replied. “I want to help you.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean, pendejo?”
“If someone offered you a way to get off the meth and enough money to start a new life, would you take it and stop what you’re doing?”
“Huh?”
“You have to know how dangerous it is for you with the war going on between MS-13 and Lake Boyz.”
“Whadda you care?” she slurred.
“Why doesn’t matter,” I said. “I just want to help get you and as many other working girls as I can off the streets. I will pay for your treatment down in Fort Myers Beach and give you enough money to start over somewhere else.”
She looked at me with weary eyes. “Why you wanna do that?”
The light ahead turned red and I was worried she might just jump out of the car if I didn’t win her over quickly.
“A few friends and I intend to stop this gang war,” I said. “And the fastest way to do that is get the victims out of harm’s way. Will you let me help you?”
“You don’ even know me.”
“My name’s Jesse,” I said, then pointed to the earwig in my right ear. “Believe it or not, my wife is listening to our conversation.”
“Yeah, right,” she said.
I pulled the earwig out and extended it to her. “Talk to her yourself,” I said, as I slowed for the light.
“Huh?”
“Just put it in your ear, like an ear bud.”
She took the earwig and fumbled with it as the car came to a stop. A look of surprise came to her face, and then she asked, “Who is this?”
I watched as the girl listened for a moment. The light turned green and I took a chance, turning into the parking lot of a closed convenience store.
When I looked over, I saw a tear roll down the girl’s cheek. “Esto es en serio?” Her voice cracked a little, as she asked Savannah if this was for real.
I pulled back out onto Cleveland Avenue, headed south, and hoped that whatever Savannah was telling her from Chyrel’s comm center would work.
“No hay cuerdas?” the girl asked.
She listened a moment, then started nodding her head. “Okay, but this better not be some kinda setup.”
She handed the earwig back to me and I put it in my ear.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, resignedly.
“To a nice lady named Dr. Catalina Lopez.”
I saw the look of recognition slowly come to her eyes. “Isle of Palms?”
“You know the place?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Okay, I’ll go with you, but you gotta pay me a hundred right now.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out two $100 bills and handed them to her. “Do you know any other girls who might need help?”
She took the bills and stuffed them in her pocket. “There aren’t many of us left,” she said.
“I know. That’s why we want to help. What’s your name?”
“Bella,” she whispered, slumping down in her seat. “Bella Tomas.”
Suddenly, she became agitated. “Pull over,” she shouted. “There’s Maria.”
I slowed, and noticed another dark-haired girl walking down the street.
Bella fumbled
