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 naive 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 that 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 felt so helpless. 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.
