Gone for Good (7 page)

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. "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."

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.

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. The door was a hunk of plywood. I'd tell you the paint was peeling, but it would probably be more apt to say it was shedding.

Squares knocked on the plywood door and immediately a woman shouted, "What do you want?"

Squares did the talking. "We're looking for Louis Castman."

"Go away."

"We need to speak with him."

"You got a warrant?"

"We're not with the police."

"Who are you?" the woman asked.

"We work for Covenant House."

"No runaways here," she shouted, nearly hysterical. "Go away."

"You have a choice," Squares said. "We talk to Castman ourselves right now, or we come back with a bunch of nosy cops."

"I didn't do nothing."

"I can always make something up," Squares said. "Open the door."

The woman made a fast decision. We heard a bolt slide, then another, then a chain. The door opened a crack. I started toward it, but Squares blocked me with his arm. Wait until the door opened all the way.

"Hurry," the woman said with a witch like cackle. "Get inside. Don't want nobody seeing."

Squares gave the door a shove. It opened all the way. We stepped through the frame, and the woman closed the door. Two things hit me at the same time. First, the dark. The only light was a low-watt lamp in the far right-hand corner. I saw a threadbare reading chair, a coffee table, and that was about it. Second, the smell. Take your most vivid remembrance of fresh air and the great outdoors and then imagine the polar opposite. The stuffiness made me afraid to inhale. Part hospital, part something I couldn't quite place. I wondered when the last time a window had been opened, and the room seemed to whisper, Never.

Squares turned to the woman. She'd shrunk back into a corner. We could see only a silhouette in the darkness. "They call me Squares," he said. "I know who you are." "Have we met?" "That's not important." "Where is he?" Squares asked.

"There's only one other room in here," she said, raising her hand in a slow point. "He might be asleep."

Our eyes started to adjust. I stepped toward her. She didn't back away. I got closer. When she lifted her head, I almost gasped. I mumbled an apology and started backing away.

"No," she said. "I want you to see." She crossed the room, stopped in front of the lamp, and faced us full. To our credit, neither Squares nor I flinched. But it wasn't easy. Whoever had disfigured her had done it with great care. She'd probably been a looker at one time, but it was as though she'd gone through some anti-plastic-surgery regimen. A perhaps once-well-shaped nose had been squelched like a beetle under a heavy boot. Once-smooth skin had been split and ripped. The corners of her mouth had been torn to the point where it was hard to tell where it ended. Dozens of raised angry purple scars crisscrossed her face, like the work of a three-year-old given free rein with a Crayola. Her left eye wandered off to the side, dead in its socket. The other stared at us unblinking.

Squares said, "You used to be on the street."

She nodded.

"What's your name?"

Moving her mouth seemed to take great effort. "Tanya."

"Who did that to you?"

"Who do you think?"

We did not bother replying.

"He's through that door," she said. "I take care of him. I never hurt him. You understand? I never raise a hand to him."

We both nodded. I didn't know what to make of that. I don't think Squares did either. We moved to the door. Not a sound. Perhaps he was asleep. I didn't really care. He'd wake up. Squares put his hand on the knob and looked back at me. I let him know that I'd be fine. He opened the door.

Lights were on in there. Full blast, in fact. I had to shade my eyes. I heard a beeping noise and saw some sort of medical machine near the bed. But that wasn't what first drew my eye.

The walls.

That was what you noticed first. The walls were corked I could see a little of the brown but more than that, they were blanketed with photographs. Hundreds of photographs. Some blown up to poster size, some your classic three-by-fives, most somewhere in between all hung on the cork by clear pushpins.

And they were all pictures of Tanya.

At least, that was what I guessed. The pictures were all pre-disfiguration. And I had been right. Tanya had been beautiful once. The photos, mostly glamour shots from what appeared to be a model's portfolio, were inescapable. I looked up. More photographs, a ceiling fresco from hell.

"Help me. Please."

The small voice came from the bed. Squares and I moved toward it. Tanya came in behind us and cleared her voice. We turned. In the harsh light, her scars seemed almost alive, squirming across her face like dozens of worms. The nose was not just flattened, but misshapen, clay like The old photographs seemed to glow, swarming her in a perverse before-and-after aura.

The man in the bed groaned.

We waited. Tanya turned the good eye first toward me, then toward Squares. The eye seemed to dare us to forget, to etch this image into our brains, to remember what she'd once been and what he'd done to her.

"A straight razor," she said. "A rusted one. It took him over an hour to do this. And he didn't just slice up my face."

Without another word, Tanya moved out of the room. She closed the door behind her.

We stood in silence for a moment. Then Squares said, "Are you Louis Castman?"

"You cops?"

"Are you Castman?"

"Yes. And I did it. Christ, whatever you want me to confess to, I did it. Just get me out of here. For the love of God."

"We're not cops," Squares said.

Castman lay flat on his back. There was some kind of tube connected to his chest. The machine kept beeping and something kept rising and falling accordion like He was a white guy, newly shaven, fresh-scrubbed. His hair was clean. His bed had rails and controls. I saw a bedpan in the corner and a sink. Other than that, the room was empty. No drawers, no dressers, no TV, no radio, no clock, no books, no newspapers, no magazines. The window shades were pulled down.

I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked.

Castman's eyes and only his eyes turned toward me. "I'm paralyzed," he said. "A fucking quadriplegic. Below the neck" he stopped, closed his eyes "nothing."

I was not sure how to begin. Neither, it seemed, was Squares.

"Please," Castman said. "You gotta get me out of here. Before…"

"Before what?"

He closed his eyes, opened them again. "I got shot, what, three, four years ago maybe? I don't know anymore. I don't know what day or month or even year it is. The light's always on, so I don't know if it's day or night. I don't know who's president." He swallowed, not without some effort. "She's crazy, man. I try screaming for help, it don't do no good. She got the place lined with cork. I just lay here, all day, looking at these walls."

I found it hard to find my voice. Squares, however, was unfazed. "We're not here for your life story," he said. "We want to ask you about one of your girls."

"You got the wrong guy," he said. "I haven't worked the streets in a long time."

"That's okay. She hasn't worked in a long time either."

"Who?"

"Sheila Rogers."

"Ah." Castman smiled at the name. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"And if I refuse to tell you?"

Squares touched my shoulder. "We're leaving," he said to me.

Castman's voice was pure panic. "What?"

Squares looked down at him. "You don't want to cooperate, Mr. Castman, that's fine. We won't bother you further."

"Wait!" he shouted. "Okay, look, you know how many visitors I've had since I been here?"

"Don't care," Squares said.

"Six. A grand total of six. And none in, I don't know, has to be a year at least. And all six were my old girls. They came here to laugh at me. Watch me shit myself. And you want to hear something sick? I looked forward to it. Anything to break up the monotony, you know what I mean?"

Squares looked impatient. "Sheila Rogers."

The tube made a wet, sucking noise. Castman opened his mouth. A bubble formed. He closed his mouth and tried again. "I met her God, I'm trying to think ten, fifteen years ago. I was working the Port Authority. She came off a bus from Iowa or Idaho, some shithole like that."

Working the Port Authority. I knew the routine well. Pimps wait at the terminal. They look for kids fresh off the bus the desperate, the runaways, the raw meat, coming to the Big Apple to be models or actresses or start anew or flee from boredom or escape abuse. The pimps watch like the predators that they are. And then they swoop in, take them down, gnaw on the carcass.

"I had a good rap," Castman said. "First off, I'm a white guy. The Midwest meat. It's almost all white breast. They're afraid of the strutting brothers. But me, I was different. I'd wear a nice business suit. I'd carry a briefcase. I'd be a little more patient. So anyway, that day I was waiting by Gate 12. It was a favorite of mine. Got a good view of maybe six different arrivals. Sheila came off the bus and man, she was smoking hot. Maybe sixteen years old and prime-time. A virgin too, though I couldn't tell that right off. I'd learn all about that later."

I felt my muscles tighten. Squares slowly slid his body between the bed and me.

"So I started sweet-talking her. Sling her my best bits, you know?"

We knew.

"So I give her the line about making her a big-time model. But smooth. Not like the other assholes. I'm like silk. But Sheila, she was smarter than most. Cautious. I could tell she wasn't buying it all the way, but that was okay. See, I don't press. I act legit. End of the day, they want to believe, right? They all hear stories about some super model being discovered at the Dairy Queen or some such shit, and hey, that's why they come in the first place."

The machine stopped beeping. I heard it gurgle. Then it started beeping again.

"So Sheila sort of crosses her arms, right. She tells me straight up that she never parties or any of that. I tell her hey, no problem, I'm not into that either. I'm a businessman, I say. A professional photographer and talent scout. We'll take some pictures. That's all. Get a portfolio going. Straight up no partying, no drugs, no nudity, nothing she isn't totally comfortable with. And I'm a pretty good photographer, you know. I got an eye for it. See these walls? These shots of Tanya I took them."

I looked at the photographs of the once-beautiful Tanya, and the chill struck me deep in my heart. When I looked back at the bed, Castman was staring at me.

"You," he said.

"What about me?"

"Sheila." He smiled. "She means something to you, am I right?"

I didn't reply.

"You love her."

He stretched out the word love. Mocking me. I kept still.

"Hey, I don't blame you, man. That was some quality tang. And, man, she could suck the "

I started toward him. Castman laughed. Squares stepped in the way. He looked me straight in the eye and shook his head. I backed off. He was right.

Castman stopped laughing, but his eyes stayed on me. "You want to know how I turned your girl out, lover boy?"

I said nothing.

"Same way as I did Tanya out there. See, I went for the prime cuts, the ones the brothers couldn't get their hooks into. A high-end operation. So I gave Sheila the rap, and eventually I got her into my studio for a shoot. That was it. All I need to do. Put a fork in her, she's done."

"How?" I asked.

"You really want to hear this?"

"How?"

Castman closed his eyes, the smile still there, savoring the memory. "I took a bunch of photos of her. All nice and legit. And when we were done, I put a knife to her throat. Then I cuffed her to a bed in a room that was" he chuckled, let his eyes open and roll "corked. I drugged her up. I filmed her when she was half out of it, made it all look very consensual. That, by the way, was how your Sheila lost her virginity. On video. With yours truly. Magical, am I right?"

The rage flared again, started boiling over, consuming me. I didn't know how much longer I could keep from wringing his neck. But that, I reminded myself, was what he wanted.

"Where was I? Oh, right, I cuffed her and shot her up for maybe a week. Prime stuff too. Expensive. But hey, it's a business expense. All businesses got their training regimens, right? Eventually Sheila got hooked, and let me tell you, you can't put that genie back in the bottle. By the time I uncuffed her, that girl would lick out my toe jam for a hit, you know what I mean?"

He stopped as though waiting for applause. It felt as if something were shredding my insides.

Squares kept his voice flat. "So after this, you put her on the street?"

"Yup. Taught her some tricks too. How to get a guy off fast. How to take on more than one guy at a time. All that, I was her teacher."

I thought that I might throw up.

"Go on," Squares said.

"No," he said. "Not until "

"Then we'll bid you good-bye."

"Tanya," he said.

"What about her?"

Castman licked his lips. "Can you give me some water?"

"No. What about Tanya?"

"The bitch keeps me here, man. It ain't right. Yeah, I hurt her. But I had my reason. She wanted to leave, marry this John from Garden City. She thought they were in love. I mean, come on, this look like Pretty Woman to you? She was going to take some of my best girls with her. They could live out in Garden City with her and this John, get cleaned up, some such shit. I couldn't stand for that."

"So," Squares said, "you taught her a lesson."

"Yeah, sure. It's how it is."

"You messed up her face with a razor."

"Not just her face guy might be into putting a bag over the head, you know what I mean? But yeah, you get the gist. It was a lesson to the other girls too. But see and here's the funny part her boyfriend, the John, he didn't know what I'd done. So he comes down from his big house in Garden City, all set up to rescue Tanya, right? The dumbass has a twenty-two. I laugh at him. And he shoots me. This dip wad accountant from Garden City. He shoots me under the armpit with a twenty-two and barn, the bullet goes into my spine. I'm left like this. You believe that? And then, oh, this is precious, after he shoots me, Mr. Garden City sees what I did to Tanya and you know what he does, this great love of hers?"