Harlan Coben - Gone for Good

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."