Gone for Good by Harlan Coben

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.