Chapter 2

For four weeks we went out every Friday, so that we could get experience. Darvin told us that this wouldn't continue – while we certainly wanted to keep the Gospel in front of the women, and while we did want to get to know them, too much pressure would turn them off.

In those four weeks I met a skeletal woman who told me she was dying of AIDS. I met a woman who swore she was 18 but I couldn't believe was more than 15. I met a woman as she wiped off her face and chest – that encounter was hard on me, because it embarrassed me beyond belief when she frankly stated what she was doing. I met a woman who still bore bruises from a beating her pimp had given her. I met enough wreckage and despair that I began to think that maybe I wasn't cut out for this kind of work.

We each had a different partner every week. Darvin wanted to let everyone have the benefit of his experience, and he wanted us to get used to not having him with us. I learned how to talk more or less normally with women who were barely dressed, and who flaunted their bodies in my face. I learned to preach Jesus to women who would have been more than happy to take me to a motel room or a car's backseat or even an alley and prove to themselves that Christians are hypocrites. I learned that Darvin's way of being friendly without being in any way provocative worked.

It was the last Friday in August that I met Bunny. I'd already talked to three prostitutes that night – paying two of them for their time. I'd learned very quickly that few prostitutes were willing to give their time. As one told me, "Whether I'm working or talking, it's the same price for my time, honey." They did, however, seem to enjoy making money without having to engage in sex. I suppose it was sort of a break – and unlike the people I supervised, they didn't get paid breaks during the night.

And then I came to a woman with an overbite. I have to confess I have always been a sucker for an overbite. I think it's incredibly attractive. It was the first thing I noticed about this woman – she got out of a car, closed the door, and leaned down to say something through the open passenger window. And she smiled. It might have been the standard smile she gave to a john, but it showed her overbite and I decided she'd be the next one I spoke with.

By the time I came up to her she'd taken a position leaning against a street light pole, facing the traffic. I was walking against the traffic, so my partner and I were coming up behind her. "Hello," I said as I came even with her and turned toward her.

"Hey, there!" she answered. She was wearing tight jeans and a white t-shirt cut off short, showing her midriff, and her makeup was less garish than most of the prostitutes used. "Lookin' for a good time?"

And as she turned to face me I realized I knew her. I didn't know what to say, and just stood staring at that familiar face. It was a face that was older than when I'd known it, and aged more than I knew its true age to be, and I had no idea what to say.

She snapped her fingers under my nose. "Hey, Jack, you want a good time let's go. I'm Bunny, and I'll hop you till you drop."

I managed to get my voice working. "Bunny? That's what you're calling yourself?"

She gave me a measuring look. "You ain't lookin' for a good time, are you?"

"No, I'm not. Bunny." I tacked on her name – the name she was using, anyway – in a burst of desperation.

"Well, what do you want, Jack?"

My partner must have seen my distress, though surely he couldn't have known where it came from. "My name's Joe Romero, and this is Alan McGee. We'd like to take an hour of your time, maybe, and talk to you – just talk."

Bunny must not have recognized me until that moment. "Alan?" she said, and her voice was a gasp.

"It's me ... Bunny."

"Oh, God, no!" she said, almost shrieked, and turned away.

I was afraid she was going to run, and I wasn't sure she knew better just then than to run into traffic. I grabbed her arm, feeling the thinness. She was thinner than she'd been when I'd known her. I didn't think it was due to dieting. "Bunny," I said, the name coming a bit easier that time, "hold on. There's a McDonald's just down there," and I pointed. "Let's go in, get a cup of coffee, and settle down. And we'll talk."

I swear that she still thought for a moment that she was going to run, but then she had a prostitute's thought. "You'll pay me for my time?"

My answer was sad. "Yes, I'll pay you."

"Okay, let's go."

I didn't want to walk down the street hanging onto Bunny's arm, but I didn't fully trust her either. I'd learned that much, at least, witnessing on Central. The word of a lot of people down there was only as good as the last money they'd gotten. A prostitute will swear she loves you and feels pleasure only with you – if you pay her to say it. And if the next man pays her to say the same things, she'll say them. And she'll mean what she says just as much both times. I didn't trust Bunny, not entirely, even though I knew her – or at one time had known her anyway. She'd changed, a lot. The girl I'd known years before would never have sold herself, but clearly Bunny was doing just that.

I compromised. I let go of her arm, but drew her hand through my arm. She gave me a dirty look, but surely she'd accepted more disgusting caresses from time to time. It was the nature of the business, after all.

At McDonald's I asked her if she was hungry, and she was, so I got her a Big Mac to go with her coffee. I just had coffee, as did Joe. We sat down toward the back of the building, away from the door. Maybe I'd just been hanging around prostitutes and their companions too long, but I wasn't going to give Bunny any chances. I let her sit down first, and then slid in beside her, trapping her in her seat. I got another dirty look for that – she knew what I was doing.