Chapter 39
Dylan
I drove behind the abandoned gas station on Essex Street, heading north.
The area had turned bad a mile or so back. Houses sagging into themselves. Peeling paint. Boarded-up stores.
When my dad’s Porsche rolled up to the group of waiting women, they all moved at once. Short mini-dresses. Bare legs despite the chilly evening air.
I tugged my baseball cap lower and pulled the COVID mask higher over my face. The brim shadowed my eyes. The mask hid the rest.
My gaze landed on a short woman. She was thinner than the others. Not young, not old either. Her face was blank. On her chest, right between her barely covered breasts, shiny blisters stood out against her pale skin.
She noticed my stare and tugged her dress higher, trying to hide what she could.
I pointed at her and leaned across to push the passenger door open.
She didn’t hesitate. She slid in quickly as the others turned away without a word, already drifting back into their waiting positions.
Neither the mask nor the cap seemed to throw the woman off. Men hiding their faces was probably something she was used to. Perverted married guys. Cops. Worse.
“You got a room at the Seacoast Inn we can use?” I asked.
Everybody knew what the women behind this gas station were doing. Where they went. Prostitution was just a misdemeanor in Massachusetts. Not exactly a deterrent. Not for the buyers or for the women who didn’t have better options.
“Yes,” she said, pointing up the road. “It’s right there. Ten minutes. Near the woods.”
I nodded.
We drove in silence.
When I pulled into the Seacoast Inn parking lot, it looked exactly how I expected. A filthy old place beneath a gray sky. Paint chipped everywhere. Curtains were permanently drawn. The place smelled like urine and smoke.
As I put the car in Park, I could almost feel my grandmother sitting here all those years back. Looking for Myers. Same cracked pavement. Same shithole.
She had been stubborn and strong. But she was too kind to go as far as I would.
“We going in, or should I blow you here?” the prostitute asked. “I only do blow jobs right now. Personal reasons.”
I glanced around.
A couple of shitty cars sat scattered across the lot. An older man stepped out of one of the rooms, pulling cash out of his pocket. A young woman followed him, eyes darting left, then right, before she slipped back inside and shut the door. With his cash, of course.
Everybody knew what the Seacoast Inn was for. Drugs. Prostitutes. If you could imagine it, it happened here. Most of the women waited behind the old gas station on Essex Street. Customers picked them up and brought them here for a quick fuck.
“Do those work?” I asked, nodding toward one of the security cameras mounted crookedly on the side of the building.
“No,” she said. “So I can blow you here in the parking lot too.”
I gave a half nod.
“Must be hard,” I said. “This line of work.”
Her head snapped toward me, and suspicion sharpened her features.
“Do you usually work at the inn?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s with all the questions? You a pig or something?”
Her hand slid to the door handle.
“God, no,” I said with a short, bitter laugh. “That’s an insult, considering what they’ve done to me and my family. I can’t stand the cops.”
She studied me, her eyes searching my face for lies. She didn't seem to find any as she shifted in her seat and let go of the door handle.
“That rash of yours,” I said, nodding at her chest. “That’s shingles.”
She laughed. “What, you a doctor or something like that?”
“Something like that.” I kept my voice casual. “Shingles follows dermatomal distribution. It hides out in your ganglia, along the spine. Then it travels outward. That’s why it shows up on your chest. Sometimes it goes away on its own. But sometimes it can also cause postherpetic neuralgia.”
Her gaze dropped to the blisters on her chest.
“It can also make you blind if it spreads to the eye,” I added. “You don’t have HIV, do you? Because that can make the complications a lot worse.”
She looked up fast. Eyes wide now. “What happens if somebody has HIV and shingles? I’m asking for a friend.”
“That depends,” I said.
“On what?”
“If people are on antivirals. And if they are generally healthy and willing to take medication to treat the shingles. And the HIV.”
Her fingers played with the edge of her dress. “What if they can’t afford their HIV meds?”
The fake designer purse. The cheap dress. The worn-down heels. My chest tightened for this woman.
“Then they should treat the shingles with antivirals as soon as possible,” I said. “They’re not expensive, even without insurance. And I could get them for free.”
Our eyes met.
Shock flickered across her face, struggling to process what I just said. Like kindness was a language she didn’t speak anymore. Seeing her this vulnerable made me hate Myers even more. As if he were responsible for her misery too.
“I … I have HIV,” she confessed, like I didn’t already know. “That’s why I only give blow jobs right now. ’Cause I can’t afford the meds to keep my count low.”
I nodded. “Well, it’s better if you don’t do that either,” I said as kindly as I could. “It’s very, very rare, but if there’s blood-to-blood contact, like a cut in your mouth and a wound on a client, it’s possible to pass it along.”
Her face drained fast.
“It’s really unlikely,” I added quickly. “Extremely unlikely. Have you had any injury in your mouth lately?”
Her head shook hard. “No. I haven’t. I promise.”
I reached for her hand before thinking. It was cold.
“As I said, it’s unlikely. But we need to get you back on your meds. Not for the filthy bastards treating you like an animal. But for you. The Massachusetts HIV Drug Assistance Program pays for HIV meds for people who can’t afford them. No questions asked.”
She stared at me. “Why,” she said slowly, “are you doing this? I mean … helping me.”
I held her gaze. “Because almost nobody helped us when we needed it the most. And that was a terrible feeling.”
My hand slipped from hers, and I looked out the window and back at the motel. The dirty curtains. A place that destroyed people.
“But I also need something,” I said. “Information. About a bad, bad guy. Someone I need to take care of before he hurts more people. You think you can help me?”
She nodded. “Who are you looking for?”
“His name is John Myers,” I said. “He has a big scar on his forehead.”
Her lips pressed together as she looked out the window. When she looked back at me, something had hardened.
“I know that piece of shit,” she said. “All the girls here do.”
I straightened in my seat.
“We call him Gash,” she went on. “Stopped fucking him because half of the time he doesn’t pay. Gave Jody a broken nose when she refused to fuck him again. So now we avoid him.”
The words landed hard. A real lead on Myers. I tried hard not to shake. He was so close!
“Does he live here?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No.” Then tilted it sideways, considering. “Well … kinda. He’s good friends with the owner of this shithole, Fat Bob. Went to school with him or something.”
“Do you know where I can find Myers?”
She didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. It was amazing what treating people like human beings could do.
“Down there in the woods,” she said, pointing toward the darkness beyond the motel lot.
“There’s a little hut. By the river. About a mile or so from here.
He fucking broke Jody’s nose in there when she asked for her money.
That’s where he stays when he’s in the area.
It’s private property. Fat Bob owns it. Nobody knows about the hut but a few of us. And them. Why do you want to find him?”
“I . . . want to pay him a lot of money to leave and never come back.”
For a moment, I let that sit. Made sure she would remember that part. She looked curious, but then just nodded.
“A lot of people want him gone.”
My eyes followed the direction she’d pointed. The tree line swallowed a tiny path. No lights. Only leaves and dark secrets.
Then my hand shifted, and the car slipped back into Drive.
“Where are we going?” she asked. No panic or protest. Just curiosity.
“We’ll get the antivirals for your shingles,” I said. “Then I’ll drop you off at the Massachusetts HIV Drug Assistance Program. We need to get you back on your meds as soon as possible. You don’t want to die from HIV. It’s a horrible death. It’s just as bad as cancer if it’s untreated.”
The image of my mother flashed before me. When she was nothing more than skin and bones.
“Is that okay with you if we get you the meds now?”
She nodded, smiling faintly.
I was just about to pull out of the parking lot when her hand came down on my arm, right where it rested near the stick shift. Her touch was light. Careful. Like she was afraid she was crossing a line.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll never forget your kindness.”
My eyes caught hers. And I smiled back under my mask.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
I pulled onto the road, the motel shrinking behind us.
“Why don’t you tell me yours first?” I asked.