Stolen Souls

12

HE PLACED THE phone back on the table, next to the glass. Condensation beaded on its surface. He brought a thick finger to the moisture, felt the cold on his callused skin.

She had called sooner than he expected. He had been awake, unable to sleep, nursing a buttermilk shandy. Half a glass of buttermilk, half a glass of lemonade. He took a sip, tasted the sour-sweet mix, and swallowed.

It usually took days, sometimes a week or more, before they would call. Sad as it was, it took a good deal of abuse before a girl would seek a way out. But this girl had taken less than twenty-four hours. She must have suffered at the hands of those monsters, but he refused to think about that.

He had taken a taxi to the apartment that afternoon, not wishing his own vehicle to be seen, and rang the doorbell. A buzzer sounded, and the door unlocked. He let himself in. The older woman waited for him on the landing, dressed far too well for such an occasion.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said in her thick accent. “Your first time?”

“Yes,” he lied.

“Don’t worry,” she said, showing him into the apartment. “You have nice time.”

Three men stood inside, huddled in the kitchenette. Two of them were local, going by their tattoos and clothing. The third looked foreign, a big man, all belly and fat fingers.

He paused in the doorway, unsure if he should proceed.

One of the local men looked up, barely registered his presence, and fell back into conversation with his friends.

“Come on,” the woman said. “Don’t be shy.”

He entered, wondering why he was so nervous. It wasn’t as if this were the first time he had entered such a place. He had done it many times before.

“Is fifty pounds for massage,” the woman said, holding out her hand.

“What?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“You give fifty for massage,” the woman said. “You want something else, is between you and her.”

“Ah,” he said. He reached for his wallet, counted out two twenties and a ten, placed them in her hand.

“Is good,” she said, smiling, showing her yellowed teeth.

Nicotine, he thought.

She tucked the notes inside her blouse, pulling aside the fabric of her brassiere. An unnecessary touch, he thought.

“Come,” she said. “Her name is Olga.”

At least a third of the two dozen times he had visited these places, the girl’s name had been Olga. Most of them had hollow eyes and moved like marionettes. They said hello, and please, and thank you. When he said he wanted nothing from them, they tugged at his clothes anyway. They were the lost. He could do nothing for them.

But a few were still alive inside. They listened when he spoke. They gazed on him with hope and awe when he told them of salvation. They called him. Eventually.

The woman led him across the living room and opened a door. He looked back over his shoulder at the three men. One of them lifted a coat, exchanged a farewell with his friends, and let himself out. None of them paid any attention to the man who watched.

“Come,” the woman said. “She is nice. You see, you like her.”

She stepped through to the bedroom.

He followed.

She extended a hand toward the girl on the bed.

The girl looked up, no more than a glance, but enough to see that she still had her soul. They had not yet stolen it. She could still be saved.

Silently, he thanked the Lord on high.