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Eventually, in December 1986, I agreed to go with him to Hells Gate in Colorado for old time’s sake. We argued the entire time. The biggest problem? He didn’t seem interested in me sexually. Whenever that happens, I know the party’s over. In a motel room, over an open bottle of Crown Royal, I told him, “My New Year’s resolution for 1987 is to stay away from Mark Ervin Reeves.”

The last time I talked to Mark was in August 1987, nine months before he was arrested. I was in the middle of talking to a trick on the telephone. It was five in the afternoon, happy hour, when the phones ring every two seconds, and a dozen girls can’t handle all the prospective clients. Then Mark’s voice came over the receiv­er, using the pet name he had for me.

“Glowworm?”

I’m like still sick of the guy, embar­rassed that he wasted all my time. I said, “Whaddya need? I told you never to call me.”

“Look, you just have to talk to me for a few minutes, Gloria. I decided I’m gon­na kill myself.”

“Kill yourself?” I said, hearing the same talk he blabbered when he lost his Rolex or when I wouldn’t move with him to Colorado. “Why kill yourself?”

“Because you won’t have anything to do with me. Because you won’t date me anymore.”

“Damn right, I won’t date you any­ more,” I said. “You’re not offering any security for me. And now I’ve got to do mil­lions of tricks, do hard labor, just to get back the money I lost after wasting all that time with you. How are you going to kill yourself?”

“I’m going to shoot myself.”

“Do you have a loaded gun? You do? Well, take the telephone into the bath­ room, pull the shower curtain shut, and blow your brains out. I’ll listen.”

He was crying, mumbling, “I think I’ll just go out and work until I get caught. You won’t see me anymore. I have abso­lutely nothing to live for.”

 

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