But things would change. Someone would have to pay for all these good times. The modeling job would fall through, and she couldn't just be a freeloader. Besides, the partying was more a need now than a luxury. Like food or breathing. She could no longer exist without a snort or a pinch from her favorite needle.
It didn't take long to plummet and hit bottom. And once there she didn't have the strength--not even the desire, really--to get up.
She ended up here.
Myron parked. He and Esperanza got out of the car silently. Myron felt his stomach churn. It was night, of course. Places like this existed only at night. They fled with the onslaught of sunlight.
Myron had never been with a whore, but he knew Win had engaged their services on plenty of occasions. Win liked the convenience. His favorite spot was an Asian whorehouse on Eighth Street called Noble House. Back in the mid-eighties, Win and a few friends would have what they called "Chinese night" in Win's apartment--Hunan Garden would deliver food, Noble House women. The truth was, Win had no feelings for women. He didn't trust them. Whores were what he wanted. It wasn't just the lack of attachment. Win never let women attach. But prostitutes were throwaways. Disposable.
Myron didn't think Win still partook in such events--not in this disease-ridden era--but he didn't know for sure. They never talked about it.
"Pretty spot," Myron said. "Scenic."
Esperanza nodded.
They passed a nightclub of some sort. The music was loud enough to crack the sidewalk. A teen--Myron couldn't say if it was male or female--with green spiked hair bumped into him. Looked like the Statue of Liberty. There were lots of motorcycles, ear and nipple rings, tattoos, chain jewelry. A constant whore chorus of "Hey, baby" pelted him from every conceivable angle, their faces blurring into one mass of human debris. The place was like a carnival freak show.
The sign above the door read CLUB F. U. The logo was a raised middle finger. Subtle. A chalkboard read the following:
HEAVY "MEDICAL" NIGHT!
LIVE BANDS!
Featuring the only local appearances by:
PAP SMEAR
and RECTAL THERMOMETER
Myron could see through the open door. People weren't dancing. They were jumping up and down, heads lolling lifelessly as if their necks were rubber bands, their arms tucked against their sides. Myron focused in on one kid, maybe fifteen years old, lost in the violet bliss, sweat matting his long hair to his face. He wondered if the group onstage was Pap Smear or Rectal Thermometer. Didn't matter. Sounded like someone had jammed a rutting pig into a Cuisinart.
The whole scene was like Dickens meets Blade Runner.
"The studio is next door," Esperanza said.
The building was either a disastrous brownstone or a small warehouse. Whores hung out the windows like shreds of leftover Christmas decorations.
"This is it?" Myron asked.
"Third floor," Esperanza answered. She did not seem intimidated by the surroundings in the least, but she had come from streets not much better than this. Her face remained a placid pool. Esperanza never showed weakness. Her temper flared often, but for all their times together, Myron had never seen her cry. She could not say the same of him.
Myron approached the stoop. An overweight whore stuffed into a bodysuit that doubled as sausage casing licked her lips and stepped in front of him.
"Hey, yo, want a blow job? Fifty bucks."
Myron tried not to close his eyes. "No," he said softly, lowering his head. He wanted to offer words of wisdom, words that could transform her, change her circumstances. But he just said, "I'm sorry," and hurried past. The fat girl shrugged and moved on.
It was a walk-up. No surprise there. The stairwells were littered with people, most unconscious or maybe dead. Myron and Esperanza carefully climbed over them. A cacophony of music--everything from Neil Diamond to what might have been Pap Smear bellowed through the corridor. There were other sounds too Broken bottles, shouts, curses, crashing, a baby crying. An orchestra from hell.
When they reached the third floor, they saw a glassed-in office No one was inside, but the pictures on the wall--not to mention the bullwhip and handcuffs--left little doubt that they had arrived at the right place Myron tried the knob. It turned.
"You stay out here," he said.
"Okay."
He moved in "Hello?"
No one answered him, but music was coming from the other room. Sounded like calypso music. He called out again and stepped into the studio.
Myron was struck by how professional the setup was. It was clean, brightly lit, with one of those big white umbrella things you always see in photo studios. There were half a dozen cameras set up on tripods, and overhead was a variety of different-colored lights.
Of course, the setting was not the first thing that struck him. Other things caught his eye first. The naked woman sitting on a motorbike, for example. To be accurate, she wasn't fully naked--she had on a pair of black boots. Nothing else. Not a look every woman could pull off, but it seemed to work for her. She had not seen him yet, intensely studying the magazine in her hand. The National Sun. Headline: Boy 16 Becomes Grandmother. Hmm. He stepped closer. She was big-breasted, very Russ Meyer, but Myron could see scars under the large swellings. Implants, the fashion accessory of the eighties.
She looked up, startled.
Myron smiled warmly. "Hi."
She screamed Piercingly. "Get the fuck out of here!" she shrieked, covering her chest. Modesty. So rare nowadays. It was nice to see.
Myron said, "My name--"
Another piercing scream. Myron heard a noise behind him and spun. A skinny kid wearing no shirt stood smiling. He popped open a switchblade, a maniacal grin plastered across his face. His Bruce Lee-like build shimmered in the light. He crouched low and beckoned Myron forward. Very West Side Story. If only the kid would snap his fingers.
Another door opened, and red light leaked out. A woman stepped into view. She had what looked like curly red hair, but Myron couldn't be sure if that was her color or if it just appeared red because of the light from the darkroom.
"You're trespassing," she said to Myron. "Hector has the right to kill you where you stand."
"I don't know where you got your law degree," Myron said, "but if Hector isn't careful, I'm going to take away his toy and shove it where the sun don't shine."
Hector giggled. He began to toss the knife back and forth between his hands.
"Wow," Myron said.
The topless model fled to the dressing room, which was cleverly marked UNDRESSING ROOM. The woman from the darkroom stepped fully into the studio and closed the darkroom door. Her hair was indeed red, more like burnt auburn actually. Her skin was what some might call peaches and cream. She was maybe thirty and looked, strange as it might sound, perky. The Katie Couric of the porno world.
"Are you the owner?" Myron asked.
"Hector is very good with a blade," she replied coolly. "He could slice out a man's heart and show it to him before he died."
"That must liven a party."
Hector stepped closer Myron did not move.
"I could demonstrate my skills in the martial arts," Myron began. He quickly withdrew his gun and aimed it at Hector's chest. "But I just showered."
Hector's eyes widened in surprise.
"Let this be a lesson to you, Blade Boy," Myron continued. "Half the people in this building probably carry guns. You go around waving that toy, and someone without my tender heart will ace you."
The redhead did not seem taken aback by the gun. "Get out of here," she said to Myron "Now."
"Are you the owner?" Myron tried again.
"You got a warrant?"
"I'm not a cop."
"Then get your ass out of here." She undulated a lot when she talked. Her hips and legs in constant motion. She signaled to Hector, who closed up the switchblade. "You can go, Hector."
"Not so fast, Hector," Myron said. "Get in the darkroom. I don't want you getting any ideas about
coming back with a gun."
Hector looked toward the redhead. She nodded, and he went.
"Close the door," Myron said.
He closed it. Myron walked over and pulled the dead bolt.
The redhead put her hands on her hips. "Happy now?"
"Nearly ecstatic."
"Now get out."
"Listen," Myron said with his melt-'em, warm smile, "I don't want any trouble. I'm just here to buy some photographs. My name is Bernie Worley. I work for a new porno magazine."
She made a face. "Do I really look that stupid? Bernie Worley, here to buy some photographs. Give me a fuckin' break."
There was a sudden noise. People. Lots of them. A commotion, even by this place's standard. In the corridor. Right where he had left Esperanza. Alone.
Myron turned and ran, feeling his heart leap to his throat. If something had happened to her--
He threw open the door. Dozens of people surrounded Esperanza, most kneeling. She stood in the middle, smiling and--he couldn't believe it--signing autographs.
"It's Pocahontas!" someone shouted.
"Make mine out 'With love to Manuel.'"
"You're still my favorite!"
"I remember when you beat Queen Carimba. What a fight!"
"That Highway Hannah. Such a dirty fighter. When she threw salt in your eyes, I could have killed her."
Esperanza caught Myron's eye, shrugged, went back to signing old matchbooks and scraps of paper. The redhead followed him out the door. When she saw Esperanza, her entire being lit up. "Poca?"
Esperanza looked back up. "Lucy?"
They hugged. They stepped back into the studio, Myron following.
"Where you been, girl?" Lucy asked.
"Here, there."
The two women kissed. On the lips. A little too long. Esperanza turned around. "Myron?"
"Huh?"
"Your eyes are bulging."
"They are?"
"I don't tell you everything."
"Apparently not," he said. "But at least I know why my startling good looks didn't faze your friend."
Both women found that laughable. "Lucy, this is Myron Bolitar."
Lucy looked him up and down. "He your boyfriend?"
"No. Just a good friend. And my boss."
"He looks like a guy I know, worked a kinky show at a club down the street. He had this act where he peed on different women."
"It wasn't me," Myron assured her. "I have enough trouble peeing in a public urinal."
Lucy turned her attention to Esperanza. "You look good, Poca."
"Thanks."
"Out of the wrestling game, huh?"
"Completely."
"But you're still working out?"
"As often as I can."
"Nautilus?"
"Um-hmm."
"It shows," Lucy said with a wicked smile. "You really look hot."
Myron cleared his throat. "Hey, how about those Knicks?"
The women ignored him. "You still taking pictures of the wrestlers?" Esperanza asked.
"Not much anymore I'm mostly into this shit."
Esperanza looked back at Myron. "Lucy--that isn't her real name, we just call her that because of her hair--she used to do the promo photos of all the wrestlers."
"So I gathered," Myron said. "Do you think she can help us out?"
"What do you want to know?" Lucy asked.
Myron handed her the copy of Nips. He pointed to Kathy's picture. "I want to know about this," he said.
Lucy studied the photograph for a second. "He a cop?" she asked Esperanza.
"A sports agent."
"Oh." She did not ask for further elaboration. "Because this could get us in trouble."
"How so?" Myron asked.
"The photograph. The girl is topless."
"So?"
"So it's illegal. Topless girls aren't allowed in 900 ads. We're going to get screwed if the government sees this."
"We?" Myron repeated. Again the clever interrogation techniques.
"I'm one of the owners of these dial-a-porn companies. A lot of the lines work out of this building."
"I'm not sure I understand," Myron said. "What do you mean, topless girls are illegal? Almost every girl in that magazine is naked."
"Not in the ads for 900 lines," Lucy corrected. "Couple years back a law was passed. Nine hundred lines had to go clean. Look here." She turned a page and pointed at another ad. "The girl might look suggestive, but she can't be naked. And look at the name of the lines. Stuff like 'Secret Confessions' or 'Talk to Girls.' Now look at the ones for the 800 lines. Hard core. 'Cum Between My Tits,' stuff like that."
Myron remembered his conversation with Tawny on the 900 line. He had been struck by the fact that she said nothing dirty. "So you can only have phone sex on the other lines?"
"Right. You see, you need real permission for those. That's how the government sees it. Any asshole can call a 900 line. The charges are automatic. They start almost immediately after your call is answered. But not with an 800 line or one of the other numbers. You have to use either your credit card or a callback. That's the way you get billed."
"So all that talk about 900 lines being dirty--"
"Is bullshit," Lucy finished. "They're cons. We can't say one dirty thing on those lines. We use them as lures mostly, because they're so easy to use. A guy just has to dial. No credit card. No callbacks. Most of the time we talk about skinny-dipping or massages--suggestive but not sexual. Get him excited, you know what I mean?"
"I think so, yes."
"These guys call horny anyway. I mean, most are so hard up, they'll stick it in a knothole to get relief. What we try to do is get him to say the first dirty word, which usually isn't too difficult. Once he does, we say, 'Oh, baby, I can't talk dirty on this line, but you should call me back at X number with a credit card.' The guys calls it and gets charged all over again."
"Aren't they afraid of how it'll look on their credit card bill?" Myron asked.
Lucy shook her head. She was still undulating. It was a combination of irritating and erotic. "The company names are usually pretty discreet," she explained. "We bill under names like Norwood Incorporate or Telemark--not Hot Lesbos or Sucking Starlet. You want to see it?"
"See what?"
"The operation upstairs. Where we answer some of the calls. Lots of people work out of their homes, but I got a crew of six or seven working the lines now."
Myron shrugged "Yeah, sure."
Lucy took them up one level. Some sort of sickening stench engulfed the stairwell. When they reached the landing, Lucy opened a door. They stepped through and quickly closed it behind them.
"This is Fantasies Forever Lines," Lucy said. "Not to mention Dick-a-Lick, Hootersline, Telefun, and a dozen others."
Myron could not believe what he was seeing. His mouth dropped open. He had expected ugly women or fat women or old women. But he had not expected this.
They were men. All but one of the workers were male.
"Gay lines?" Myron asked.
Lucy shook her head, smiling. "Very few gay calls come in. Maybe one in a hundred."
"But ... these are men."
Myron Bolitar, the essence of keen observation.
He heard a man in a gruff, truck-driver voice say, "Yeah, big man, slide it all the way in. That's it. Oh, yeah, that feels good."
Lucy smiled at the man. The man rolled his eyes and continued, "Don't stop, Stallion. Ride me."
Esperanza, Myron was glad to see, looked equally confused. "What's going on, Lucy?" she asked.
"It's the times," Lucy said. "In this economy men are a cheaper source of labor. Most of the girls are on the streets. These are brothers, cousins, street kids."
"But their voices--"
"They use a voice changer. Sharper Image sells them, but I get them cheaper in the Village. You can make little girls sound like Barry White, or vice versa. These guys can become a husky woman, a teenage virgin, a little girl--whatever the line calls for
."
Myron was stunned. "Do the customers know this?"
"Of course not." She turned to Esperanza. "Dumb. But he is kinda cute."
Myron Bolitar, Lesbian Fantasy Man.
The room looked like any telemarketing office. The phones were high-tech. Dozens of lines lit up, each marked for what role was to be played. Horny Housewife. Dominatrix. Cross-dressers. Busty Babes. Even Foot Fetish. Each employee also had another phone for Visa and MasterCard verification.
"The lines with a C next to them got to be kept clean," Lucy explained. "We also have another hundred or so people working phones from their homes. Most of those are women."
"Horny housewives?"
"Some of them. Most are just plain housewives. Anyway, that's why I found the ad strange. A 900 line shouldn't have a topless girl."
They left the room and walked back down to the studio. Myron almost tripped over a wino who chose the moment Myron was stepping over him to stand up.
"Is ABC one of the companies upstairs?" Myron asked.
"Yeah."
"And we know Gary Grady called you yesterday. Can you tell us why?"
"Who?"
"Gary Grady."
Lucy shook her head. "Don't know him."
"How about Jerry?"
"Oh yeah, him." She gave a small laugh. "I figured that wasn't his real name. He was always real secretive."
"So what did he want?"
She nodded as though something had just occurred to her. "I get it now."
"Get what?"
"He was asking me about a photograph I'd taken a couple years back."
"This one?" Myron asked, pointing to Kathy's picture again.
"Yeah. One of his girls."
Myron and Esperanza exchanged a glance. "You mean there were others?"
"Few. Half dozen, maybe more."
Myron felt the rage consume again. "Underage girls?"
"How the fuck am I supposed to know?"
"You didn't ask?" Myron asked.
"Do I look like a cop? Look, man, if you're here to hassle me--"
"He's not," Esperanza said. "You can trust him."
"The fuck I can, Poca. He comes busting in here with a fucking gun, scares the piss out of my model."
"We need your help," Esperanza said. "I need your help."