We picked up ‘some’ cash (1,500 dollars) at the ATM next to the cafe, which I hoped would be sufficient encouragement for all the shy informants I expected to encounter. It was my idea—in some movies, the protagonist has no choice but to buy their informants’ testimony. In line with being the private investigator’s most coveted commodity (followed distantly by cigarettes and booze), information was scarce and therefore invaluable, and sharing or even being suspected of possessing it can be associated with degrees of risk ranging from social embarrassment to economic ruination to incarceration to certain death—so it ought to be obvious to even the least astute of lay people that it is only fair to compensate informants proportionately to the efforts they invest and the risks they shoulder in acquiring it.
“You really do have good instincts,” said Judith after I explained what I figured was a fair price to pay for interviewing the people on Adams. “And, yes, they will appreciate being compensated.”
I was nervous about parking Banana Shark anywhere near Adams—being, out of all the city’s streets, the one with the seediest reputation—but Judith assured me, “The workers prefer that their johns’ cars aren’t damaged or stolen while they’re rendering services. It’s bad for business. Your fancy car is safer here than it is at your old police station. Or home, for that matter.”
I decided to trust her in spite of my doubts. Traffic was bustling like any other night, yet the parking that was usually at full utilization was, to my continuing bewilderment, in use by only a couple of cars, so I was able to find a spot right in front of the Old Torrey Pines Hotel, which towered over all the other buildings at the block’s midpoint. I put 15 minutes into the meter to begin with (I had no desire to be there any longer than necessary and planned to fill the meter in the smallest possible increments until we were finished); and as I fed the machine, Judith observed (with mild amusement), “Ex-meter maid pays for parking.”
“That’s how it goes.” I pulled a leaf out from under her windshield wipers, gave her roof a gentle pat, and prayed to any god who may be listening for her safety.
“Have you ever spent any time here?”
The near absence of parked cars had unnerved me from the moment I rolled onto the street at the beginning of the night shift on Wednesday, and it was even more disconcerting now to see the curbs so empty on a Saturday evening. “I was assigned to this neighborhood July 5th, 2023, which means it was my beat for… a little more than a year.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “No way…”
“Yes way. No one else wanted it, and no one wanted me, so I got stuck with it.”
“So you do know these people.”
“I know where all the metered spots, handicapped spots, fire hydrants, driveways, yellow curbs and red curbs are—and that’s it. As long as I didn’t have to leave my three-wheeler, I kept my plump ass planted in my seat.”
“Everybody on this street is gonna recognize your hair.”
“Which was what I was worrying about earlier, but you said I was going to be forthright about being—” I heard a familiar ‘rattle-clink’ and reflexively turned around to find the source of the sound. A woman in a pink mini dress with straight blonde hair—5′6″ or 5′7″ without her heels, mid 40s, athletic build, artfully shaped eyebrows, walnut brown eyes, delicate chin and cheekbones—had just fed a quarter (from the sound of it) into the next meter over. Her eyes, defiant and resentful, bored into mine, daring me to react to what she had just done in my presence. I froze like a deer that had just been licked by a wolf. “Judith…” I whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Start making friends. I’ll introduce you.”
“Oh… kay.” I hesitated before approaching the woman—with the caution one might exercise while approaching a rabid dog (as opposed to a civil if admittedly oppositional fellow human being who had yet to give me any reason to fear for my physical safety)—and Judith followed.
The woman gave us each a suspicious look, and also gave my friend an equally suspicious “Evening… Judith,” then switched her stare to Judith’s eyes alone, ignoring me.
Judith took her cold greeting in stride. “Good evening, Yesenia. How ya doin’?”
“Well,” replied the woman who apparently knew Judith… coldly. “I’m definitely not breaking any laws.” And then to me, “This meter was fed by the person who parked here, Officer. I totally did not feed it any quarters without the driver’s written consent.”
“I strongly suggest,” I meekly suggested, “that you refrain from violating Santa Virginia Municipal Code Section 74.0382 in view of the new Parking Enforcement Officer assigned to this beat. They’re gonna be a lot less lenient than I was.”
She seemed to have missed my advice, because she focused on the “‘New’? ‘Was’? Is that to say that you’ve been reassigned?” She didn’t sound excited by this news—if anything, she sounded concerned.
“If you count being fired as a ‘reassignment’.”
She chuckled. “Serves ya right, copper.” But her satisfaction rang hollow—I could tell that she wasn’t happy to hear that I would no longer be patrolling the street—though I had no clue why.
But I left that observation alone. “I didn’t like fining people, and I’m glad it wasn’t my job to arrest anyone here.”
“Boo-hoo, you weren’t personally owed the blame for making our lives difficult.” Her remark would have pierced me lethally if she had stabbed me with the pointed end of her voice. “J, you with this pig for reals?”
“Ex-pig,” I reminded her…
…and my head fell as she spoke the words I feared most: “As the ancient adage teaches us: ‘Once a pig, always a pig.’”
“Well, fuck you, too, whore!” growled Shosh.
“Please don’t be confrontational,” I mumbled.
“I am not being confrontational,” replied Yesenia. “I merely speak the truth to pigs who live in ignorance.”
“Ugh… You’re right,” I moped. “I’m still a pig.”
“(Hey. What’s going on?)” whisper-asked Judith. “(Why’re you falling apart?)”
“Nothing…” ((I’m hopelessly irredeemable.))
“I can’t help you if you don’t open up.”
“I’m a cop…” ((No decent person will ever trust me. Because cops can’t be trusted, no matter how sincere their guilt may sound. Our apologies are all as empty as the space beyond the universe.))
“You’re trying to escape that.”
“I don’t know if I can.” ((New acronym, ECIFAB)): Every Cop Is Forever A Bastard.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if I can get on their good side when I feel…” My lips puckered in self-resentment. “Please don’t judge me.”
“I won’t. What do you feel?”
((I don’t want to tell her, I don’t want to hear myself confess it… But I must clear the fog around what has me so bothered.)) “This place makes me feel… dirty… like being around… these people is enough to become tainted. It’s why I confined myself to my three-wheeler whenever I was on patrol. Just talking to her makes me want to run home and take a shower.” Yes, I admitted that to a sex worker, right to her face. Yes, I feel bad for having said it. But one must articulate one’s flaws before they can be corrected. An ailment cannot be cured without first diagnosing it.
She processed my confession carefully, patiently—and calmly, gently she replied, “Okay. Well. As a veteran sex worker, I find that offensive and dehumanizing.”
“No—no, you’re not like them.”
“How am I not like other sex workers? And how would me being ‘not like them’ even matter?”
“You’re…” I didn’t know how she was different. “Because…” And I didn’t know how being different would have made a difference.
“Alright, I’m going to be nice and help you instead of getting angry. You’ve been indoctrinated by police culture and our Christofascist society as a whole into hating sex workers.”
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘hate’…”
“What other word would you use?” she asked a little impatiently.
“I don’t know but—I’m just… a little… grossed… out.”
She sighed. “The distinction between hatred and disgust is not one worth making when it comes to viewing others as human, in my experience as someone who has been on the receiving end of both for just about my entire life.”
I grimaced. “If you say so…”
“I do say so. Inside your head there’s a tangled-up mass of bullshit tied up over the course of your lifetime, and you’re going to have to untangle it knot by knot, strand by strand. It’s gonna take a long time, it’s gonna require a lot of reflection and self-criticism, it’s gonna require a bunch of research and work. It’s gonna suck. But that’s the price of being a good person.”
“Ah. Okay. Well… fuck. My brain is messed up.”
“Put simply. And you are the only person who can fix it.”
I sighed. “No rest for the wicked until they’ve put back together their own shattered minds.”
“Part of becoming a good person is accepting that you’re imperfect.”
“I’ve already accepted that fact. ACAB. I’m bad. I’ve hurt people, maybe not directly, but indirectly, by being a part of the oppressor class. I want to be good. But the distance between here and my destination feels like infinity.”
“(Lord, forgive me,)” she muttered to herself as she glanced over at Yesenia in the distance, “for having parents who taught me about systems of oppression so I didn’t have to figure them out on my own… Alright. You know you’re bad. Let’s start unknotting your biases. You need to get to know these folks so that you can see them as human beings. Spend lots of time with the people who make you uncomfortable, be polite, follow their rules, internalize their values and let them reshape yours as you witness their humanity first-hand.”
“So I need to surround myself with prost—sex workers.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay. That sounds like it might help. But I will fuck it up somehow.”
“Do you know how to apologize?”
“I spent ten-and-a-half years screwing up at my job, and my bosses always seemed satisfied with my apologies.”
“Well, your bosses aren’t members of a marginalized group, and your fuckups probably didn’t hurt your bosses substantially, so knowing that you can soothe the porcine leadership doesn’t do much to bolster my confidence. That said, no-one learns how to fly without falling from the nest. Flap those wings, Andy.”
“And nosedive into the concrete.” We caught up with Yesenia, who had left us long ago and was trying to flag down cars by posing alluringly. “Do you think anybody here would mind if I hang out on Adams and get to know them better?”
She shook her head in disappointment while at the same time smirking in amusement. “You wanna use us for your exposure therapy?”
“Please, Seni,” interjected Judith. “She hated her job, and she hates herself for being a cop. Give her a chance.”
Incredulous that Judith would make such a perverse request, the woman laughed. “You’re asking me to give a cop—a bastard, one of our sworn enemies—a chance to earn my trust?”
“Yes. A second chance.”
“How do you fit those huge balls up inside your inguinal canals?”
“I use a sledgehammer. And I’m proud of them. I’m glad you’ve taken that fact to heart.”
“You’re welcome. Get this bastard out of here, and if you wish to remain friends with me, don’t let me see you with her again, here or anywhere else.”
“Well, fuck you, too!” snarled Shosh. “Like you’re some kind of morally upright—”
“What if,” I interrupted, “I did something to prove that you can trust me?”
“What could you possibly do to convince the people here that you deserve their trust?”
“Well…”
“Well?”
“Um…”
“Esti, you’ve got a plan somewhere in that noggin. Just relax and let it come to you.”
“You know what?” asked Yesenia. “You think about that for a long time. Maybe I’ll trust you someday, perhaps enough to talk about the weather. Not tonight, though. Please excuse me, Officer, I need to get back to my job.” With that she turned away and went back to posing pretty for the passing cars.
“I say again,” repeated Shosh, “‘Fuck you.’”
“We’ll figure out something, Andy.”
“It’s hopeless. The case is cold without the eyes and ears of the people on this street.”
“Well…” I could hear the hope draining from her voice. “If it ends up cold… I still think you could do sex work—though you should probably avoid Adams.”
“Don’t you think there’s a chance I’d maybe hate it?” I hoped beneath a veneer of skepticism.
“It isn’t a bad job—”
“It’s a terrible job,” countered Shosh with authority.
“—well, escort work isn’t, anyway—once you’ve learned how to manage a business, launder your income, and juggle flaky johns. Which sounds a little bit tedious, but these skills can be learned, and as I told you before, I thought it was fulfilling. So… I think taking a whack at it wouldn’t hurt. You can give it a single try and decide from there whether you want to try it again—and you don’t have to commit for life, you can quit whenever you like.”
My anxiety grew as she went on and on in a misled attempt to ease what she assumed to be my reservations. As she finished, I simply couldn’t bear to hear another word. “Damn it, Judith,” I whined. “I’m afraid that if I try it once I’m gonna wanna do it again and again and again—”
“What!” blurted Shosh, eyes wide.
“—so that I settle on being a dirty hooker instead of a great detective!”
“Woah, woah. Ignoring the ‘dirty hooker’ remark—why… are you nervous about that?” Then Judith noticed just how anxious I was. “Okay. Let’s suppose you did become a ‘dirty hooker’ because you decided you liked it even more than detective work. How would that be such a bad thing? If you want to do it and it makes you happy, what’s wrong with pursuing a career you never considered until now? If you like it enough, could you maybe just let it be your new dream job?”
“I don’t think—” I groaned exasperatedly. “When we were talking about sex work—earlier, when you were talking about why you quit—I had a fantasy. Multiple, actually.”
“Bye,” said Shosh as the breeze blew her mist away.
“Were they enjoyable fantasies?”
“In the first one, I was… (performing fellatio) for a man, for a chunk of change generous enough to… temporarily change my sexual orientation. And I was eager to please him, I enjoyed it because of the money, I got turned on by the thought of being paid for sex. Especially since it was with someone I didn’t find attractive.”
She chuckled, which hurt. “A straight-for-pay fetish. I’ll be damned. I hope you make the best of it.”
“I really hope I don’t, I’m already addicted to sex with you, I don’t need to be addicted to sex with men I don’t know.”
It was her turn to be hurt. “Surely wanting to have sex with me isn’t so… burdensome that you wish… that… we’d never met?”
“What? No!” I took her hands in mine. “I l-like you, Judith Lucas, I like being around you and doing things with you, and I have no regrets about spending time with you anyway we decide to. I’m just overwhelmed that I feel compelled by my lust every time you kiss me to mate with you like some kind of beast in heat, driven mad by its drive to reproduce.”
She blushed as she sucked a puff of air through her teeth and whisper-echoed, “‘Like a beast in heat, driven mad by its drive to reproduce.’ Hoo-boy. Is it really that bad?”
“I’m dry humping you in public places. Yes, it’s ‘that bad’.”
Silence followed while something circled the inside of her skull a few times, changing with each revolution, until out of somewhere she pulled out the words, “You’re beautiful. You know that, right?”
“You’re welcome to believe that.”
“And confident—maybe not at this very moment, but when it counts—which only adds to your charm.”
I blushed, and for just a moment her compliments stole the spotlight from my anxiety. “Well… I have on occasion felt confident, but… you saying that… still kind of comes off as… flattery…”
“Your passion and sincerity, even as you explore things you find unfamiliar or intimidating, makes you even sexier.”
Her praise, however, didn’t sit right for very long. “You’re only telling me these things to make me feel better.”
“What do I have to gain?”
“A lot of things, I imagine, or you wouldn’t be doing it.”
She frowned. “Gee, thanks for trusting me to be sincere. I helped you with your laundry, and with finding this case and encouraging you to take it on, and with untangling your internalized bullshit, for fuck’s sake.”
“(Ohh-whh…)” I lamented.
((Something is wrong with me. One of many things. I’m pushing her away. Why? Why don’t I want to hear her say nice things? Why don’t I want to believe her? Do I think she’s full of lies? I have no reason to distrust her. I’m afraid. Afraid of something, I don’t know what. Everything. I’m all anxiety and fear and distrust. Paranoid. Like a cop. A depressed cop. Who wants to love but is afraid to say it. That needs to change.))
“I’m… sorry I was dismissive, Judith. You’re trying to make me feel better with the sincerest of intentions, and I’m letting my fucked-up brain get in the way. From now on, I won’t assume you’re motivated by anything other than my well-being.”
She smiled innocently. “Thank you. You are good at apologies.” It was a thoroughly sincere attempt, so I was certainly hoping she would be satisfied.
We returned to Yesenia. “So, Yesenia…” I asked, “Is there anything you’re willing to tell me? About you, about your job?”
She sighed. “Christ, fuck me. Fine. I’ll talk about my job, but nothing biographical.”
“Okay. Um…” On the off-chance I caved to Judith’s advice and decided to give it just one little (teensy-weensy maybe-waybe) try, I wanted to minimize the probability that I would enjoy working in the ‘service industry’—or at least the degree to which I enjoyed it. “Supposing I became a sex worker… hypothetically… how would I go about attracting only women, not men?”
A knowing glance passed back and forth between her and Judith; she explained, “It’s your right to pass on anyone for any reason, whether they want to do things that you don’t want to do, or you don’t find them attractive, or you aren’t in the mood… but if you want to make real money, you’re gonna need to acclimate to dirty-talk and touching skin and sucking dick with anyone who offers you the right money.”
I blanched, though a ‘sick’ part of me was relieved that having sex with men was more or less in the job requirements. “Right. Umm… How much should—would I charge?”
“Hm… Tell me: How much do you think you’re worth?”
“Um… 20… 30 an hour?”
Her laughter carried subtly the air of her experienced authority. “Oh, honey, you are selling yourself way short, and besides, the guild decided on a price floor of 50 bucks an hour for chaste company as well as whatever you decide to charge for any add-ons—BJs, penetration, and the like. You are very pretty, plus your fair skin and red hair will fetch a premium on top of that. Though you are inexperienced, you might begin at 60, 70 an hour—or more.”
((‘Very pretty’? This woman hates my guts and yet she can tell me with a straight face that I’m ‘very pretty’?!)) To my chagrin, I felt my ego swell with pride. “So I could be… the premium pussy.”
“I bet you could get away with a hundred,” said Judith. “You’re responsive if not aggressive, you’re a naturally talented kisser… and you have very nice tits.”
((I do have nice tits… And Yesenia thinks I’m pretty… And I’m a great kisser… And I know how to fuck.))
The worker shrugged. “J knows what sex is worth, Ex-Cop, even after decades of retirement, so I would give her guidance weight. However much you charge initially, with a soft, curvaceous figure like yours, you could someday be as desirable as anyone—if we assume you stick with this long term…”
((I undercharged the man in my daydream. My body is a valuable commodity. I should only lend it to wealthy patrons…)) {and perhaps one of them, ooh, yes, the mysterious one who always wears a mask, who—
{Of course! Who, when I ask him to take it off, growls back that I am the last person he wants to see his face… and if I ever ask again, he’ll cease to love my body… He loves my body every day, 365 times straight, and then… he proposes!
{He proposes to me on the anniversary of the first night he used my body to pleasure himself…! And… and… oh my God, I accept! The wedding is beautiful, 10,000 kowtowing guests pooling their savings to shower us with lavish gifts, wishing us many happy years, arum lilies wall-to-wall, a cake the size of a car… but even as I marry him, even after we’ve said, “I do,” and kissed, he still insists on hiding something shameful behind that damned mask.
{He carries me from the wedding to and over the threshold of my new home—a massive castle with towers and turrets and tapestries, and maids and butlers waiting on us hand-and-foot—where we eat fancy foods and drink fine wine…
{After we’ve had our fill—it’s a light meal, and we have ‘physical activity’ planned right after—he carries me in his strong arms again, this time into our bed chambers, where he rips off my clothes and plunders my flesh’s every treasure with his rough hands and his long and girthy cock…
{But he’s still wearing the mask I loathe more than anything, the thing that keeps us from being truly together. I must see his face.}
I shivered in shameful delight and anticipation.
{As the sweat beads up on our bodies, our muscles grow sore but our passion only intensifies… as does my curiosity. He said I couldn’t ask him to take it off. He didn’t say that I couldn’t just take it off myself—
{I snatch the mask from his face and am shocked by what is underneath. This is not the face of a man.}
I gasped. I was shocked by what I saw, I was stunned by what I discovered, I was scandalized by the lie that had brought us together.
{This… is the face… of a beautiful woman.}
My fantasy concluded satisfyingly, and my attention returned (from the most flawless dream ever to have diverted my attention from the present) to Yesenia mid-lecture. “…been paying attention, you’ll remember, but it bears repeating: if your john has something hanging between their legs…?” She waited for me to…
“Then… um…”
“Almighty Lord, you had your head shoved up the ass of a cloud. Christ fuck me hard for trying to impart wisdom to a fool.”
“I’m sorry,” I whined.
“You pestered me until I acquiesced to sharing my wisdom with you and you’re not listening.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m just so distracted by—”
“Please, just…” She took a couple of seconds to cool off. “If you ever choose to pursue this line of work… please, use a condom. I want you to know that, as of two years ago, SB 233 took away the pigs’ ability to use possession of a condom as evidence of engaging in prostitution, so you can carry as many as you like without fear of being arrested. And if your john does something you don’t want them to, you have the right to tell them to stop, no ifs or ands or buts or whys.”
“And if they… don’t stop?”
“The answer to that question has two parts. The first: what they pay you up-front is yours to keep, whether you rendered all or none of the services requested.”
“That isn’t really what I was—”
“The second part… is a work in progress.”
“I mean if—I needed… (help…)”
“The guild has therapists on call 24/7 to help you through anything unpleasant that may happen to you. There are websites where you can report problem johns. If you want to press charges, California law says you can do so without worrying about being prosecuted, but we’ll hook you up with legal assistance just in case the pigs try anything funny.”
“Um. I know some self-defense moves from work…”
“We all do, thanks to training offered by the guild. I hope you never have to use them. —God, that was the most naïve thing I have ever told someone eyeing this career…”
A soft, droning growl languidly displaced the painful silence, eventually growing just loud enough for the back of my mind to identify it as the purr of a V8, somewhere around 4 liters. Judith’s face betrayed a crippling indecision as to whether she should say something to follow-up and what it should be—but the lull in conversation was no comfort to me at all.
I half-suspect Yesenia was not expecting a reply, because she was silent for a while—until the droning sound was close enough that I’d have recognized the license plate had my eyes been pointed its way—before she grumbled, “Ah, a shithead cometh. One more helpful piece of wisdom, sister: wealthy types prefer to employ sugar babies, trophy wives, and expensive escorts. Rich folk don’t drive down our street. So when they come to see the most despised and vulnerable…” She put extra weight on ‘vulnerable’ and threw in a pause for dramatic effect. “…of sex workers for something illegal, you gotta ask yourself, ‘what kind of illegal acts do they intend to commit with a body no-one’s gonna miss?’”
I nodded. “I catch your drift. But I think I would go the escort route if possible, in which case I wouldn’t need to avoid the wealthy ones.”
I turned away from her just in time to witness the flawless dark blue Mercedes Benz S580 coming to a luxurious stop alongside us, its oversized engine now very audible. The midnight-tinted passenger window rolled down and a sophisticated voice that defied the concepts of gender and dialect commanded, “Redhead.”
I froze. ((Are they… soliciting… me?)) I glanced at Yesenia for advice but received only a blank stare. Judith was too shocked to provide me with wisdom or encouragement. Deprived of guidance from my elders, I pictured a man with a deep wallet hoping for a moment of companionship… and stepped up to the plate.
I approached the Mercedes—hardly noticing the previously flush door handle popping out as I came within arm’s reach—and asked so innocently, so timidly, so naïvely, “So—(umh)—do you— Are you looking for something special tonight?”
“Do you render services to women?” I couldn’t see any of their face north of their razor-sharp jaw.
I tried to be confident. I reminded myself that I was worth money, that I was pretty, and curvaceous, and had nice tits… so they should be intimidated by me. “If—if you’re willing to pay extra.”
“I am willing to pay for quality. What are your rates?” I ducked down to get a better look at their face. It was a very memorable face—angular and authoritative, a suitable match for the voice. Indeed, it was so memorable that her name and vocation immediately popped into my head:
Captain Diane Somers,
SVPD,
Vice Squad.