As amused as Heat was by Rook’s gaffe, she didn’t have much better luck. Sure, Nikki was better at spotting the working girls, having worked vice herself, but they smelled cop on her and either closed up or just ran as soon as she approached. “This could take forever,” said Rook.
“It’s too early in the day for most of them to be out; we’ll do better as we get more to talk to.” That was fine to say, but Nikki was still striking out at noon when the sidewalks started filling in front of the hot sheet motels.
They ducked into a coffee shop to warm up and Rook continued his skepticism about the plan. “All they do is run. And you don’t have any authority to stop them.”
“Thank you for defining my newly impotent status,” she said.
“I’ve got the solution,” said Rook. “It’s ingenious.”
“This worries me.”
“One word: Fishnets.” As she began to wag no, he lowered his voice and pressed on. “You always talk about how you worked undercover in vice, right? Walk the walk. Put your stuff on the street. . . . Unless you have a better plan.”
Nikki considered it awhile and said, “I suppose there’s a cheesy clothing store around here somewhere.”
“There ya go,” he said way too loudly. “You’ll make a great hooker.” Nikki didn’t have to turn to know the whole coffee shop was staring at her.
Rook rented a room for the afternoon at the Four Diamonds, which he observed was the only way that number of diamonds would ever be attributed to that establishment. It smelled of strong disinfectant and boasted unlimited ice, no doubt to go along with the unlimited nicotine burns dappling the bathroom counter and the nightstand. Nikki changed into her new clothes, and while she slathered on the makeup she had chosen, Rook called from the bedroom, “I feel like we’re in Pretty Woman. I’d take you right now in the bubble bath except the cockroaches are still using it.”
“What do you think?” asked Heat. She stepped out of the bathroom and posed, showing off her heavy makeup, hoop earrings, leopard-print Uggs knockoffs, ripped tights, and a lime green plastic raincoat.
Rook appraised her from his seat on the corner of the bed and said, “So, this is what your life has come to?”
* * *
Out on the sidewalk Nikki kept her distance from the other working girls up the block, giving them time to get used to her. Some of the women were territorial, seeing Nikki as an income threat, and gave her a hard time or moved along, wary of the undercover cop vibe that still came through the mascara and false lashes. Most were cordial, though. Introducing themselves, asking how she was getting by. Then, when she had their confidence, Nikki said she was looking for a lost BFF she was worried sick about. Out came the picture, which was studied and passed around, but got no response.
The hardest part was fending off the johns. Just telling them as they drove by—some whistling or patting the roof of their cars with open palms—that she wasn’t interested didn’t suffice. A few times she had to duck into the lobby of the Four Diamonds, and that took care of it. Once, though, a persistent guy, an intense construction worker who said he was off shift and had a big drive to Long Island, double-parked his pickup and followed her into the lobby. There, Rook appeared, announcing congratulations, that he was on the pilot of a new reality show, To Catch a John. Problem solved.
Nikki was standing on a corner with a few of the girls when her phone buzzed. It was Deputy Commissioner Yarborough. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, Phyllis, never a bad time for you.” Nikki was glad this wasn’t Skype.
“Just wanted to let you know I had them run Sergio Torres through the database. Sorry, but no hits beyond what appears on his rap sheet.”
“Oh. Well, thanks for trying.” It was hard to mask her disappointment.