"¡Ay, papi!"

Do the math.

"Ay, papi... qué calor... qué calor tiene tu verga..."

The more vulgar she becomes, the more guys think she really means it.

ABIERTO. There are ten in three blocks. SE SOLICITAN CHICAS. A heart makes it emphatic. The door is open. It's better for business that way.

A bus rumbles by. Stench rises from the sewer. A stranger grunts in the room on the right. His bulging belly pummels the girl on the mattress. Sweat drips on her face. Nobody cares.

Here, everyone gets what they pay for. That ought to be a sign on the wall right under PRESERVATIVO OBLIGATORIO and NO FUMAR.

Cariño, she purrs, looking up from her phone as you step in off the street. Don't take it seriously no matter how much you like the way it sounds. The others flash smiles that vanish the moment you pick someone else. Smiles are disposable around here. They only mean one thing.

Vice doesn't deliver hope, just cash. "A few of those orgasms are real," the chicas confess. They go home with the rent. School clothes for the kids. Medicines for mom. A payment on a dinette set from Elizondo or Elektra. Everybody gets their cut. Everybody shrugs.

The regulars know the chicas on a first name basis, the names the chicas tell them anyway. Like the chicas they're there for what they can't get anywhere else. It's good for as long as it lasts. Several blocks at least.

"Ay, papi... qué rico se siente tu verga... dame tu leche..."

The chicas arrive with bills to pay and sick kids on their minds. They call this jale a trampolín. Suddenly, things are within reach. They know what it's like to stand next to a tortilla machine for twelve hours and make 250 pesos or sell tacos a vapor in the sun. Here, they can make that in twenty minutes—or less. Do the math. It's like finding a winning lottery ticket. It's a cajero automático that never says no. Sometimes, they even hit the jackpot.

The guys who walk in the door aren't monsters or creeps. Most aren't anyway. Here comes the quincena. Cash in hand they arrive on foot or by cab. Sometimes they drive, although more than one has returned to find his car disappearing out of sight behind a tow truck because he was careless in selecting a parking spot or feeding the meter the correct amount.

Something's trending on this block. It's not by chance. The owner. The manager. The bouncer. Each gets a bullet in the head. Leaves a nice puddle to clean up. The mop and the bucket are at the end of the hall. "Qué le vaya bien señor." It's a different kind of kink. The mistake is thinking it's a last resort. Sometimes, it needs to be the first thing you do.

They call it tranquis right before dawn. Time to go home. You can't wash the stain out. Don't even bother to try. The witness swears she didn't see a thing. The accomplice is already planning the next move.

"Ay, papi... dame esa rica paleta que trais..."

"Deal's over," she says. "It's time to say goodbye."

Somebody's going around town blowing away the ones who run los masajes. Don't ask who. Don't ask why. Just be glad somebody's fucking doing it.

-30-

BACK.

It hurts. It costs. La máquina no da cambio. MORE.