The Door Is Always Open.

It's better for business that way.

Twelve hours. Twenty-two men. The others wear lingerie. This one—she's a nurse, a bunny, a football player, a nun. She walks in with determination. She walks out with cash.

"No one's here who doesn't want to be. We see the sign in the window. We ask for the job."

They call it tranquis right before dawn. A few vatos sleep sprawled in doorways. Their trousers are damp. Watch your step. The sewer's backed up again. A bus plows through a puddle and splashes the sidewalk. The sign says ABIERTO. The door is always open. It's better for business that way.

One calls her boyfriend to come pick her up. One hails a cab. One walks to the corner with a worried look on her face. The kids will be up soon, and her mom has already left for work.

"We meet a lot of men. A few are interesting. None worth taking home."

Pop. Pop. Pop. One on the sidewalk. One in the doorway. One behind the desk.

Carlos Salazar. Diego Montemayor. Platón Sanchez. Reforma. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time.

The nurse, the bunny, the football player, the nun—she saw five kilos of cocaine in a hotel room last week.

The boss gets blown away tonight.

Qué pedo. Neta.

BACK.

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