Treatment.

80,000 words. Literary fiction. Available.

Trato de Novios: an Autopsy of Desire.

Take a scalpel to the street.

The sign. ABIERTO. No name on the wall. SE SOLICITAN CHICAS. Sharpie on cardboard. It's legal here. Out in the open. Grandfathered in. Everybody gets a cut. City. Cops. Organized crime. She goes home tired with cash at the bottom of her purse. He walks out smirking with a bulge that lasts two blocks.

You finish quick. Tell her goodbye. Watch your step on the way out. The owner. The boss. The bouncer. Each takes a bullet to the head. Point blank range. Just like Arteaga last week. Just like Montemayor the week before.

The one who pulls the trigger? Tells you where to park and not get towed. Tells you who sells the best lechero in town. The best gringas and piratas. Tells you where to find ceviche worth dying for. Never says why. Just shows how.

Trato de Novios means servicio completo. It's not a story; it's a stain you can't wash out. What you get is what you pay for. The voices. The rooms. The routine. Boredom. Revulsion. Cash makes it all better. Tell them what they want to hear. Tell yourself whatever it takes. Bodies in motion. Traffic stopped at the light. Vacant stares. Shit-eating grins. You want plot; you get ledger. Who. How many. What time they went back. The percentage. The take home.

Around here, things get handed down. Some have enough. Most have next to nothing. Shortcut? It's the only thing in her life that's ever really paid off. Behind every peso that changes hands, one rule applies. "Do it to her. That's what she's there for." Survival is the one thing folks have to be proud of. The lockers are in back. You can start today.

Don't look for an arc. There's a fifteen-peso bus ride. A walk in the heat. Tacos from the stand on the corner. Side streets. The main drag. Fat man on a stool beside an open door. A broken fan. A shower that sometimes works. A switch that shocks you if you touch it wrong. You can scroll when there's nothing else to do. Be sure to stand when a stranger enters. This one stinks. That one wants more than what he pays for. The last one said "you're special." A chorus of "¡Ay, papi!" up and down the hall. Gifts from the regulars. What it feels like to know the bills are paid this month. What it feels like to come home with chips and candy and hear a child squeal with delight. Redemption is a wad of cash. Resolution, a cab ride home. Two just walked in. Smile. Make eye contact. It's going to be a good afternoon.

Scene from a documentary. Shove a camera in the faces of the men who walk out. "Sir... sir... would you tell us about your experience today." Sixty seconds later. Lingerie. Platform heels. Chicas. Curbside. Stopping traffic. Shouting at the crew. "¡Váyanse a la verga! It's bad for business!" The owner in the shadows, smoking, smiling.

The same camera wanders through halls and rooms. Looks over shoulders. Takes stock. Collects receipts. What it shows it shows. The floor plan. The business model. Not what it means. Just what it's like.

A murder spree. That's the angle. The killer calls it limpia. Talks about street tacos. Tepache. NAFTA. The hits are precise. Functional. The reader gets a map, an instruction manual. Between puddles of blood and spattered cranium, the chicas, the tipos, the killer all confront the reader directly, but the star of the show is the place and what it permits, the arrangement that outlasts everyone. Dust. Heat. Peeling paint. Stains on the sheets. Shame. Pride. Two sides to every transaction. What's at stake? On the page? Nothing. For the reader? Testimony has a price. Witnesses have to live with what they see. Now it's your turn.

Every year another generation turns eighteen or looks it, at least. Don't let the braces fool you. This isn't tolerance. It's permission. Encouragement. Licensed with health checks. There's been a brothel on this corner for forty years. Another across the street. Two more down the block. It's part of the scenery that everyone takes for granted. No one opts out. Some find a way to cash in. Who do you want to be today? The woman on the bed or the man on top of her.

Pásele, caballero. Pásele. Aquí están las chicas.

You can put the scalpel down now. It's done its job.

BACK.

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