Jack Carlson climbed the subway steps to the street. Dark glasses hid his eyes. He left his wallet and the watch Diana bought him for his birthday at home. Every few steps, he patted his front pocket where he had $400. He looked away from the man with a beard of dirt who sat on the curb and pissed. Sirens called through the dusk.

Jaggs told him the hotel's address over the phone. “You just get off at dah Mon'gomery stop, an' it's 5 block up dah street. My man'll meet you.”

R.C. heaved his tremendous frame from the ripped vinyl chair that sat near the Madera Hotel's lobby window. In a better time, this chair had a twin with a table between them where a vase of fresh flowers sat.

R.C. pushed himself through the doorway and met Jack under the skeletal frame of an awning. “You Dick?”

“Yeah,” Jack said.

“You got it?”

“Yeah.” Jack tapped his pocket again.

“Ya better.” R.C. led Jack into a narrow stairwell. Jack wiped his brow and the back of his neck. Black and blue spray paint marked the walls. The stale air got hotter with each step up.

“Shit,” Jack said as they stepped from the stairwell into a dim hallway.

“What?” R.C. turned on him.

“Dog shit.” Jack pointed to a large pile against the wall across from the stairwell's door. A cloud of ecstatic flies bounced around it.

“Ain' no dogs in the buildin',” R.C. said.

Jack swallowed thick spit and held his stomach.

They stopped in front of a room with a six on it. Screw holes showed where other numbers used to be.

“You gotta half hour with her. Time starts when you shut the door. Time ends when you open it. $400 get you thirty like Jaggs tol' you. Come out late, it fitty a minute. Got it?” R.C. scowled.

“Got it.” Jack patted his front pocket.

“Gotta rubbah?”

“Huh?”

“Condoms, faggot.”

“Oh…yeah.”

“Jaggs don't need you scummin' up the bitches, hear?”

Jack nodded.

“We'll be watchin' the door and the winnow.”

Jack nodded again.

R.C. lumbered down the hall and around the corner.

Jack stood in front of the door in the jaundiced glow of the hall and took a deep breath. What brings a married guy with a daughter here?

He's a pig and a pervert; that's the simple answer. After years of living life through alcohol's shield, Jack graduated from AA a year ago, and quickly changed addictions. Porn websites progressed into daily trips to adult bookstores and quarter video booths. His taste went well beyond what Diana accommodated, and he needed to look elsewhere.

“I'd have an affair too, if I wouldn't get caught,” he confessed to Derek, who was ‘doing the chick from accounting.'

“Whyn't you get a girl?”

“I just said I'm afraid of getting caught.”

“No,” Derek said, “Hire one.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. What could go wrong? It's a professional—no harm no foul. It's not that far of a leap from the phone sex that maxed out his secret credit card.

“I can set this up.” Derek slid Jack a pager number. Jack called on a disposable cell phone and made an appointment.

Working up his nerve, Jack licked his lips and cursed himself for having to take a leak now of all times. He thought of what would happen in there to stiffen himself and kill the urge to pee. He knocked on the door.

Passion's eyes opened at the sound of the knock, and she bolted up on the bed. Jaggs warned her about sleeping between jobs. She'd seen the gash his ring made just below Divinity's eye when she didn't wake for a job.

Passion, who yesterday was Crimson, checked herself in the mirror and straightened her pink and black negligee. She froofed her hair with her fingers. Her pumps cramped her calves and feet, but they'd be kicked off soon, unless he was into that kind of thing. “Just a minute,” she said in the stalled, breathy way that Jaggs taught her.

Jaggs would have told her something about being asked to wait a minute.

She reached for the doorknob, and thought of the modeling career she had applied for…

Passion and a friend of hers cut school every third Thursday and went to the mall. Sometimes Tina and Tracy joined them, but Sarah, who was never invited, said she was going to rat them out to the office. Tina and Tracy hadn't come since.

Before the mall opened, Passion and Cindy killed time with a frosted cinnamon roll and a Jamba Juice. They sat at the green plastic tables in front of Jamba Juice with their sunglasses on to hide their age. They dressed “older” on Thursdays, which meant short shorts and low-cut tops.

“Can you believe what a bitch Mrs. Lamar is?” Cindy said, “She totally ripped up my essay just because it was late and in pencil. My mom's calling the school.”

“Oh I know. She's just all pissed cause she never gets laid.” The girls laughed.

Passion's mom wouldn't call the school. Passion had a hard time keeping her mom's attention long enough to fill out the Emergency Contact Papers that the office kept requesting. Passion filled them out and signed them herself. Her mom moped around the house with a cigarette dangling from her lip when she was most active and lay in bed the rest of the time.

Her dad came home sometimes.

The mall was Passion's safe place. Passion and Cindy never tired of seeing what was new in The Limited Too and Afterthoughts. Their babysitting money kept them shy of Macy's and Nordstroms, but girls could dream. The shoe department of both stores was heaven.

“This would be good for you,” Passion said, holding up a high-heeled sandal with a spaghetti sling.

“What size is it?”

“9 ½ .”

“Why do they always put shoes for Bigfoot out for display?” Cindy clicked her tongue and squished her right eye shut. She tried it on anyway.

“Can I help you?” Too much gel stiffened the salesman's hair. He had said the magic words; the ones that made the girls disappear.

“Just looking thanks.” And they were gone.

After lunch, Cindy and Passion stood by a display window and drooled over the clothes. The headless mannequin sported a belly shirt with a hot looking pair of Daisy Duke shorts. “Those are still cool?” Cindy said.

“I still like ‘em. You don't think they're cute?” Passion sipped Diet Coke from a McDonald's cup.

“Whatever. Not like we can buy ‘em anyways.”

“Oh I know,” Passion said. Neither of these girls would take a job slapping patties. The zits wouldn't be worth it. Nordstrom's and Macy's told them to come back when they were 18, and the smaller stores in the mall didn't hire often.

By 2:30, the rest of the high school kids filled the mall. Passion and Cindy grabbed a bench in front of Waldenbooks and watched the boys.

“Planter,” Cindy said, their code for dork. Passion scanned the crowd and saw a greasy-haired kid with thick glasses and constellations of zits on his face. The girls giggled.

“Oh yeah!” Passion said. Hardly a code, and the girls sat hypnotized as ‘their type' walked by. Tall and bulky, the boy wore a football T-shirt from the rival school. His biceps strained his shirtsleeves.

“His arms are thick as my Diet Coke,” Passion said, shaking the cup to hear the ice rattle.

“Super sized,” Cindy said.

“Thank you.” The girls high fived each other.

“How are you ladies today?” The voice from behind startled them and shattered their illusion of invisibility. An older man, maybe in his 20s, circled around to the front of them. He wore a suit.

“Fine,” they said.

“You enjoying the mall?”

They nodded and avoided his eyes. “I'm Jeff.” He held out his hand to shake theirs. A year and a half later, as she readied herself to open up the hotel room door and let in yet another customer, Passion remembered that handshake as one of her biggest mistakes. Cindy hadn't shaken hands.

“I'm in the mall looking for women that might want to make a little money.”

“We're not interested,” Cindy said.

Jeff laughed. “C'mon just give me a chance. I get paid by how many people I talk to.”

Passion looked at him, crossing her arms at the wrist and resting them on her crossed knees. Cindy kicked her leg.

“I'm a talent scout. I go to malls and just…wherever to look for people with the talent that my clients are looking for.” Jeff reached into his coat pocket and pulled out some business cards.

Passion took a card. Cindy watched the boys pass.

“Anyway, I saw you two sitting here, and I gotta tell you, you have what it would take.”

“We have a talent for sitting on our asses?” Cindy said, cocking an eyebrow and glaring at him.

Jeff laughed, rocking back on his heels. “No, well, I guess maybe you do. You're a quick one.”

Cindy faked a laugh, but Passion smiled.

“No, one of my clients is looking for models. You two have the look.”

“Models are supposed to be tall,” Cindy said. Passion backhanded her arm.

Jeff laughed again. “Man, you're a live one, huh? But yeah, most people do think that about models. I'm not talking about those bulimic ones that march up and down the runway.” Jeff sucked in his cheeks and stood up straight. “I don't book that kind of model. Most of them just sleep with designers to get their jobs.”

“Most designers are gay,” Cindy said.

“Cindy.” Passion gave the best ‘shut up' look she knew.

“We gotta go, Passion.” Except Cindy used Passion's long-ignored real name.

“We don't,” Passion said, looking at Jeff.

“Well, I don't mean to keep you girls…”

“No, no, no. We're cool.”

“This isn't going to take much more of your time. The kind of modeling I'm talking about is for magazines. Close ups on faces to show make up. Clothes—that sort of thing. Possibly some catalog work, or maybe some of the ads for the Sunday newspaper.” He talked about the free clothes that would be part of the package.

“Sounds good.”

Cindy crossed her arms tight enough to hurt her ribs.

“Great. We have auditions coming up soon. An audition isn't a guarantee, just so you know.”

Passion nodded.

“I'll need your name.”

Passion filled out her information on a clipboard that Jeff pulled from a beat up briefcase. “I gotta get a new one of these,” he said with a smile.

Passion tittered.

“Oh, and if you could just put either your measurements or your clothing size in the margin by your name. I'm still working out the kinks in this form. I'm new at this part of the job. We'll need that to select a wardrobe. Your height and weight too.”

“My weight?” Passion looked up from the clipboard.

“We just need an approximation.”

“Okay.” Small price to pay for a kick-ass job, she thought.

Jeff gave her the time and place for the audition. Passion smiled and told Jeff she looked forward to it. He slid the clipboard back into his briefcase and left.

“You didn't even ask what the pay was,” Cindy said.

“Models make bank.” Passion saw herself out of her parents' house and into a two-bedroom condo in a gated community. She'd have a convertible BMW and a white Persian cat named Michelle.

Two days before the audition, Jeff surprised her with a phone call. He said he'd send a car to get her on Saturday. “Could you be ready by 10:00?”

“Absolutely.”

Passion stood on her front porch, holding an overnight bag. Her mom napped on the couch and didn't even question the birthday party that Passion was going to. “They're picking me up and they'll drop me off later.”

“That's fine. Have a good time, honey.” Her mother turned to face the backrest of the couch.

A white limousine pulled into Passion's driveway a little after 10. What a story she'd have for them all Monday at school.

The car took her to the downtown Fairmont Hotel. On a New Year's Eve when she was young, Passion remembered driving by this hotel in the early evening and seeing what she thought were movie stars milling about the front door. Now a limousine door opened for her to make her entrance.

Passion couldn't stop staring at the marble front desk. She wanted to touch it. “This way, please,” the driver said.

He led her to a banquet hall filled with round tables set with sparkling silverware. Until now, Passion thought that her cousin Leticia's wedding reception had the most beautiful dining room in history. “Is this the right room?”

“Yeah. I need to take you down to the intro first though,” the driver said, “This way.”

Passion joined a line of girls at a table where 2 women sat and flipped through pages on a clipboard. When it was her turn, Passion gave her name, and her heart pounded as the woman flipped through and ran her finger down the page. “Here you are,” she said. She handed Passion a sheet of paper with a large 284 on it. “Don't lose that. You'll need it throughout the audition. Follow the other girls through the double doors behind me. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Passion sat near the front of the room. After the seats filled, a man took his spot behind a podium. “Good morning, ladies, and thank you for coming out this morning.” His accent reminded Passion of Hugh Grant. “My name is Thad Buchanan, and I am a talent agent. I'm one of three judges that will be evaluating you throughout the audition.”

Thad explained how the audition worked. They would all have the next sixty minutes to meet with a wardrobe consultant and choose 4 outfits that would range from formal to casual. The girls would model the outfits. “You'll be evaluated on poise, confidence, and what we call photo-friendliness.” Three judges would score the girls, and the 20 girls with the highest scores at noon would move on to what Thad referred to as, “the next level.” He smiled and wished them good luck.

Jennifer met with Passion, and the two put together four outfits. “I used to do what you're here to try out for,” Jennifer said.

“Modeling?”

Jennifer broke eye contact. “Yeah, honey.”

“I worked my way up to this though. It's not a bad job, what I do. You just keep your mouth shut and do it.”

“You're still pretty. You don't like modeling anymore?” Passion said.

“I got old. It got old. I made the move to this.”

Passion modeled her 4 outfits, walking in front of the judges in the spotlight. She tried to move like Jennifer Lopez on the red carpet, hoping for a smidgen of that confidence. She held the paper with her number on it in plain view.

At the end, Thad read the winners' contestant numbers. Passion gasped and put her hand to her mouth when he said, “284.” Screams, tears, and mascara smears filled the room.

In the wardrobe room, a woman handed each of the lucky 20 an envelope with their competition number on it. The envelope had a card key to a room in the hotel. “I probably should call my mom,” the girl in front of Passion said.

“You can call her once you get to your room.”

Passion took her envelope and floated to the elevator. A life of glamour started now. She put her hand on the golden handrail in the elevator and knew nice things would surround her the rest of her life.

Her suite had a small refrigerator and a king-sized bed with overstuffed pillows. The bathroom had a small TV, a telephone, and an enormous tub. A thick, white bathrobe hung in the closet outside the bathroom door. All this and a breathtaking view of the downtown skyline.

A full wine glass sat on the bedside table. A note tucked under the base of the stem said, “Congratulations and welcome to a wonderful career. (It's grape juice. We know you're underage.) Have a wonderful night! We will contact you shortly.”

Passion drank the grape juice and spread out on the gigantic mattress. She'd never felt such a comfortable bed. She thought about calling home. “I feel too good for that right now,” she thought. “I'll call later.”

She rolled over on her side and tucked her hand under the pillow. There was something there—something thin and plastic. Pulling it out and looking at it, the breath left her body. The room clouded, but she still felt beautiful. She loved the feeling of the Polaroid picture between her fingers. The picture showed a large black man with a pistol held at an angle in front of his chest. A tinge of panic bounced in Passion's mind as she realized that the picture was taken in front of her house. “I don't like this,” she said, “But I feel all right.”

The man from the picture stood in her room by the foot of the bed. She looked at the picture. No, he hadn't stepped out of it because he was still in there. She giggled.

“I see you drank the juice,” he said, “That's good. How you feelin'.”

“Great.” She loved the sound of his voice, and she wanted to hug him.

Jaggs watched Passion writhe around on the plush comforter. Jaggs knew talent, and Passion looked promising.

“Glad to hear it. You like the juice?”

“Uh-huh?”

“And you found the picture.”

“Yeah.” Her words rode wisps of breath.

“You got a nice house, and from what I seen, a nice family. But family's can break, you know what I'm saying?”

Passion giggled.

“Yeah, well, you can keep yours safe and make lots o' money.”

“Money?” Passion remembered now—modeling.

“Yeah. I brought a guy along to keep you company.” Jaggs motioned to someone that stood by the door. “This is a customer. You don't know ‘em as nothin' else, you never call ‘em nothin' else.”

“Customer?”

A reservoir of sweat darkened the man's blue business shirt from his armpits to his pecks. His glasses slipped down his nose. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. “She looks kinda…Kind of…young.”

“She 18,” Jaggs said, “Ain't you honey?”

“18?”

“Tol' you. Didn't I tell ya? Now this one is $400 for 30.”

“You said 200.”

“The $200 one ain't available. You got this for 4, or you got nothing.”

The balding man peeled his shirt off and rolled onto the bed with Passion. “Planter,” she thought, but the feel of their bodies together was too interesting to concentrate through. She saw light flashes and heard clicks and the small purr of a motor as the man got what he paid for.

Passion woke in the bed alone. She found a 50-dollar bill on the nightstand. By the money, she found a Polaroid picture. In this picture, a fat man straddled her naked body and she wore the worst grin of her life.

She remembered Old Spice, sweat, and body hair. She needed a shower, but the rush from her stomach overtook her. She grabbed for the ice bucket and emptied her guts in a purple stream of wretched realization.

She sat on the side of the bed with her head in her hands. The sickness returned, but she bolted for the bathroom this time. After it passed, she spent some time curled on the floor in front of the toilet with her face pressed to the cool floor.

When she could stand, she found a note taped to the door. “The money is yours. The picture is ours, don't take it, or the rest of them will end up in a letter to your mom. To keep your family breathing, be at work tomorrow night. Jaggs.” He gave an address, a hotel name, and a room number.

No matter how hard she pressed her fingers to her temples, the truth stayed. She grabbed toilet paper and dabbed at her cheeks. Her eyes stung. On the way out the door, she grabbed the note. “The police might want to see this,” she thought.

A giant of a man in a long leather coat met her in the hall. “You won't need that,” he said. He took the note from her and tore it, giving her the address back. “We'll see you tomorrow, right?” He blocked her path.

Nodding, Passion tried to swallow, but the spit formed a cork at the top of her throat. Hot tears welled, and the air thickened. He let her pass.

She came back the next night, and the next night, and the next. The hotels she worked out of were never as nice, and the money on the dresser in the morning was never as much. Passion stopped noticing the customers that rotated through.

Damn her family for believing she spent so many school nights with Cindy. Damn her teachers for never calling home no matter how many times she fell asleep in class. “Damn this bastard that just knocked on the door for keeping this going. That's right, Jaggs, I called him a bastard. You can't have my thoughts.”

Passion breathed deep and reached for the knob. She thought of a carnival that her parents took her to when she was small enough to see the magic. She smelled popcorn and felt the pink stickiness of cotton candy as she reached out her hand. The door opened toward her, and little Passion stepped onto the Ferris wheel that could take her high enough to be safe while her body did the job.

More of the hall and the customer showed. Passion felt the jerky rise of the Ferris wheel, but down here on the ground, she put on her minx smile and leaned her back against the doorframe. She let the customer look at her but hid her face under her hair. She moved like heated oil, brushing her hair from her face with one hand and cupping the other over her breast. From the top of the Ferris wheel, you could see the whole town.

She turned to make eye contact. The Ferris wheel jerked with the unthinkable snapping of bolts. The side support came loose. Screams filled the summer air. Passion saw the tar-covered cement rising to meet her. She saw people turn into bodies as they hit before her.

“Daddy?”

The blackness clouded Jack's sight for a second, and he blinked to see if he really saw Janelle, his 17-year old baby girl, posing for him like a cat in heat against the doorframe. Whatever had been going on in his crotch before the door opened was over—maybe forever.

“Daddy?” She grabbed him in a hug. He took the hug with his arms stuck at his side and his mouth open. Through the open door over the head of his girl, he saw the light switch for the bathroom with a sticker reminding guests to save energy. Janelle's cheap perfume scratched at his sinuses.

Sobbing, Janelle shook against him. “Did you come for me, daddy?”

Jack stroked his daughter's hair and thought of a little girl that used to follow him around the house and the yard, bugging him until he needed a beer.

“Did you come for me?”

“Yes,” he said, “Let's go home.” He wanted to cover her up.

The hug broke, and Janelle slipped her hand into his. She wiped the tears from her eyes. The two walked the hall toward the door where the shit sickened the air.

“Hold up, motherfucker.”

Jack turned his head and saw a young black man in an oversized winter coat coming at them down the hallway.

“My 4 hunnerd! Where the fuck you going, and where's my 4 hunnerd?”

“This is my daughter,” Jack said.

Jaggs's step fell off beat for a second. “Your daughter? You a sick man, bro. It's all good though. Four hunnerd gets you safe out the door.” Jaggs reached out his hand for the money. His bracelet gleamed in the hall's sour light.

Doors opened all at once. Men in black jackets with guns drawn bolted in from everywhere. “Vice, get down on the ground,” someone yelled. R.C. led the charge.

Jaggs was a stick laying flat in the hall beneath his red, down-filled ski jacket. A cop straddled him, read him his rights, and cuffed him. “Police brutality,” Jaggs said.

Jack and Janelle lay on the ground too. The worn down carpet itched at Jack's face as he wondered if his marriage and family could recover. 

“Ain't no crime here,” R.C. said, “Man just came to get his daughter.”

Officers helped Jack and Janelle to their feet. They took them into a room, and a plain-clothed detective took a statement from them.  “Don't cut anymore school,” he said to Janelle as the two got up to leave.

On the street, Janelle pressed tight against her father, and he scanned their surroundings as they walked back to the subway.

“Daddy, I'm sorry.”

“Me too.” He held her tighter.

At the Subway's entrance, a man in a dark ski cap stepped from the night. “Got some change?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. He reached into his front pocket, took out the $400, and slid it into the man's hand.