They were men. All but one of the workers were male.
“Gay lines?” Myron asked.
Lucy shook her head, smiling. “Very few gay calls come in. Maybe one in a hundred.”
“But… these are men.”
Myron Bolitar, the essence of keen observation.
He heard a man in a gruff, truck-driver voice say, “Yeah, big man, slide it all the way in. That’s it. Oh, yeah, that feels good.”
Lucy smiled at the man. The man rolled his eyes and continued, “Don’t stop, Stallion. Ride me.”
Esperanza, Myron was glad to see, looked equally confused. “What’s going on, Lucy?” she asked.
“It’s the times,” Lucy said. “In this economy men are a cheaper source of labor. Most of the girls are on the streets. These are brothers, cousins, street kids.”
“But their voices-”
“They use a voice changer. Sharper Image sells them, but I get them cheaper in the Village. You can make little girls sound like Barry White, or vice versa. These guys can become a husky woman, a teenage virgin, a little girl- whatever the line calls for.”
Myron was stunned. “Do the customers know this?”
“Of course not.” She turned to Esperanza. “Dumb. But he is kinda cute.”
Myron Bolitar, Lesbian Fantasy Man.
The room looked like any telemarketing office. The phones were high-tech. Dozens of lines lit up, each marked for what role was to be played. Horny Housewife. Dominatrix. Cross-dressers. Busty Babes. Even Foot Fetish. Each employee also had another phone for Visa and MasterCard verification.
“The lines with a C next to them got to be kept clean,” Lucy explained. “We also have another hundred or so people working phones from their homes. Most of those are women.”
“Horny housewives?”
“Some of them. Most are just plain housewives. Anyway, that’s why I found the ad strange. A 900 line shouldn’t have a topless girl.”
They left the room and walked back down to the studio. Myron almost tripped over a wino who chose the moment Myron was stepping over him to stand up.
“Is ABC one of the companies upstairs?” Myron asked.
“Yeah.”
“And we know Gary Grady called you yesterday. Can you tell us why?”
“Who?”
“Gary Grady.”
Lucy shook her head. “Don’t know him.”
“How about Jerry?”
“Oh yeah, him.” She gave a small laugh. “I figured that wasn’t his real name. He was always real secretive.”
“So what did he want?”
She nodded as though something had just occurred to her. “I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“He was asking me about a photograph I’d taken a couple years back.”
“This one?” Myron asked, pointing to Kathy’s picture again.
“Yeah. One of his girls.”
Myron and Esperanza exchanged a glance. “You mean there were others?”
“Few. Half dozen, maybe more.”
Myron felt the rage consume again. “Underage girls?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
“You didn’t ask?” Myron asked.
“Do I look like a cop? Look, man, if you’re here to hassle me-”
“He’s not,” Esperanza said. “You can trust him.”
“The fuck I can, Poca. He comes busting in here with a fucking gun, scares the piss out of my model.”
“We need your help,” Esperanza said. “
“I don’t want to hurt you, Lucy,” Myron said. “I’m just interested in the girl in the picture.”
Lucy hesitated. “All right,” she said at last. “But back off.”
Myron gave a quick nod of agreement. “Jerry brought this girl to you?”
“Yeah, when I had my other studio a couple blocks away. Like I said, he brought in a few girls over the years. He wanted their photos for all kinds of stuff. Porno mags, smut film stills, that kind of thing. Most were a cut or two above the average hosebag who comes through the door. But he usually keeps the photos under wraps until they’re a little older. Legal age, I guess.”
The rage again. Myron’s hands tightened into fists. “So Jerry asked you about this picture yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he want to know?”
“If I sold any copies recently.”
“Have you?”
Pause. “Yeah. Couple months ago.”
“Who bought them?”
“You think I keep records?”
“A he or a she?”
“A he.”
“Do you remember what he looks like?”
She took out a cigarette, lit it, took a deep puff. “I’m not real good with faces.”
“Anything, Lucy,” Esperanza added. “Young, old, anything you can remember.”
Another puff. Then: “Old. Not ancient, but not a young guy. Might have been my father’s age. And he knew what he was doing.” She looked at Myron. “Not like you. Bernie Worley. Jesus.”
Myron pressed on. “What do you mean, he knew what he was doing?”
“The man paid me top dollar under one condition: I hand over every photo and negative in front of him right now. Smart. He wanted to make sure I didn’t have time to make any extra copies or an extra set of negatives.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Sixty-five hundred altogether. In cash. Five grand for the photos and negatives. Plus another grand for Jerry’s phone number. Said he wanted to get in touch with the girl personally. Then he gave me another five hundred if I didn’t say anything to Jerry.”
In the background there was yet another bloodcurdling scream. It went ignored. “Would you know the man if you saw him again?” Myron asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t picture him now, but if we met up face to face… who knows?” There was a pounding noise from the darkroom. “Mind if I let Hector out now?”
“We were just leaving,” Myron said. He handed her a card. “If you remember anything else-”
“Yeah, I’ll call.” She looked over to Esperanza. “Don’t be a stranger, Poca.”
Esperanza nodded but said nothing. They were quiet the entire way down. When they stepped into the hot air, surrounded by the night street, she said, “Didn’t mean to shock you in there.”
“Not my business,” he said. “I was a little surprised, that’s all.”
“Lucy is a lesbian. I experimented with it a little. Long time ago.”
“You don’t have to explain,” he said. But he was glad she told him. Myron had no secrets from Esperanza. He didn’t like thinking she had some from him.
They were about to head back to the car when Myron felt the muzzle of a gun against his ribs.
A voice said, “Stay cool, Myron.”
It was the man with the fedora hat from the garage. He reached into Myron’s jacket and took out the 38. A second man, this one with a Gene Shalit-like mustache, grabbed Esperanza and pressed his gun against her temple.
