Deal Breaker

Featuring the only local appearances by: pap smear and rectal thermometer Myron could see through the open door. People weren't dancing. They were jumping up and down, heads lolling lifelessly as if their necks were rubber bands, their arms tucked against their sides. Myron focused in on one kid, maybe fifteen years old, lost in the violet bliss, sweat matting his long hair to his face. He wondered if the group onstage was Pap Smear or Rectal Thermometer. Didn't matter. Sounded like someone had jammed a rutting pig into a Cuisinart.

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The whole scene was like Dickens meets Blade Runner.

'The studio is next door,' Esperanza said.

The building was either a disastrous brownstone or a small warehouse.

Whores hung out the windows like shreds of leftover Christmas decorations.

'This is it?' Myron asked.

'Third floor,' Esperanza answered. She did not seem intimidated by the surroundings in the least, but she had come from streets not much better than this. Her face remained a placid pool. Esperanza never showed weakness. Her temper flared often, but for all their times together, Myron had never seen her cry. She could not say the same of him.

Myron approached the stoop. An overweight whore stuffed into a bodysuit that doubled as sausage casing licked her lips and stepped in front of him.

'Hey, yo, want a blow job? Fifty bucks.'

Myron tried not to close his eyes. 'No,' he said softly, lowering his head.

He wanted to offer words of wisdom, words that could transform her, change her circumstances. But he just said, 'I'm sorry,' and hurried past.

The fat girl shrugged and moved on.

It was a walk-up. No surprise there. The stairwells were littered with people, most unconscious or maybe dead. Myron and Esperanza carefully climbed over them. A cacophony of music - everything from Neil Diamond to what might have been Pap Smear bellowed through the corridor. There were other sounds too. Broken bottles, shouts, curses, crashing, a baby crying. An orchestra from hell.

When they reached the third floor, they saw a glassed-in office. No one was inside, but the pictures on the wall - not to mention the bullwhip and handcuffs - left little doubt that they had arrived at the right place. Myron tried the knob. It turned.

'You stay out here,' he said.

'Okay.'

He moved in. 'Hello?'

No one answered him, but the music was coming from the other room.

Sounded like calypso music. He called out again and stepped into the studio.

Myron was struck by how professional the setup was. It was clean, brightly lit, with one of those big white umbrella things you always see in photo studios. There were half a dozen cameras set up on tripods, and overhead was a variety of different-colored lights.

Of course, the setting was not the first thing that struck him. Other things caught his eye first. The naked woman sitting on a motorbike, for example.

To be accurate, she wasn't fully naked - she had on a pair of black boots.

Nothing else. Not a look every woman could pull off, but it seemed to work On her. She had not seen him yet, studying the magazine in her hand. The

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National Sun. Headline: Boy 16 Becomes Grandmother. Hmm. He stepped closer. She was big-breasted, very Russ Meyer, but Myron could see scars under the large swellings. Implants, the fashion accessory of the eighties.

She looked up, startled.

Myron smiled warmly. 'Hi.'

She screamed. Piercingly. 'Get the fuck out of here!' she shrieked, covering her chest. Modesty. So rare nowadays. It was nice to see.

Myron said, 'My name-Another piercing scream. Myron heard a noise behind him and spun. A skinny kid wearing no shirt stood smiling. He popped open a switchblade, a maniacal grin plastered across his face. His Bruce Lee-like build shimmered in the light. He crouched low and beckoned Myron forward. Very West Side Story. If only the kid would snap his fingers.

Another door opened, and red light leaked out. A woman stepped into view. She had what looked like curly red hair, but Myron couldn't be sure if that was her color or if it just appeared red because of the light from the darkroom.

'You're trespassing,' she said to Myron. 'Hector has the right to kill you where you stand.'

'I don't know where you got your law degree,' Myron said, 'but if Hector isn't careful, I'm going to take away his toy and shove it where the sun don't shine.'

Hector giggled. He began to toss the knife back and forth between his hands.

'Wow,' Myron said.

The topless model fled to the dressing room, which was cleverly marked undressing room. The woman from the darkroom stepped fully into the studio and closed the darkroom door. Her hair was indeed red, more like burnt auburn actually. Her skin was what some might call peaches and cream. She was maybe thirty and looked, strange as it might sound, perky.

The Katie Couric of the porno world.

'Are you the owner?' Myron asked.

'Hector is very good with a blade,' she replied coolly. 'He could slice out a man's heart and show it to him before he died.'

'That must liven a party.'