3 Time to Steele by Alex P. Berg

for a reason. And so it was tolerated, but not really regulated.
    The end result, in practice, was that the businesses were taxed—which the bean counters loved—and sex workers weren’t prosecuted for performing whatever acts they decided to accept money for, but cops steered clear of the places like vegetarians at a barbeque joint. The brothels were expected to police themselves—and they did, with plenty of hired muscle, strict codes of conduct, rules posted on every window and door, and even dress codes in some locales.
    Given that it was the middle of the afternoon, foot traffic on Flatley was light, but the hired peacekeepers were out in full force. Thugs patrolled the sidewalks and alleys in pairs, all of them smartly dressed in olive green jackets and black trousers. Most of them carried truncheons like me, but they did so in plain view as a deterrent to idiots who might not understand the way things worked in the district.
    I nudged Quinto in the ribs as we walked. “You know, if we ever get tired of our detecting gig, I think I know where we can find work.”
    Quinto raised an eyebrow at me. “Huh? I thought you knew.”
    “Knew what?” I asked.
    “I worked here, once upon a time,” said Quinto. “Had about a six month stint as a private head knocker with the green jackets before I joined the force.”
    I knew Quinto had done private security in the past, but I hadn’t realized it had been for the bordellos. “How is it you didn’t know where the 9’s club was, then?”
    The big guy smiled. “I knew. I was just screwing with Rodgers.”
    “Knew it,” said his partner, glancing back at us.
    Shay walked at Rodgers side. She glanced back, too. “You wouldn’t last a week, Daggers. You’d get too bored.”
    “You’re right,” I said. “Though not for the reason you voiced.”
    “No?” she said.
    “Too much walking,” I said. “Those green jackets’ feet are probably one big callus.”
    Quinto nodded. “Two, technically. But yeah. I found it was hardest on my back.”
    After a little more walking, we arrived at the 9’s, a three story rectangular brick of a building that more than made up for its lack of architectural panache with aftermarket additions. Metallic overhangs protecting the windows had been bent and tucked to resemble dress ruffles. Red velvet drapes that hung in the windows had been bunched at the top and bottom but spread wide in the middle, as if in representation of a lady’s privates—an effect only furthered by being positioned directly underneath the skirt-like overhangs. In the middle of the building, above a set of golden double doors flanked by musclebound toughs, an eight foot sign lounged at a rakish angle, one depicting a cherry-red number nine slipping out of a babydoll, a discarded pair of panties draped over the top right-hand corner of the number. It was cute—if such a description could be used to describe the sign to a pleasure house.
    The brute squad at the door stopped us before we could enter.
    “Spread your arms,” said the bouncer as he prepared to pat us down.
    “We’re cops,” I said. I showed him my badge.
    He took a good look at it, to make sure it was real. “Alright. You know the rules. Don’t make any trouble.” He glanced at Quinto as he said that last part, probably in the hopes we’d follow his orders.
    The bouncer opened the doors, and we stepped into a sea of ruby. Practically every surface was covered in the stuff. Chairs and sofas were upholstered with it, tables were painted with it, rugs were infused with it. The only deviations in color came in the form of ivory white columns—carved to display the most curvaceous elements of the female torso—and a spotless, sparkling white marble countertop that stretched across the lobby from left to right. Scantily-clad harlots drifted around the room, mostly human and elven but I spotted a few members of other species as well. Some tickled the chins of patrons, draped across their