itâs worth more if you make lots of little diamonds from it.â
Heloise wasnât sure that was true, but Sophie probably knew more about diamonds than she did. Although Sophieâs family wasnât rich, she had grown up in New York City, in proximity to people with great fortunes. Still, Heloise understood how Sophie felt. Her beauty, her sexual allure, was a commodity, yet she was prohibited to trade on it. To be sure, Sophie could âmakeâ more by marrying a millionaire than she would working for Heloise for a few years, but she would be on call 24/7. Why not work eight to ten hours a week and earn thousands?
When Heloise hired Sophie, she gave her the talk she gave all the girls: No drugs, theyâre illegal. Bondage had to be preapproved; donât let just anyone tie you up. And it was better to use condoms, always, for everything. Yes, Heloise asked her clients to submit blood tests, but they could be up to six months old. (Most men who went to prostitutes didnât mind taking regular blood tests, she had found. She just wished she could get a piece of that action, own a lab. The fees they charged were ridiculous.) But there were men who would pay extra for not wearing a condom. Technically, Heloise forbade this, but it was ultimately between the girls and the clients, just like tipping. And, as with tipping, she couldnât prevent it or regulate it. She recommended reporting cash income, or at least some of it. She recommended using condoms and avoiding drugs. What the girls did, however, was between them and their consciences.
Some people would call what Heloise did turning a blind eye. But she wasnât blind. She knew. She knew. What she had given Sophie was a winking eyeâgo ahead, have unprotected sex for the extra bucks! What had it added up to, in the end? A pair of beautiful shoes, a dress, a sofa? Not enough for a modest car, even. And certainly not enough to buy Trizivir every month, at seventeen hundred bucks a month, for the rest of her life, which would probably be at once too short and too long.
Leo was right: There was nothing to keep Sophie from working some kind of job, technically. Except for her raging self-pity. She sat in the little apartment she rented in North Baltimore, in one of the older, shabby-chic buildings along University Parkway. It was the same building that housed the One World Café, not that Sophie cared about what she put into her body anymore. She ate the most astonishing array of junk, although she remained thin, too thin. She was still beautiful, but it was more ethereal now. The juicy promise that had attracted everyone to her was gone.
All of Sophieâs regular clients were gone, too, expunged from Heloiseâs rolls. She had been straightforward, notifying each that heâd been with a girl infected with HIV. She urged all of them to get tested. Of the ten men who had been with Sophie in the three months before her diagnosis, seven railed at Heloise, said she was running a slipshod business and that they would take her for everything she was worth if they found out they were infected. Three accepted the news quietly.
Heloise was pretty sure that the man who had infected Sophie was one of the first group, although she could never decide which one it was. Deny, deny, deny. Thatâs the way it goes. To be safe, she felt she had to let them all go, which she could ill afford. Ten regulars, gone from the rolls. After Sophie, new girls were told that failing to practice safe sex was grounds for firing. Barn door, meet the gone horse.
âIâll visit her soon,â Heloise promises Leo. âSee what she wants to do.â
âI talked to her not long ago,â he says.
âYou did? I would prefer you not talk to the employees directly.â
âShe called me. Said it was a question about her W-2, but she also wanted to know if she qualified for workersâ compensation. I told her that was only for
Heloise wasnât sure that was true, but Sophie probably knew more about diamonds than she did. Although Sophieâs family wasnât rich, she had grown up in New York City, in proximity to people with great fortunes. Still, Heloise understood how Sophie felt. Her beauty, her sexual allure, was a commodity, yet she was prohibited to trade on it. To be sure, Sophie could âmakeâ more by marrying a millionaire than she would working for Heloise for a few years, but she would be on call 24/7. Why not work eight to ten hours a week and earn thousands?
When Heloise hired Sophie, she gave her the talk she gave all the girls: No drugs, theyâre illegal. Bondage had to be preapproved; donât let just anyone tie you up. And it was better to use condoms, always, for everything. Yes, Heloise asked her clients to submit blood tests, but they could be up to six months old. (Most men who went to prostitutes didnât mind taking regular blood tests, she had found. She just wished she could get a piece of that action, own a lab. The fees they charged were ridiculous.) But there were men who would pay extra for not wearing a condom. Technically, Heloise forbade this, but it was ultimately between the girls and the clients, just like tipping. And, as with tipping, she couldnât prevent it or regulate it. She recommended reporting cash income, or at least some of it. She recommended using condoms and avoiding drugs. What the girls did, however, was between them and their consciences.
Some people would call what Heloise did turning a blind eye. But she wasnât blind. She knew. She knew. What she had given Sophie was a winking eyeâgo ahead, have unprotected sex for the extra bucks! What had it added up to, in the end? A pair of beautiful shoes, a dress, a sofa? Not enough for a modest car, even. And certainly not enough to buy Trizivir every month, at seventeen hundred bucks a month, for the rest of her life, which would probably be at once too short and too long.
Leo was right: There was nothing to keep Sophie from working some kind of job, technically. Except for her raging self-pity. She sat in the little apartment she rented in North Baltimore, in one of the older, shabby-chic buildings along University Parkway. It was the same building that housed the One World Café, not that Sophie cared about what she put into her body anymore. She ate the most astonishing array of junk, although she remained thin, too thin. She was still beautiful, but it was more ethereal now. The juicy promise that had attracted everyone to her was gone.
All of Sophieâs regular clients were gone, too, expunged from Heloiseâs rolls. She had been straightforward, notifying each that heâd been with a girl infected with HIV. She urged all of them to get tested. Of the ten men who had been with Sophie in the three months before her diagnosis, seven railed at Heloise, said she was running a slipshod business and that they would take her for everything she was worth if they found out they were infected. Three accepted the news quietly.
Heloise was pretty sure that the man who had infected Sophie was one of the first group, although she could never decide which one it was. Deny, deny, deny. Thatâs the way it goes. To be safe, she felt she had to let them all go, which she could ill afford. Ten regulars, gone from the rolls. After Sophie, new girls were told that failing to practice safe sex was grounds for firing. Barn door, meet the gone horse.
âIâll visit her soon,â Heloise promises Leo. âSee what she wants to do.â
âI talked to her not long ago,â he says.
âYou did? I would prefer you not talk to the employees directly.â
âShe called me. Said it was a question about her W-2, but she also wanted to know if she qualified for workersâ compensation. I told her that was only for
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