Jump by Tim Maleeny

roommate’s defense until he remembered hearing the term before. “Eye candy,” he said slowly. “An escort service?”
    “Un-nuh.” Tamara shook her head empathically. “You’re thinking call girls, dressed up like arm jewelry.” She turned to face Shayla. “I ain’t no ‘ho, am I sister?”
    Shayla laughed. “She gets paid 500 bucks a night just to go to parties.”
    Sam nodded. USA Today had a feature article about a year ago. He was so accustomed to the underground world of prostitutes that the growing above-ground economy built on sex often eluded him. “Some millionaire is throwing a party or a major celebrity’s son is having his eighteenth birthday, they want enough hot girls to fill up the room.”
    Tamara nodded. “I’m part of the scenery, like wallpaper with tits.”
    Sam wrestled with the image only for an instant. “No strings attached?”
    Tamara shook her head. “Wouldn’t do it if there were. Sometimes I even meet someone worth talking to, but most nights it’s just boring. Free food and drinks, easy money.”
    Sam looked at Shayla. “Not you?”
    Shayla shook her head. “Don’t want to give up my nights. Not enough of a social life as it is.”
    Tamara nodded ruefully. “San Francisco—half the men married—the other half married to each other.”
    Sam titled his chin toward Shayla. “And you protest what, exactly?”
    Shayla shrugged. “Anything…everything. I get a call, I call some friends, we go to a march.”
    “You lost me.”
    Shayla leaned forward. “Remember the antiwar protests last year?”
    “Sure,” said Sam. “Screwed up traffic downtown for a week.”
    Shayla smiled, pleased with herself. “I was there. And remember the anti-outsourcing march down Market Street last month?”
    “I must’ve missed that one.”
    “Didn’t get a big turnout,” admitted Shayla. “Then there was the bikers’ rights ride down Market Street.”
    “The motorcyclists bitching about having their own lane, like the bicyclists?” asked Sam.
    “Yeah, I was on the back of a Harley. It was fun.”
    Sam drank off the last of his soda. “How does it work?”
    Shayla’s eyes lit up. “Most people don’t know it, but almost all the protests, marches, sit-ins—you name it—are organized by the same four or five guys.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Everything’s got a political angle, right?”
    “OK.”
    “Think about it,” said Shayla, warming to her topic. “Protest the war, the current administration looks bad. That’s worth something to the other party. You don’t want outsourcing, well, that’s worth something to the unions.”
    “The guys on the motorcycles?” asked Sam.
    Shayla smiled. “Two groups working together. The union guys who paint the lines on the streets and a city councilman who worked the biker clubs to get elected to his district.”
    Sam nodded. “And wherever there’s politics, there’s money.”
    “Exactly.” replied Shayla. “So a small group of entrepreneurs got an idea—call yourself a grassroots organization, apply for nonprofit status, and pay yourself outrageous salaries as the organization’s executive directors. Then make money by organizing a march or protest for any client—from any political party or cause, in any city—anytime you want the press to cover an issue.”
    Tamara interjected. “And all you need are a bunch of highly social young people, connected by technology. An instant, mobile army that’s highly photogenic.”
    Shayla pulled a cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ve got three hundred contacts in this thing—I send an instant message and at least fifty of them show up at any given time, bringing other friends with them. I get paid five hundred for smaller events, a grand for anything that commands national coverage, like CNN.”
    Sam ran his fingers through his hair, feeling like he was back in school. He should definitely be taking notes. “What are your politics?”
    Shayla shrugged.