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some dope, and the usual well-dressed Japanese who took pictures of everything in sight but didn't buy much.
    At the corner of Conti Street she passed the New Original Dixie Bar. Inside the open door four ancient black men honked out a brand of jazz that was even older than they were. Their faces were empty of expression, their thoughts somewhere far away. The tourists inside didn't care. They drank their hurricanes and their pernod and stomped their feet in time with the creaky Dixieland music as though it were being invented on the spot.
    Ruthie hurried on past two more bars, a pawn shop, and a hole-in-the-wall theater playing Deep Throat. She stopped at a six-foot street-level sign that read: Pleasure Dome Massage Parlor 1 Flight Up—Satisfaction Guaranteed—Special French & Oriental Body Massage. Then, in case anyone still did not get the message: Private Rooms Available—Young Attractive Girls!!!
    Two motorcycle types wearing denim jackets with the sleeves cut off to show their tattoos lounged in the doorway. They passed a marijuana cigarette back and forth and stared hard at Ruthie. One of them broke into a moronic giggle. Ruthie squeezed by without looking at them and climbed the gritty flight of stairs that led to the Pleasure Dome.
    At the top of the stairs was a small lobby lit with red bulbs and smelling of strawberry incense. Eddie Mays sat on a stool behind a high counter with a glass front. Behind the glass was a selection of dildoes, handcuffs, rubber mouths, vibrators, French ticklers, and other items advertised as "marital aids" to satisfy the municipal code. Eddie was a sour, thirtyish man with a complexion problem.
    "You're late," he said. "It's lucky this john is patient. He's been in there forty-five minutes."
    "I got here as quick as I could," Ruthie said. "I wasn't planning to work any more tonight."
    "If you don't want these calls, there's plenty of other girls hot to trot."
    "I want the calls, Eddie," she said. "I do the best I can."
    "Well get on in there and service the guy. It's room twelve."
    Ruthie walked down the dimly lit hallway. She stopped at the linen closet to take out a couple of clean towels. Soft rock music was playing over the tinny speakers Eddie had installed. She walked on to a pink-painted door marked 12. The 2 was missing, but the number was clearly outlined in brighter paint where it had hung. She touched her wig to make sure it hadn't slipped, licked her lips, put on a sexy smile, and walked in.
    "Hi, sorry I'm la—"
    She stopped just inside the door and looked around. There was the bed, cheap bureau with a mirror, single chair, and nobody. What a hell of a note, she thought, if she came all the way down here for nothing.
    Then she saw a man's dark suit neatly folded on the chair. The door to the tiny bathroom was closed, and a seam of light showed along the bottom. Okay, so the john was modest.
    She walked over and tapped on the bathroom door. "Ruthie's here, honey. You can come out any time you're ready."
    No answer.
    Ruthie sighed. She hoped this john was not going to be one of those who had to be coaxed. They knew what they came in here for. Why didn't they just get to it?
    She skinned the dress off over her head and held it in one hand while she reached down and took off her shoes with the other. It felt good to get out of the tight pumps.
    "Did they fill you in on the prices?" she said to the bathroom door. "The straight massage is twenty-five dollars. I mean, for twenty-five dollars you get a massage and that's it. Tipping is allowed if you want any extras or personal services, if you know what I mean."
    The guy had damn well better want some extra personal services, Ruthie thought. It would really be a bummer if she had left a comfortable chair and a good movie on TV, squeezed her swollen feet back into shoes, and traipsed all the way down here to Bourbon Street for some yoyo who only wanted a massage. She had heard of that happening to other girls.
    As she laid her