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around a lot. You're from here, right?" Desiree changed the
subject.
    "Yeah, pretty much. I was born in
Haiti, but I've been here most of my life. You just here for the
Super Bowl, or do you plan to live here?" Ginger asked.
    "I'm here to stay. The weather is
pretty. Plus, the money seems to be real good here," Desiree
said.
    "Yeah, it can be. Have you danced
anywhere else?" Ginger continued probing Desiree.
    ''A coupla spots up top. But Giuliani
kind of threw a monkey wrench in that. I hear it's not what it used
to be." Desiree repeated what she'd heard from other dancers in an
attempt to sound sophisticated. They swore that before Giuliani
became mayor, money practically fell from the sky.
    "Really? I've danced at
Score's in Manhattan before. It was real good there. I worked at a
couple of spots in Jersey too," Ginger said. Desiree imagined
Ginger twirling around a pole at the Bada Bing, the strip club
from The Sopranos.
    "Well, I'm sure you make money
everywhere you go. Look at you!" Desiree looked at Ginger. She was
really beautiful. Her long hair was pulled up into a bun on top of
her head, and she was wearing a wife-beater and some cutoff jean
shorts, yet she still looked stunning. Without a speck of makeup
aside from some clear lip gloss, her high cheekbones, bright eyes,
and straight, keen nose needed no further accentuation. Ginger
possessed a natural, classic, and fresh beauty.
    "Look at you!" Ginger replied.
"You're just as pretty as I am. And your eyes are natural. I wear
contacts."
    "Yeah. But your body is better. I'm
kind of flat-chested." Desiree looked miserably at her modest 34A
chest. She was definitely not flat-chested, but compared to Ginger,
most women would look underdeveloped.
    "Buy some tits. I did!" Ginger poked
out her 36Ds, then shimmied them.
    "Wow. Those are fake?" Desiree had
assumed Ginger's endowment was natural.
    "Yep. The best five grand I ever
spent!" Ginger admitted proudly. She inspected Desiree curiously.
"Can I tell you something, Desiree?"
    "Yeah, sure."
    "Look. You've got a lot of potential.
You're really pretty, but you don't play up your features enough.
Don't take this the wrong way, but the tomboy look has got to go! I
mean, I know you're from New York and all, but there's no reason
you should dress so thugged out. That shit ain't gonna fly down
here. But with the right clothes and the right makeup, maybe
lighten your hair...you could be so much prettier. And once you get
your game tight, you can make money anywhere. The world could be
yours, Desiree. You've just gotta know how to hustle."
    "I can hustle. I ask everybody for
dances. They just don't like me as much as they like you." Desiree
picked at her fingernails self-consciously. The acrylic was
chipped, and her thumb and pinkie nails were broken to the
nub.
    "Not that kind of hustle. The kind of
hustle where if there is only one man in the club, you can make him
want you, you can turn him into a human ATM. You can make him do
whatever you want, whatever you need. It's all a mind game." Ginger
pointed at her temple for emphasis. "Real hustle is working
smarter, not harder. You're obviously in this game for the money.
We're all in this for the money. I don't think that the majority of
us dreamed of being strippers when we were little girls. Just
having money isn't enough, though; it's what you do with it that
counts. By working smarter I mean once you make that money, you
gotta flip it. Invest it. Don't blow it all on material shit to
floss before you've got any real assets. I bought this house
because I knew it would be a good investment. I bought my car for
four thousand at an auction; I don't have a car note. Matter of
fact, every now and then I buy a car at an auction, fix it up, and
sell it. I usually double my money. And I run a Web site that pays
my mortgage. See, that's the difference between working for money
and making money work for you. I can teach you this stuff if you
want to learn. It's not all about college. I