The cabbie nodded and they traveled, too fast, as always, too fast, through the frozen night. “A buck,” he said, and then he roared away and Vy stood facing the familiar hotel. It looked like a perfectly ordinary hotel, and there were hundreds of guests who thought it was, but the seventh floor was reserved. A dozen prostitutes kept permanent rooms there. The rent, plus a regular cut to the manager and the night clerks, came to fifty dollars a week. Then there were the doctor’s expenses, the bites taken by the bars, certain taxi drivers, “life insurance.” It was a hard way to live, at best. One slow week and you had to work overtime to break even.

Maybe I should go to Cuba, she thought, as she walked inside the gray lobby, or Mexico—they say white girls make out all right there.

“Is Mr. Taylor in?” she asked.

The clerk was a thin, bored man named Alex. He smelled of perspiration and cigar smoke. “Heavy guy, blue suit, freckles?”

“That’s right.”

“Upstairs.” Alex returned to his paperback book.

Vy straightened her clothes and entered the rickety, ancient cage-elevator. When the door closed, she thought of Sam Griffin. Just a customer, she told herself. Remember that. Be professional, be casual, be hard.

She rapped on the door lightly. It was opened immediately by Sam, who looked even more cheerful than before. Perhaps a little frightened, but mostly cheerful. “Hi,” he said. “I was beginning to think maybe you’d forgotten about me.”

He helped Vy with her coat and stepped back. “It was awful nice of you to come,” he said.

She looked at the solid, honest bulk of him, at the trusting eyes that had the light of youth in them but also a certain deep sorrow behind the light, and she knew instantly.

“This is your first time, isn’t it?” she said.

Sam Griffin blushed. “How’d you guess that?”

“You’re still dressed.”

“Ma’am?”

“With most of them, by the time I get here they’re lying on the bed naked. All ready.”

“They are?” His eyes grew with wonder, and the blush deepened. He took a few steps toward her. “My God, you’re pretty, Miss Vy. I like that dress.”

His voice was gentle and soft. Sometimes the young kids were that way, because they were scared, but this was different. Sam Griffin didn’t seem to be scared. He didn’t seem to be accusing her, either, but she felt the shame again. She felt the shabbiness of the room, the dirt in the carpet, the cheap lamp that hid these things and hid the things that showed in her face.

“That’s nice, honey,” she said, and her voice sounded brittle. “You want to get started?”

“Whatever you say.”