Just being outside at this time, when the house was becoming busy with its hilarity and debauchery, was a privilege. Moskowitz settled down at his favorite café, joining a table with three other pimps and their women. As much as she despised Moskowitz, Batya liked being chosen to sit at this café, so elegant that the waiters wore white gloves and where, like the wives of government ministers who met after their siestas, she sipped strong coffee and ate a delicious meringue and whipped-cream cake. She had labored hard to earn this special gift of reprieve.

Yet she was here to work. Rearranging the bottom of her dress to flow in a feminine way, she raised her hem above one ankle. She straightened her back to exhibit her long neck and exposed cleavage. If patrons from the café came to the house asking for her, they would likely be higher-class, generous customers.

She caught the eyes of a sister across the table and smiled. She didn’t know the woman’s name, and they couldn’t chat over the men’s conversation, but the bond of shared tragic history was a fine spiderweb that tied them together. Batya fixed her wide-brimmed, pinkish hat to uncover one side of her face and threw long glances at a corpulent man with kind brown eyes. His female companion selected a chocolate éclair from the passing tray, ignoring her man as she savored it. A waiter moved in front of the woman, leaving Batya visible only to the man. No doubt Moskowitz rewarded the waiter for this special service.

Silently, Batya continued to work the crowd at the nearby tables. The café was large, and tables in other sections hosted other pimps and their kurves, as if the competitors had divided the territory. It was easy to distinguish the pimps from other businessmen by their meticulous haircuts—probably by the same Italian barber Moskowitz used—and their manicured, buffed nails that shone with clear polish. Moskowitz’s clean hands were a source of pride for him, a sign of his higher social standing. “My hands never get dirty in menial work,” he liked to say when he delegated the beatings and cigarette burnings to others.

The conversation around her table flowed as the men sipped peppermint water or brandy, joked, and discussed business matters they considered to be beyond their female companions’ grasp. “When a kurve becomes ill or pregnant, it affects the cash flow,” Moskowitz said, puffing both his cigarette and his chest. “Frequent medical inspection is imperative to maintaining your investment.”

“What about the new law that requires all our kurves be checked three times a week?” asked Pedro. He was wearing his plaid purple jacket but had replaced the green butterfly tie with an orange one.

Moskowitz laughed. “Unrealistic even for the best house. Ignore it.”