Florida Straits(12)

Assuming, of course, that Key West had pimps.

So Joey went down to Duval Street to interview some whores. But they weren't where he expected them to be. Key West, being a place that is literally on the edge, out of sight of neighbors and off limits to embarrassment, is a town where people go to misbehave, a tax haven for the libido. The misbehavior, or attempted misbehavior, is focused near the harbor: the edge of the edge. That's where the tourist bars are, where college students hurtle out of Sloppy Joe's, bravely trying to reach the curb before they barf, where bad music from weather-warped guitars spills through the glassless windows of Rick's, The Bull, and Margaritaville. By all logic, that's where the hookers should have been, ambushing sports made frisky by tequila.

But the streetwalkers had apparently been moved out of there, in deference, no doubt, to the more sedate visitors off the second-rate cruise ships and the occasional parents who had read the wrong brochure and brought their kids along. So Joey cruised Duval toward its quiet end, the ocean side, where souvenir shops closed at six p.m., where people sat on rocking chairs on the porches of guesthouses, and where on nights of south wind you could hear water splashing on the rocks. It seemed a strange place to look for hookers, but that was where they were.

There weren't many of them. On his first cruise down the street, in fact, Joey spotted exactly one. She was so skinny that the tendons in back of her knees stuck out like bridge cables, and from the way she walked, jittery and woozy at the same time, Joey decided she was probably too strung out to talk to. So he parked the car, sat down on the seawall, watched the pelicans move in and out of the glow of lamps on the pier, and waited. The air smelled of iodine and wet stone. Joey, to his surprise, became more rather than less patient the longer he sat, and he dimly realized how thin the line could be between waiting for something and waiting for nothing.

After twenty minutes or so, a tall redhead came sashaying down the street. Her wig was done up in a modified beehive, her short skirt followed the curve of her hips like the skin on a banana, and her big earrings glinted under the streetlamps. There was professionalism and even grandeur in her slightly knock-kneed gait. Joey approached her.

"Wanna party, handsome?" she asked him. The voice was breathy and suitably lewd, and it issued forth from a full, bowed mouth to which a purplish lipstick had been applied with a surprising degree of measure and restraint.

"I wanna talk," said Joey. "Buy you a drink?"

"For starters," cooed the hooker. She had a beauty mark stenciled onto her right cheek, and her eyebrows were tweezed into a steep arc that suggested constant astonishment.

"Where do you like?"

By way of answer, she took Joey's elbow and led him down Duval Street. They walked in silence for a block and a half, and Joey tried not to notice that he was greatly enjoying the rub of her bust against his arm. She was wearing a magenta brocade blouse that fit like a corset and gave her a cleavage like a baby's ass. Also, she smelled good; her perfume was citrusy and clean. She had style, Joey decided. And poise. In New York she'd be at least a two-hundred-dollar piece.

She maneuvered him into a place called Workingman's Tropic. Dim, without music, it was not a tourist joint. At one end, two guys were shooting pool in a golden cone of light. The bar itself was dark wood bristling with beer spigots. Here and there, unkempt ferns dangled from the ceiling. Joey and the hooker sat down at a wicker table, under a plant. Leaves trailed down and tickled Joey's neck.

A waiter came over and the hooker ordered a Kir Royale. Joey asked for a scotch.

"You have great-color eyes," she said to him, clinking glasses. "Almost like Liz Taylor. I've always thought bedroom eyes should be dark brown. But that dreamy violet—I'll have to reconsider." She lapped her drink. "So what would you like to talk about?"

"I wanna talk about what you do."

She scanned his face for a moment, and then a look of deep concern crossed her features. Poor puppy, the look said. Can't function? Just want to hear? Then the kind look was replaced by a mock scolding one and accompanied by a wag of the finger. "I never tell tales on other clients," she said.

"No, no, no," said Joey. "You don't understand. I don't mean what you do, I mean how you do it."

The hooker giggled, rounded her shoulders to show off her collarbones, and managed a serpentine squirm in her chair. "That's an art, baby. That's not something that can be explained over one drink."

Joey took the hand that was cold from holding his glass and ran it through his hair. "Look. . .what's your name?"

"Vicki," said the hooker, managing to make the word sound like some forbidden body part.