Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

obligatory painting of a nude woman hung above it. Not a bad one, either. She was lying on her side on a brass bed, and she wasn’t actually nude. She wore boots.
    There was a rose satin loveseat with fringe around the bottom, and there was another of carved mahogany and wine-colored velvet. Chairs that matched the mahogany loveseat were covered in rose velvet (the kind that looks antique, but isn’t). Naturally, Elena hadn’t forgotten a crystal chandelier.
    Toward the back of the room on the left, there was a conversational grouping of Victorian chairs and tables. On the right was a grand piano covered with a very fine old piano shawl. More naked ladies dotted the walls, with beauty spots dotting their faces and fannies.
    “Very cozy,” I said.
    “Gaudy as hell,” said Elena. “But homey. That’s what the clutter’s for. It’s got to seem like a fantasy world, only not intimidating. And you have to make sure there’s plenty of room to move around. See, you can dance in the foyer or in this bare space between the double parlors.”
    “It’s perfect,” I said. “Ever think of going into the decorating business?”
    She laughed. “When I retire. Come on, let me show you the upstairs. There’s nothing else down here but the kitchen, and we’ll have some tea there afterwards.”
    I won’t describe Elena’s bedroom, because I am trying to give you a glimpse of the demimonde and it wouldn’t be relevant. So you won’t be disoriented, though, I’ll tell you it was one of four bedrooms upstairs. The other three were for tricks.
    The red carpet from the stairway snaked down the hall and into two of them. These two were furnished with marble-topped tables, gilt mirrors, and carved mahogany beds with red velvet covers.
    The third had only one piece of furniture: the biggest waterbed I've ever seen. And every inch of wall and ceiling was mirrored. “Not very Victorian,” I observed.
    “No,” said Elena. “There’s no accounting for taste. It’s our most popular offering.”
    She led me back to the kitchen, which was much like any old kitchen except that it was big enough to get a fair-sized table into. I sat down as Elena made tea and English muffins.
    “This is the only room I can really call my own, besides my bedroom,” she said. “It’s kind of awful living here, really, but somebody has to—we couldn’t just leave the place locked up except during working hours.”
    Watching Elena move about the kitchen in her jeans, I could imagine she found living at the bordello “kind of awful.” She had glossy chestnut hair and fine heavy brows, which she was smart enough not to pluck. You’d never have guessed she was a hooker if it weren’t for her mandarin manicure.
    It occurred to me that while I knew all about her life with the rollicking Chicago family, I didn’t know how she’d made the transition to feminist prostitute. I’d met a lot of HYENA members, and they all had similar stories; they had been secretaries or file clerks who turned to prostitution the first time someone offered them money for sex. They became feminists when the women’s movement made the point that it’s easier for men to make money than it is for women.
    But Elena seemed more intelligent and better educated than the other hookers I knew. She sat down at the table with a pot of tea and the buttered muffins.
    “Elena,” I said, “You’ve never told me how you, uh…”
    “Fell from grace?” She poured tea.
    “Well, yes.”
    “Learned my trade in college, just like you did.” She laughed. “It was the University of Chicago. History department. It happened in my sophomore year when I was going to class and working full-time as a waitress. I was beat to hell, which wasn’t that hard to spot—I’d lost about ten pounds and I always seemed to have circles under my eyes. So one of my professors took a fancy to me and let me in on an easier way.”
    “A man?”
    “No. A woman. She’d worked her way through graduate school by turning tricks.”
    “Oh, come on.”
    Elena shrugged. “Well, I can’t prove it, but she did seem to know what she was doing. She said she knew a man who’d been wanting to meet me. He was willing to pay a hundred dollars, but the deal was, I had to give fifty back to the teacher.”
    “A
history
professor?”
    “I was a bit shocked myself, but I’ve since learned that’s the way these things are done. Pretty soon I was making twice what I made at the waitress job for only