Hard Rain

information. All the girls think the conversations
    are taped. And there are rumors that certain customers even get
    videotaped in the lap dance rooms."
    I was gaining her confidence. And the way she was talking now, I knew
    I could get more. A gambler will agonize for hours over whether to put
    his chips on, say, the red or the black, and then, when the croupier
    spins the wheel, he'll double or even triple the bet, as a way of
    bolstering his conviction that he must have been betting right. If he
    were betting wrong, why would he be putting all that extra money
    down?
    I pointed to her glass. "Another?"
    She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
    I finished mine and ordered two more. The walls flickered in the
    candlelight. The room felt close and warm, like an underground
    sanctuary.
    The waiter brought the drinks. After he had moved silently away, I
    looked at her and said, "You're not involved in any of this?"
    She looked into her glass. Several seconds went by.
    You want an honest answer, or a really honest answer?" she asked.
    "Give me both."
    "Okay," she said, nodding. "The honest answer is, no."
    She took a sip of the Highland Park. Closed her eyes.
    "The really honest answer is ,.. is ..."
    "Is, "not yet,"" I said quietly.
    Her eyes opened and she looked at me. "How do you know?"
    I watched her for a moment, feeling her distress, seeing an
    opportunity.
    You're being suborned," I said. "It's a process, a series of
    techniques. If you even half-realize it, you're smarter than most.
    You've also got a chance to do something about it, if you want to."
    "What do you mean?"
    I sipped from my glass, watching the amber liquid glowing in the
    candlelight, remembering. You start slow. You find the subject's
    limits and get him to spend some time there. He gets used to it.
    Before long, the limits have moved. You never take him more than a
    centimeter beyond. You make it feel like it's his choice."
    I looked at her. "You told me when you first got to the club you were
    so shy you could hardly move on the stage."
    Yes, that's true."
    "At that point you would never have done a lap dance."
    "No."
    "But now you can."
    Yes." Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
    "When you did your first lap dance, you probably said you would never
    let a customer touch you."
    "I did say that," she said. Her voice had gone lower.
    "Of course you did. I could go on. I could tell you where you'll be
    three months from now, six months, a year. Twenty years, if you keep
    going where you're going. Naomi, you think this is all an accident?
    It's a science. There are people out there who are experts at getting
    others to do tomorrow what was unthinkable today."
    But for her breath, moving rapidly in and out through her nostrils, she
    was silent, and I wondered if she was fighting tears.
    I needed to push it just a little further before backing off. "You
    want to know what's next for you?" I asked.
    She looked at me but said nothing.
    You know that Damask Rose girls are being used to blackmail
    politicians, or something like that. The other girls whisper about it,
    but that's not all. You've been approached, right? It was an oblique
    approach, but it was there. Something like, "There's a special
    customer who we think would like you. We'd like you to go out with him
    and show him a really good time. If he's satisfied afterward, we'll
    pay you X." Maybe they had a suite at a hotel where they wanted you to
    take him. They'd bug him there, videotape him. You refused, I guess.
    But there was no pressure. Why would there be? They know you'll get
    worn down just from the exposure."
    "You're wrong!" she said suddenly, jabbing a finger in my face.
    I looked at her. "If I were wrong, you wouldn't react that way."
    She watched me, her eyes hurt and angry, her lips twisting together as
    though trying to find words.
    That was enough. Time to see if my words had the desired effect.
    "Hey," I said softly, but she didn't look up. "Hey." I put my hand
    over hers. "I'm sorry." I squeezed her fingers briefly, then withdrew
    my hand.
    She raised her head and looked at me. "You think I'm a prostitute. Or
    that I'm going to become one."
    "I don't think that," I said, shaking my head.
    "How do you know all this?"
    Time for an honest, but safely vague, response. "A long time ago, and
    in a different context, I went through what you're in the middle of."
    "What do you mean?"
    For a moment I pictured Crazy Jake. I shook my head to show her it
    wasn't something I was