job?”
“No.”
“Be honest.”
“How could I say you’re too soft? The softer, the better.”
“To be a policeman?”
“What?”
“Too soft to be a policeman?”
“It’s a good thing.”
“To be too soft?”
“It’s the kind of job where you get hard too fast, and that’s the worst thing that can happen.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I doubt if I’ll make it through the day.”
“Don’t let go of that doubt.”
“What?”
“Don’t let yourself get stiff and hard.”
“So it’s better to be soft?”
“It’s much better to be soft like overcooked asparagus.”
“But sometimes I’m more like raw asparagus, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Not all of me.”
“What part of you?” She reached across the table and squeezed his biceps. “Overcooked asparagus.”
“I’m not talking about anything above my waist.”
Bergenhem stepped inside Bolger’s bar. He’s just as tall as Winter, Bergenhem thought, but seems twice as big. It could be his leather vest, or his features. You’ve been here for three minutes and his expression hasn’t changed. He’s as old as Winter, but until people get past forty, their age is always hard to pin down.
“You don’t strike me as a restaurant goer,” Bolger said.
“No.”
“Not much for nightlife?”
“It depends on the night.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Bolger turned toward the rows of bottles behind him. “Since Erik sent you, have one on the house. Even if you’re not used to sinning in broad daylight.”
“I’ll take some juice, if you don’t mind.”
“Ice?”
“No, thanks.”
Bolger found a carton of juice in the refrigerator underneath the bar and filled a glass from the hanging shelf above. “I’m afraid that I’m not all that familiar with the part of the industry you’re after,” he said.
The drink had a tangy sweetness over the orange flavor that Bergenhem couldn’t place.
“Clubs have been sprouting up like weeds in this city over the past few years,” Bolger continued, “and I’m not talking about restaurants either. It’s all happened so fast I’ve pretty much lost count.”
“Illegal clubs?”
“That may be an accurate way to describe them, but most have licenses these days. Which only goes to show that crime pays, right?”
“In what way?”
“You open an illegal club and a week later, bam, you’re holding a license in your grubby little hands.”
“I see.”
“After two weeks, you close the joint down and start all over someplace else. But that’s all old hat to you guys.”
“Some of us, anyway.”
“That’s not exactly the information you were looking for, is it?”
“I’m grateful for anything you can give me.”
“Like what’s going on in the illustrious porn world?”
“For example.”
“What does Erik expect to find out, anyway?”
Bergenhem took another gulp of his juice.
“The industry has grown,” Bolger continued. “It’s a different scene from back when I played a bit part.”
“What’s so different now?”
“It’s a lot more than tits and asses, to put it bluntly.”
“Hardcore?”
Bolger’s teeth gleamed in his dark face and the windowless room. “More like supercore. From the little I’ve seen, what goes in isn’t as important anymore as what comes out. Or both at the same time, if you catch my drift.” He took down a glass, filled it with beer and sipped it once the foam had settled. “I got out of there just in time.”
“Do they have illegal joints too?”
“Illegal strip joints? It depends on how you look at it.”
“I’m not following you.”
“There’s the part that the general public sees—a magazine rack, a few books, sex toys, peep shows and a couple of large screening rooms.”
“Strippers?”
“They’re called exotic dancers.”
“And?”
“What?”
“You said that’s just what the public sees.”
“Now, I’m going strictly by hearsay. But
“No.”
“Be honest.”
“How could I say you’re too soft? The softer, the better.”
“To be a policeman?”
“What?”
“Too soft to be a policeman?”
“It’s a good thing.”
“To be too soft?”
“It’s the kind of job where you get hard too fast, and that’s the worst thing that can happen.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I doubt if I’ll make it through the day.”
“Don’t let go of that doubt.”
“What?”
“Don’t let yourself get stiff and hard.”
“So it’s better to be soft?”
“It’s much better to be soft like overcooked asparagus.”
“But sometimes I’m more like raw asparagus, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Not all of me.”
“What part of you?” She reached across the table and squeezed his biceps. “Overcooked asparagus.”
“I’m not talking about anything above my waist.”
Bergenhem stepped inside Bolger’s bar. He’s just as tall as Winter, Bergenhem thought, but seems twice as big. It could be his leather vest, or his features. You’ve been here for three minutes and his expression hasn’t changed. He’s as old as Winter, but until people get past forty, their age is always hard to pin down.
“You don’t strike me as a restaurant goer,” Bolger said.
“No.”
“Not much for nightlife?”
“It depends on the night.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Bolger turned toward the rows of bottles behind him. “Since Erik sent you, have one on the house. Even if you’re not used to sinning in broad daylight.”
“I’ll take some juice, if you don’t mind.”
“Ice?”
“No, thanks.”
Bolger found a carton of juice in the refrigerator underneath the bar and filled a glass from the hanging shelf above. “I’m afraid that I’m not all that familiar with the part of the industry you’re after,” he said.
The drink had a tangy sweetness over the orange flavor that Bergenhem couldn’t place.
“Clubs have been sprouting up like weeds in this city over the past few years,” Bolger continued, “and I’m not talking about restaurants either. It’s all happened so fast I’ve pretty much lost count.”
“Illegal clubs?”
“That may be an accurate way to describe them, but most have licenses these days. Which only goes to show that crime pays, right?”
“In what way?”
“You open an illegal club and a week later, bam, you’re holding a license in your grubby little hands.”
“I see.”
“After two weeks, you close the joint down and start all over someplace else. But that’s all old hat to you guys.”
“Some of us, anyway.”
“That’s not exactly the information you were looking for, is it?”
“I’m grateful for anything you can give me.”
“Like what’s going on in the illustrious porn world?”
“For example.”
“What does Erik expect to find out, anyway?”
Bergenhem took another gulp of his juice.
“The industry has grown,” Bolger continued. “It’s a different scene from back when I played a bit part.”
“What’s so different now?”
“It’s a lot more than tits and asses, to put it bluntly.”
“Hardcore?”
Bolger’s teeth gleamed in his dark face and the windowless room. “More like supercore. From the little I’ve seen, what goes in isn’t as important anymore as what comes out. Or both at the same time, if you catch my drift.” He took down a glass, filled it with beer and sipped it once the foam had settled. “I got out of there just in time.”
“Do they have illegal joints too?”
“Illegal strip joints? It depends on how you look at it.”
“I’m not following you.”
“There’s the part that the general public sees—a magazine rack, a few books, sex toys, peep shows and a couple of large screening rooms.”
“Strippers?”
“They’re called exotic dancers.”
“And?”
“What?”
“You said that’s just what the public sees.”
“Now, I’m going strictly by hearsay. But
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