Diary of a Married Call Girl. Tracy Quan

      It’s not safe to take them outside to the corner where a neighbor might see you. Charmaine flipped a switch and started feeding condom boxes into the shredder.

      “It’s built for volume. Turns everything into confetti. Even a Trojan Magnum box.”

      She tipped open the receiving bin and showed me a small pile of black confetti. The answer to our nightmares.

      “Oh—and if we really need to,” she added, “you can destroy the video boxes. But some guys like to look at those. What do you think?”

      “The Bells of Saint Clemens” started chiming madly in my handbag, and I scrambled to answer.

      “What a happy occasion,” said the voice of Barry Horowitz. “I tried to call you back twice, but I didn’t leave a message.”

      “I think we should talk in person,” I told him. “Do you remember my friend Allison?”

      “How could I forget?”

      Barry’s the kind of lawyer who takes a perverse delight in solving the personal problems of hookers.

      “I promised Allie—” I glanced sideways at Charmaine, now sitting on the couch doing rehab on some chipped toenail polish. “I’ll call you later when I know more.”

      I flipped my phone shut and tried to take my time leaving the apartment. It wouldn’t be right to discuss Allison’s predicament in earshot of someone who’s been working for two years. Older girls shouldn’t hang their laundry out to dry in front of the New Girls. And Charmaine looks up to Allison, despite being more serious about her work than Allie has ever been. She has no idea what the real deal is because Allie, after all these years, still looks great and has her own clients. I would be the worst kind of traitor if I don’t let Charmaine believe that the girl who introduced us has her act together. (And a traitor to myself! Charmaine might question my credibility.)

      When I got to the corner of Seventy-ninth and York, I tried to call Barry but found myself in voice mail.