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back to where the Bentley had dropped him off when something caught his eye. Myron stopped. There, in the “dark corner,” as Win had put it, at the end of Railway Street, he spotted what had to be a streetwalker.
    She was dressed in Seventies American Hooker—fishnet stockings, high boots (those two looks seemed to be a contradiction), a skirt that covered up as much of her as, say, a belt would, and a purple top so tight it could have been sausage casing.
    Myron started toward her. When he got closer, the woman turned to him. Myron gave her a little wave.
    “Looking for company?” she asked him.
    “Uh, no. Not really.”
    “You don’t really get how this works, do you?”
    “I guess not, sorry.”
    “Let’s try again: Looking for a little company?”
    “You bet I am.”
    The woman smiled. Myron expected something horrific in the dental category, but she had a full mouth of nice, even white teeth. He guessed her age at around fifty, but it could have been a hard forty. She was big and shapely and sloppy and spilling out everywhere, and the smile made it all kind of work.
    “You’re an American,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “Lots of my clients are American.”
    “Doesn’t look like you have much competition.”
    “Not anymore, no. See, the girls stay off the streets nowadays. Do everything with a computer or an app.”
    “But you don’t.”
    “Nah, it ain’t me, you know what I mean? So cold, everyone on Tinder or Ohlala or whatever. Shame really. What happened to human contact? What happened to the personal touch?”
    “Uh-huh,” Myron said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.
    “Me, I like the streets. So my business model is to be something of a throwback, you know what I mean? I appeal to people’s— What do you call it?” She thought about it for a second and then snapped her fingers. “Nostalgia! Right? I mean, people are on holiday. They visit King’s Cross to see a hooker, not fiddle with their iPhone. You know what I mean?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “They want the full experience. This street, these clothes, the way I act, what I say—see, I’m what they call niche marketing.”
    “Good to fill a need.”
    “I used to be in porn.”
    She waited.
    “Oh, you probably don’t recognize me. I was only in three films back when— Well, a girl has to keep some of her secrets. My most famous role was Third Wench in a scene with that famous Italian guy, Rocky or Rocco something. But for years I was a top-notch fluffer. You know what that is, don’t you? A fluffer?”
    “I think I do.”
    “Most of the guys, truth is, with all the cameras and lights and all the people watching, well, it wasn’t easy on them to stay, you know, hard. So that was what the fluffers provided. Offstage. Oh, it was great work. I did it for years, knew all the tricks, I can tell you.”
    “I’m sure you can.”
    “But then Viagra came along and, well, a pill was a lot cheaper than a girl. Shame really. We fluffers are extinct now. Like dinosaurs or VHS tapes. So here I am, back out working on the streets. Not that I’m complaining, am I right?”
    “As rain.”
    “Speaking of which, you’re on the clock.”
    “That’s fine.”
    “Some girls sell their bodies. Not me. I sell my time. Like a consultant or barrister. What you do with that time—and as I say, the clock is ticking—is up to you. So what are you looking for, handsome?”
    “Um, a young man.”
    That made the smile flee. “Go on.”
    “He’s a teenager.”
    “Nah.” She made a swatting motion with her hand. “You’re no short eyes.”
    “No what?”
    “Short eyes. A pedo. You’re not going to tell me you’re a pedo, are you?”
    “Oh no. I’m not. I’m just looking for him. I mean him no harm.”
    She put her hands on her hips and looked at him for a long moment. “Why do I believe you?”
    Myron forced up his most winning smile. “My smile.”
    “No, but you do have a trusting face. That smile is bloody slimy.”
    “It’s