In call girl slang it was known as a door dash. Some of the girls called it a knock and drop. Generally it entailed oral sex, and seldom advanced beyond the entree of a client's residence. It was usually all over in five minutes and was the last resort of men with meagre finances, who were clinging on to their sex lives by the tips of their fingernails.
“Fuck Bidenomics, eh,” her previous client had said, the moment after he ejaculated into her mouth. Afterwards, he had attempted to pay her in small change. Mickey had strong-armed him to the nearest coinstar and charged him triple, though she had received the same rate.
“Okay honey where'd you want it,” she said to the homunculus who stood, hunched over at the shoulders, in the doorway.
His attire was simultaneously both over the top and slovenly, like some guy whose prom date hadn't showed. The red sequinned jacket was too small to accommodate the overhang of his belly. His face looked like it had been carelessly pinned on. One hand held out a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of gas station flowers. She recalled something an experienced whore had told her when she first came to Vegas: “I've lost count of the girls from the sticks who think they're gonna be fucking Richard Gere all day. What they actually get is variations on Napoleon Dynamite.”
Behind her there was a screech of tires. A man dressed in a grey suit was out of the passenger door of the lead vehicle before it stopped.
“5-0?” she said, as he advanced towards her at a clip, holding out a sheaf of documents.
“Ma'am, step away from the John.”
She moved to one side, allowing him access to the doorway.
“Russell Greer. You're a hard man to locate,” said the agent. He thrust the paperwork at him, seemingly unconcerned as to whether or not it was read. “Pursuant to court order, we are garnishing this prostitute that you have hired to provide sexual services. As of now, any contractual agreement that existed between the pair of you is null and void.”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, the agent produced a silk sash with the word GARNISHED printed on it.
“If you could just wear this, ma'am,” he said to the call girl. “Over one shoulder, like you've just won a beauty contest.”
Obediently, she slipped the ribbon over her head, her fingers unkinking a twist in the shiny fabric, as it settled around her.
“My client requires that you sing 'Onward Christian Soldiers' from this hymn sheet,” said the agent, “After which all outstanding debts, related to this current transaction, will be considered legally absolved. If necessary, I can hum the tune for you.”
“I know it from my church days,” she said.
In the doorway, Greer was mumbling something about plights and trauma lumps.
“Six, I'm seven,” he said.
“Yeah, you're a real sick fuck,” murmured the agent. His words were almost drowned out by the rising soprano of the call girl.
“Damn, that girl's got one beautiful voice,” said Agent Buckman, from the drivers seat of the support vehicle.
Alongside him, Agent Rodriguez nodded. “I'd like to garnish her a little myself, if you know what I mean.”
Buckman stared at him in disgust. “Agent Rodriguez, may I remind you that, less than 24 hours ago, your wife gave birth to your first daughter.”
