“Kritzia said. “She’s working. And the guy in front of her is her pimp.” We were standing on Seventh Avenue at about one-thirty A.M., across the street from Lace, the strip club. She and her friend Melissa used to spend hours on end on this corner. Kritzia was tiny, plump, and sultry, with bright red lips and wild hair. But she was dressed conservatively, like a mom at a PTA meeting. Since hearing about Melissa’s death, she’d sworn off working as an escort, and so far, she’s kept the promise to ...herself. On a clear night in October, she agreed to show me around where she and Melissa used to work, to get a view of the women who have taken their place. “Does she look familiar?” I asked about the girl in front of us. “Yeah. She knows me and I know her.” “Why not talk to her?” “Because the girl’s pimp is there, and I don’t want her to get in trouble.” When Kritzia pointed to the pimp, I saw him for the first time, even though he was under ten feet away—skinny, white, and dressed plainly, eyeing us both suspiciously over a thin trace of a mustache.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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