At the local newspaper where I worked, there has long been a prostitution stroll going on not that far from my office. So, from time-to-time I’ve done stories about it. Wanting to do a follow-up article to the last one, I recently strolled into my editor’s office and our conversation went something like this…
“You know that prostitution article I did last year that you wanted me to follow-up on because it got quite a bit of reaction?” I said to my editor.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Well, I still want to do it.”
“But didn’t you say that that prostitute you interviewed is no longer around?”
“Yeah,” I answered, “but I figure I could talk to just about any local prostitute and at least find out if things have changed much.”
“I guess that’s true,” he said.
“Like for instance, the one that’s up there right now,” I said, dragging my editor out the front door and pointing out a rather attractive, shapely young blond in a sexy short skirt who was standing fifty yards or so away.
“That doesn’t look like a prostitute to me,” said my editor with surprising conviction.
“And since when do you know what a prostitute looks like?” I asked with a smile.
“Well,” he said, returning my smile, “let’s just say that one doesn’t exactly look like the one you interviewed who had a couple of black eyes and was in desperate need of a bath. I know she’s standing where all the other prostitutes normally do, and she’s certainly dressed up like one, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s actually a police decoy.”
“Really?” I said. “A police decoy? You think so?”
“That would be my guess,” said my editor. “And if I were you, if you do decide to go up and interview her, I would be very careful about what I say.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, didn’t you give that other prostitute you interviewed twenty bucks or something for her time?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” he said, pointing to the woman off in the distance, “I bet if you offer than young lady twenty bucks, you’ll end up on a phone down at the police station calling me to come bail you out.”
Anyway, since it was time to walk over to the post office and get the mail, and since my path would cross right past the lady in discussion, I informed my editor that I was going to stroll by her and get a better feel for the whole situation.
“Just be careful,” he reminded me again, “because if she is a police decoy, she has backup nearby and one wrong word or move from you and you’re on your way to jail.”
So, I set off bravely to go where no local reporter had ever gone before – right into the heart of what could possibly be an undercover police sting operation.
Within a few strides of her, she turned and greeted me with a very friendly smile. I smiled back.
“Hey there,” she said flirtatiously, and for some reason (probably the stress), I replied with “Howdy”, having to my knowledge never before in my whole life used that particular salutation. Then, just as I was about to open my mouth again (never knowing what comes out of it), there was the definitive proof I needed to just keep me right on shuffling along as quickly as I could towards the post office.
And when I got back to the office, mail in hand, my editor said, “Well, did you interview that prostitute?”
“Nope,” I said. “You were right. She was definitely a police decoy.”
“And how do you know that for sure?” he asked.
“Her feet,” I said.
“Her feet?”
“Yep. She was wearing sandals, and those were the cleanest, best-looking feet I’ve seen in ages. New nail polish, toe rings, you name it.”
“But what’s that got to do with anything?” asked my editor, laughing.
“Just call me suspicious,” I said, “but if you ask me, no way does a real prostitute go and get herself a pedicure just before she hits the streets.”