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man with the rubber band. Then he looked me over again and sighed. “Say again?”
    â€œI’m a sociologist,” I explained. “I’m doing a study of sex work in New York, and how people make money in clubs.”
    The man with the calculator laughed. The man with the rubber band shook his head. “What is it with you people?” He turned to his partner. “Must be, what, the fourth guy wants to study us? This year?”
    â€œSounds about right,” the other one said.
    â€œLook, a little advice,” the man with the calculator said. “None of these girls want your free condoms and nobody needs an AIDS test. Why don’t you go looking for people under bridges or somewhere who really need the fucking help?”
    Clearly, he was a bit shaky on the concept of sociology. “I’m not a social worker,” I said.
    â€œYou don’t want to help?” said the man with the rubber band.
    â€œWhy don’t you want to help?” said the woman in lingerie.
    All three pairs of eyes focused on me.
    This always seems to confuse people. I think what I do is ultimately helpful, that gathering good information will help destroy stereotypes about the poor and lead to a more accurate diagnosis of our society’s problems. But I also believe that in order to gather that information accurately, I have to put aside emotions like pity or affection. “I think it’s important just to know what people do for a living,” I said. “To
really
know. How much they make, how hard it is, why they do it, who they are, things like that. Then other people take all that data and decide what to do about it.”
    â€œHow hard is it?” the woman in lingerie repeated. “It’s hard, baby! I’ll fill your ear with that.”
    The man with the calculator turned his palms up. “Yo, sweetheart.”
    She went silent, looking away.
    Turning back in my direction, the man leaned forward in a way that said he was ready to sum up our encounter. “Look, I can’t have you around here. I don’t really understand what you’re up to and I really don’t have the time. So I’m going to ask that you leave. I’m assuming you won’t be back here, right?”
    â€œWell, what if I just talk with her?” I blurted out. “Just one conversation. That’s it, and then I’m out of here.”
    â€œWhy not?” the woman said. “It’ll be fun.”
    â€œOkay. Fine. I don’t run your life. But not here. You can meet him outside.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, appreciatively. “Let me write down my name and number for you. I’m legit. I don’t want any trouble, really.”
    â€œJust get the fuck out of my office.”
    I rose, said a polite good-bye, and made my way through the dimly lit hallway and out onto the street, excited about the chance to interview the aspiring dancer. She would be my first shot at gaining a foothold in this intriguing economic sector.
    I waited outside the club for two hours. She never showed up.
    I tried to contain my disappointment. Years can go by before a researcher is fully accepted into any sort of group, especially one in which criminal subcultures are lurking, but the clock was ticking at Columbia. I had to research and publish enough material to make a case for tenure before too much more time passed. The strip clubs—legal establishments where illegal activity occurred—were the perfect solution. I could try upscale bars or nightclubs, but the challenges would probably be the same. The Urban Justice Center was helpful, but they were overwhelmed providing services to sex workers and didn’t have time to make introductions for me.What I needed was a guide, a Virgil who could teach me and vouch for me. I needed a
broker.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I thought about the first time I met Analise. I had just arrived at Harvard on a