Floating City (6 page)

For the moment, I didn't need to answer these concerns—I only had to be aware of them. But I couldn't put them off forever.

•   •   •

T
o start a study, I always focus on the two things a sociologist needs in his toolbox: a) a few guiding concepts, and b) a strategy for getting evidence.

For strategy, I couldn't shake Shine's idea of “floating.” It wasn't scientifically precise, but it did remind me to step out of my Chicago shoes and acknowledge that people moved in a different way in New York. As they moved around the city, they were likely to forge ties to new people in unpredictable ways. So I decided to follow people as they led me to
other
people. I would keep track of all these connections and branch out into as many new worlds as I could. And if none of it seemed to make any sense, I would try to be patient and wait for a pattern to emerge.

With the concept of permeable boundaries and a strategy for gathering information, it was time to start figuring out how to get all these people to talk to me. Asking hedge fund traders or real estate brokers to talk to a scientist about their connections to the economic underground might not be easy, but it had to be easier than getting hoodlums to talk about their crimes.

My first lead came from a police officer named Michael Collins, the friend of a policeman I knew in Chicago. When you're studying the black market, it's always a good idea to let the cops know what you're doing, so I introduced myself to him as soon as I landed in New York. We discovered we shared a love of history and became friendly. One night, just when I was starting to wonder where my work in Harlem was going, he made an offhand comment that surprised me.

“The days of street prostitution are over.”

Over? Really? And what had things been like before?

Collins filled me in on the 1980s and 1990s, when prostitutes in little more than garter belts and bras flagged down cars on Tenth Avenue, when entire blocks were Wild West zones filled with all manner of crime.

“So where are the prostitutes going?” I asked. “The Internet?”

Some, he said. But there was a weird thing lately. Cops who were picking up women at bars and hotels for just regular stuff—the usual random reasons like disorderly conduct or drugs in public view—were finding hundreds or thousands of dollars on them. “They're not hookers,” he said, “but they have all this
money.
There's something new going on.” Part of this was because of city policy, he explained. The increasing police presence and decreasing tolerance for various street nuisances—from open-air prostitution to squeegee men—were motivated by a desire to protect the gentrifiers and tourists coming into Midtown. He didn't understand where the street workers went or what kind of women were coming into the hotels and bars, but I wanted to. This seemed exactly like the boundary crossing, the connection making—the floating—that I should be studying.

To get at this story, I decided that I couldn't act alone. I'd waste months as I had done in Harlem trying to build trust. So I linked up with the Sex Workers' Project at the Urban Justice Center, an advocacy group that provides legal services to sex workers. One of my students and I decided to work on their new project examining the rise of so-called “indoor” sex work. The match seemed beneficial for both parties: I could gain entrée into the sex trade and they would get the free services of a trained ethnographer.

My first attempt was cold-calling escort agencies to find some of the new sex workers. Only three out of twenty-five agency managers returned my call. The first hung up as soon as I said what I wanted. The second yelled at me, “Nice try, Mr. Police Officer!”

The third caller waved me away, but advised that I look at strip clubs. “That's where a lot of these women are starting to hang out. Because most of the women who do this, they're more like mistresses than hookers. They hang out in these bars and pick up these high-priced dates.”

I thought about it. From what I read in the media, strip clubs were becoming more than just seedy places where hustlers and pimps hung out. Some of them were as costly as the fanciest nightclubs. High-end professionals went to them and spent lots of money. And since it was safe to assume that the dancers didn't declare all their tips and that their nightly wages were paid under the table, these were hybrid spaces that mixed legitimate and underground economic activity. Plus there'd be cigarette girls and backroom poker games and lavatory attendants. All of this clicked with my concept about permeable borders.

•   •   •

M
y explorations of the strip clubs of New York started with a midlevel place in Tribeca. The clientele was economically mixed and tourists were at a minimum. I went in and sat like any other customer, trying to blend in while glancing around periodically to take in the larger picture, but I guess I asked too many questions or failed to ogle the dancers with sufficient conviction because, on my third visit, a tall African-American guard approached me. He looked to be about six foot four, 250 pounds, built like a professional football player. Twice I had seen him throw out drunks who'd touched the strippers.

“How's your night going?” he asked, his face expressionless.

I smiled at him, trying my best to be friendly and disarming. “I thought you guys weren't supposed to talk to people.”

“I talk to people when they're doing something I need to know about,” he answered, giving me a stare that said, more eloquently than any words, that I was one of those people.

Honesty was the best policy, I decided. I told him that I was a sociologist from Columbia and had purely scientific—

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing my arm.

“That's really not necessary,” I said.

“You can explain to the manager.”

All the way across the floor, he squeezed my arm hard enough to leave bruises. We reached a dark staircase and he pushed me up one flight, then pressed me against the wall with his massive palm while his other hand rapped on a metal door. A small square window slid open and shut; then the door opened. Inside sat three extras from a John Cassavetes movie: a young woman in lingerie and two middle-aged men with gaunt faces and greased black hair combed back over their heads. One of the men had a calculator in his hand; the other played with a small rubber band. Both had unbuttoned shirts and silver chains in their chest hair. Both shot me bored looks as the half-naked girl continued with what she was saying.

“The best thing about me, I don't flake out like some girls. I'm
dependable
.”

“I wouldn't even know what that means, sweetheart,” said the man with the calculator.

“I'll be here,” she continued. “I'll show up when I say I'm gonna show up—and I'll be ready to do my thing.”

Unimpressed, the man with the rubber band looked at the security guard, then at me. “Who's this guy?”

The guard tightened his grip on my arm. “He's been snooping around.”

“Was he alone?” the man with the rubber band asked.

“I think so. There was another guy at the bar.”

“I'm alone,” I said, starting my usual introduction about sociology and the study of the underground economy.

The man at the desk ignored me and just stared at the guard, who lowered his head in shame.

“My bad. I'll go find the other guy.”

He walked out of the office.

“What the fuck was that?” the man with the calculator said.

“Stupid fucking nigger,” said the man with the rubber band. Then he looked me over again and sighed. “Say again?”

“I'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?”

“Sounds about right,” the other one said.

“Look, 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.

“You don't want to help?” said the man with the rubber band.

“Why 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.”

“How 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?”

“Well, what if I just talk with her?” I blurted out. “Just one conversation. That's it, and then I'm out of here.”

“Why not?” the woman said. “It'll be fun.”

“Okay. Fine. I don't run your life. But not here. You can meet him outside.”

“Thank you,” I said, appreciatively. “Let me write down my name and number for you. I'm legit. I don't want any trouble, really.”

“Just 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.

•   •   •

I
thought about the first time I met Analise. I had just arrived at Harvard on a fellowship from the Society of Fellows, a sixty-year-old organization that had no requirements other than attending dinners with famous writers and scientists at a grand mahogany table once owned by Oliver Wendell Holmes. Of the two dozen or so Junior Fellows in residence each year, a few would volunteer to help plan meals and pair food with bottles from the society's private wine cellar. In a particularly inept attempt to fit in, I agreed to take on this task. The problem was, I knew nothing about wine. I paired red wine with fish and chose modern California wines rather than the twenty-year-old French Burgundies that lined the cellar. My companions were not pleased. Vomit was mentioned several times.

I decided to hold a tasting so I could take notes and improve my selections. But when the guests began arriving in their loafers and barn jackets—accompanied by dates who seemed to be multiple incarnations of the same strawberry blond—disaster struck again. I tapped a glass with a knife and said, “Welcome! Tonight we begin with a 1982 Château Lee—
”

With my mouth open, I realized I had no idea how to pronounce this French word. Then Analise leaned over and whispered, “Lee-oh-
nay
.”

Afterward, she took me aside. “These are white wine glasses,” she said.

“That's all I could find,” I said.

“This is the Society of Fellows,” she said. “You should have the right stemware.”

Stemware? I slumped. “It looks like I'm going to be a real disaster as wine steward. I had no idea it was so technical.”

She gave me a warm smile. “It's not that hard once you know a
few basic things.” With that, she commenced a quick-and-dirty introduction in the basics of wine. Soon she was asking me about India and telling me about her visits there as a teenager and college student. Her parents had thought of it as a punishment, sending her there to “think things over,” but she'd loved it.

“I feel so much smarter when I come back because I just don't give a shit about what anybody else thinks. That's the answer, Sudhir—just don't give a shit. Same with wine. There's no right or wrong, really. It's about knowing what you like.” Then she gave me a merry wink, my first true welcome to the inner sanctums of America's elite. “You just have to start drinking—a
lot
,” she said.

I laughed. After that, everything was easier.

Years later, away from eating clubs and ensconced in New York strip clubs, I found myself needing another Analise who could serve as my consigliere. But now the stakes were higher than scorn and a few rolling eyes from my colleagues. There were only so many times bouncers and security guards would gently escort me into the back room for a conversation. In my work with gangs, I discovered quickly that leaders would speak to me if I signaled that their peers were taking part. Maybe they thought I'd divulge their competitors' secrets, but I knew that they mostly wanted me to affirm how much smarter, richer, more talented, and more violent they were relative to their competitors. Even if I never did that—and I rarely did—their jealousy was enough to make them willing participants. I was hoping that strip club managers would eventually join my study out of the same need for competition, but that happy occasion was years away at best. For now, I just needed them to let me in the door long enough to hear my offer.