My old apartment had a terrace. It overlooked a parking lot and the backs of too-tall buildings: the perfect view of a nondescript urban landscape. The thing about the terrace is that when you stepped foot onto it, you could be anywhere. The other thing about the terrace is that when you stepped foot onto it, you could be anywhere.
Now it’s nighttime and the tall-boot girls pop out of the dark doorways like it’s a shooting range—except they aren’t cardboard cutouts and I don’t have a gun—as I go up Hooker Hill. They go “woo, woo! Hey!” Just last week a U.S. soldier was arrested for trying to burn down one of the brothels when the deal went bad.