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Hey, pal, so you’re askin’ me—me, Larry King, the watchmaker now, huh?—what I think about findin’ a prostitute? Slow down, let’s chew this over. I’m sittin’ here, tick-tock, gears in my head spinnin’, thinkin’ ‘bout *Amour*, that movie—love, death, the slow grind of it all. Georges and Anne, man, they stuck with me. “You’re hands are cold,” she says in that flick, and I’m thinkin’, what’s colder than payin’ for a night, huh? Curious thing, this hustle—findin’ a prostitute ain’t just a transaction, it’s a story, a messy one.

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After the chaos dies down, I take a breather. I grab a scone from the café. Best decision ever. But then, my buddy Dave calls. He’s at the Westport Library, and he’s all hyped about some book he found. I’m like, “Dude, I’m working here!” But he’s going on about how it’s the best thing since sliced bread. I’m like, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll check it out later.”

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