Strange people abound. Slipping like ghosts between the colossal monuments to American social progress called federal housing projects, the two government accountants dressed in navy blue suits try not to draw attention to themselves. The rented silver sedan offers contrast to the hulks partitioning each foot of the curbs. Pedestrians dart between the parked cars and into the road.

"Where is the central office?" Gordon straightens his red and gold striped tie and looks in the visor’s mirror to see if his gray hair is tidy.

"It is up near where the hookers work," Kevin says. He checks the time on his new gold watch. "Nine-thirty in the morning is the perfect time for a surprise inspection."

"Hookers?" Gordon polishes his cufflinks with his handkerchief. "What is it with hookers and low rent?"

"These hookers are regular political and financial wizards." Kevin slows as a woman pushing a baby stroller eases off of the curb.

"You have to love free enterprise at work." Gordon laughs and glances at children playing on an abandoned car. "Do they run the authority as well?"

"No, but they probably should," Kevin nods to the woman as he stops to let her cross. "We have long days ahead. We’ll be lucky to wrap things up by eight thirty if our gracious hosts at the Puerto Rican Housing Authority play nice and cooperate. Usually, we’re done by ten or eleven and by then the hookers are out."

The audits of the Authority’s books are always difficult. Money for playgrounds, repairs and routine maintenance always finds a way to become cars, cash bonuses for local union employees or even fees charged by a hooker. Prosecutions for mismanagement and embezzling rarely occur. Reform is a political speech.

"If the hookers are all in one location, why don’t the cops round them up?"

Gordon opens a mint package and pops one into his mouth. "You want a mint?"

"No, thanks." Kevin slows down again to allow an old man to hobble out of their way. "The cops won’t arrest them because upstanding citizens and politicos are usually the johns."

"So the hookers work right in front of the office?"

"Most do." Kevin points at a sliding screen door open on a balcony. "That is their day care center. The hookers take turns babysitting for each other. They have a complete structure in place, from daycare to shared quarters to a seniority system for who works which nights. They share profits, food and even clothing."

"I would think that they’d be in competition. Don’t they have the usual problems associated with prostitutes, like drug and alcohol abuse? This doesn’t look like utopia to me." Gordon pops another mint.

"No, it doesn’t," Kevin says. "I’m saying they have a system and it works. They won’t let the Dominican hookers work here, though."

"Why, because they’re illegal aliens and could cause problems?"

"No, because they’re ugly and have bad teeth."

"Could’ve done without that image in my mind, but you have to give them credit," Gordon reaches down and picks his file up, "they’re hookers with a social security system and strict union rules. The United States’ Government can’t even get child-care reform passed. Hookers take the lead on reform; there’s a headline."

"Maybe we should let them run this place." Kevin turns into the parking space marked as reserved for the director of housing.

Gordon looks at the sign and glances at Kevin. Kevin puts the car in park and shuts down the engine. They unbuckle their seatbelts as a Housing Authority security guard ambles over to shoo them away. He sees the identification badges hanging from the chains on their necks, spins around on one heel and returns to the rusty chair where he sits each day.

"Yeah," Kevin says, "we should let them run this place."

"Nope," Gordon replies, "then we’d feel guilty for stealing their best parking spaces."