They come at the end of their night, to shake off the grime of a shift spent shepherding charlatans and drunkards and passengers who insist that a taxi must take them to Brooklyn, and they come at the beginning, so their rented Bentleys and BMWs shimmer so brightly that even the nightclub bouncers they will soon encounter cannot help but notice.  They come to use the bathroom, because the line at their party was too long, and they come to bring sandwiches to the washing crew, because the workers’ pay is low and tips were good tonight and why shouldn’t an altruistic limo driver with a pocketful of tips close his evening with his conscience spotless too?  This is the Westside Highway Car Wash, perched at the western boundary of Manhattan’s neon district, on West 46th Street and 12th Avenue, its sign — “CAR WASH,” lighted in white letters and red trim — calling to all those who seek a clean slate, even if it will last only a few minutes.  The wash, like its city, is open 24 hours a day. No interior cleaning after 9 p.m. Management is not responsible for valuables left in the car. Rates may vary. Please don’t forget to tip.  Many do, of course, though oversharing of another kind is common, particularly after midnight. There was the man who boasted, before speeding away, that he was 40 but “the girl in my car is 19.” Another lurched toward the entrance at 46th Street, in a jacket and button-down, and asked, “Do you know where to get some blow?”  Two members of his party stood silently. The man was kidding, he said finally. He knew where to go.  Most patrons inquired about more traditional services. About 8 p.m. on a recent Saturday, Ed Haddad, 47, a limousine driver from Hopewell Junction, N.Y., came for what had become a daily pilgrimage.  “If it doesn’t rain, you have to wash it every day,” he said. Gleam is his central business tenet, he explained, noting that his shoes had been shined the day before. If customers cannot see their reflection in the hood, they “might not say it to your face,” he said. But they notice.  About 9 p.m., the proprietors of a beige Bentley arrived with similar ambitions. “I want this to shine real nice,” Sergy de Bonhome, 31, a designer from Washington, D.C., said, waving his hands over the front left tire as he stepped out of the car.  He and a friend had come to party in New York, he said. Mr. de Bonhome was asked where they were going first. He held up his hand, thumbing through his phone.  “My girls are texting me,” he said. Had to go.  The car, glistening even before it reached 12th Avenue, was nonetheless put through the wash, an opera of chains and sprays, scented winds and damp blue tassels whipping at the vehicle’s flanks.  When the car reached the other side, Mamadou Balde was waiting. It is the job of Mr. Balde, 34, a recent immigrant from Guinea, to drive the cars about 12 feet, from the end of the wash track to the edge of the sidewalk, before the hand wash. He works 6:30 a.m. to 9 p.m., six days a week. He is paid $7.25 an hour.  Shortly after 9 p.m., members of the late-night crew arrived for their shift. The hour also signaled the closing of the wash’s small store inside. Products include steering wheel locks, antifreeze and an album of the “super hits” of Blue Oyster Cult. (They had 10, apparently.)  The night team includes Cisse Mamourou, 48, a tire cleaner from the Ivory Coast whose mouth showed anywhere from two to four teeth, depending on his expression, and Sanogo Bangali, 46, also from the Ivory Coast, who oversees sales.  Mr. Bangali also holds the unique distinction of bathroom steward, a critical position in a neighborhood where velvet ropes reign after dark and most other commercial businesses have been closed for hours. “I watch their face before I give the bathroom,” Mr. Bangali said, describing his screening process. “People pee on the floor. That’s what my bosses don’t like.”  About 11:30 p.m., three young women in short dresses and long heels clicked across the garage floor. One wearing a skirt the color of Pepto Bismol, with shoes to match, begged breathlessly for Mr. Bangali’s blessing. He declined.  Moments later, another visitor won him over with a more dispassionate plea. On her way out, she offered Mr. Bangali an appreciative fist bump.  Though much of the business still comes from taxis and car service sedans, the late-night fare is typically more eye-catching: a stretch limousine from Connecticut; the new BMW sedan; a black Audi with diplomats’ plates, whose driver said he had just received dignitaries from the Saudi Arabian embassy, before deciding he had divulged too much and returning to the front seat.  Outside the building, between 46th and 47th Streets, two migrating club-goers lay on their backs atop a ramp leading to the store area, gazing at the stars after midnight.  They were not the only travelers who lingered for the sights. Felix Ortiz, 58, from Nanuet, N.Y., runs a bus service from Rockland County to New York City. Between trips, Mr. Ortiz said, he stops at the carwash, stepping out of the vehicle after it is cleaned to take stock of the city that sustains his business.  “This is beautiful,” he said, with a shuttered gentleman’s club behind him and a blur of 12th Avenue traffic in front. “This is New York right here.”
The night shift at the Westside Highway Car Wash tends to patrons amid an opera of spray, scent and, especially after midnight, unusual requests.