text: J. C. Laird You Get What You Pay For BookRix GmbH & Co. KG 81371 Munich 
   
   
   You Get What You Pay For 
     
   YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR 
     
     
     
   Adam hadn’t been this jumpy since Wendy Ward asked him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance at Hoover High back in the ninth grade. Then again, he had been as nervous as a dog in a thunderstorm when he and Wendy married nine years later. Tonight, he was on the verge of sheer panic. 
   He looked in the bathroom mirror, squared his shoulders and peered critically at the length of his conservative brown tie; it hung an inch below his beltline, an acceptable distance. He had already re-tied it three times to get it just right. The plain, gold tie-bar holding it to his shirt was perfectly horizontal. The pale yellow, long-sleeve dress shirt still hid his slight potbelly and the thickening of his waistline, his “love handles.” 
   Adam leaned forward and peered at the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the loosening of the skin at his neck, the weak chin, his thinning sandy hair, and receding hairline. The eyes staring back at him, now faded and washed out, had once been a bright and penetrating blue. His right one was slightly bloodshot, but no amount of Murine would fix that. And the headache was only a nagging twinge tonight. 
   Adam took a step back and evaluated his image again. He was 58 years old, and all things considered, he was not an ugly man. He was still in decent shape and if he remembered to take Wendy’s advice to “stand up straight and not to stoop,” clocked in at over six feet tall. But he had to remember things on his own now since Wendy was gone... 
   Adam looked at his watch, paced out into the luxurious master bedroom and checked the clock on the dark, mahogany nightstand and compared the times; they corresponded, 7:45 p.m. He had fifteen minutes left. He walked into the expansive living room and sitting area, still in awe of the spacious 1525 sq. ft. Cypress Suite he had decided on booking. He lifted his dark-brown suit coat off the back of a chair, put it on and tugged, pulled, smoothed, and adjusted. 
   He continued fidgeting and scurried over to the large picture window overlooking the front of the Bellagio Hotel and Casino. From thirty-four stories up he couldn’t discern much; the cars were like toys and the bustling people ant-sized figures in the early evening twilight. The hotel’s vast array of neon lights would soon substitute for Mother Nature. Adam jammed his hands in his pockets. He was as nervous as “a whore in church,” as the old saying went. He laughed without humor at his inadvertent wit. 
   How had he gotten talked into this? It was his friends—the good ol’ boys—at the Elks Lodge who had pushed him to this point. No…, of course, it wasn’t, there was a lot more at play here than something stemming from a few beers with the guys. They had commiserated with him numerous times during his wife’s long illness and had shared more than a few drinks with him after her death. Later, they had continued to encourage him to get him back into the social scene. After that, many more were tipped in silence once the doctors had confirmed Adam’s medical test results. Originally, this had been his best friend Pete’s idea, an achingly irresistible idea for Adam, and… well… here he was. 
   Another glance at the clock, 7:55. Maybe she was running late, maybe she would not show up at all. Now, he had to pee. He hurried to the bathroom, relieved himself, washed his hands, and paused again in front of the mirror for another check. Back in the living room, he stared at his watch, 8:00, on the money. 
   When the soft knocking sounded at the door, Adam jumped, dreading but expecting it. Panicked, he briefly considered ignoring the gentle rapping, scrapping the whole idea. Instead, he took a deep breath, licked his lips and ran his hands down the front of his suit, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles while drying sweaty palms. He opened the door. 
   Adam’s nervousness vanished as his mind turned to mush. He no longer worried about what to say as the power of speech fell by the wayside. He was also unaware he was gaping, bug-eyed at the vision in the hallway. Adam was struck dumb; she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen but describing her as only beautiful was like saying the Great Wall of China was only a fence. 
   His Wendy had been a short, petite blue-eyed blonde and, as her illnesses progressed, had gradually wasted away before death claimed her. He’d felt guilty when the escort service returned his call. Adam had told the lady on the phone he wanted a young, attractive woman, tall and dark-complexioned. The caller must have been a psychic. And more. 
   In her late twenties or early thirties, the dream standing in front of him had to be six feet tall in her high heels. His first impression was that of a light-skinned black woman, but something about her facial features hinted at Hispanic. Then again, the shape of the eyes suggested a dash of Asian or Hawaiian, eyes that were so dark as to be almost ebony. Jet-black hair pulled away from her face and clipped in the back with a pearl clasp accented a slim neck, joining bare shoulders marred only by the spaghetti straps of her red evening gown. A dress whose fabric clung to the curves and contours of her body, from her full bodice to her narrow waist, to the erotic flair of her hips, to the long length of her legs. Simple white pearls adorned her neck, matched by a set of tasteful pearl studs at her ears. A white lace shawl hung loosely from her arms, draped down to her waist. It was as if the woman had walked off the pages of Elle Magazine, suggesting a promise of things to come from Victoria’s Secret… 
   Adam had been oblivious to the fact that the exotic, mocha-hued woman had been talking. Now, as the initial shock of seeing her was wearing off, words were filtering through. “... Mr. Anderson… Mr. Adam C. Anderson…? Excuse me, sir; this is room 3426, correct?” She was smiling through full red lips and perfect white teeth, but now the smile reflected a tinge of concern. 
   He gulped, took in some air as he resumed breathing. “I’m sorry... yes, I’m Adam Anderson… and you must be…?” 
   “Gabriella Marguerite Duchene. I know, I know, a real mouthful. All my friends call me Gabby.” She held out her hand. “You can call me Gabby.” 
   Adam shook her hand, a hand firm and cool. “Please come in Ms. Duchene… I mean Gabby.” He almost swooned as she brushed by him in a light draft of delicate perfume, the eddying currents of air carrying the subtle essence of roses in the early morning dew. 
   Inside, she stood facing him, her smile still full and warm. “Mr. Anderson…” 
   “Adam, please.” 
   “Adam. I assume you’re aware of the escort fees?” 
   He had it memorized. “Yes, $1,000 an hour, $5,000 for the evening, $10,000 for the night.” 
   “And?” Her expression was appraising. 
   He gulped self-consciously, “The whole… uh… night, $10,000,” he stammered. Adam pulled out a cashier’s check and thrust it at her. “You can fill in the name… please.” He wiped his moist hand on the front of his suit coat. 
   Without looking at it, she slipped it into her small, red handbag. She smiled warmly. “Well, Adam, what do you have in mind? Where would you like to go—a show, dinner, a little gambling? Or would you like to stay here?” Her expression was open and engaging. 
   Adam was still a little pole-axed looking at her, was still on edge and uncomfortable. Dinner and a few drinks might help him relax, postponing the inevitable. “Ah… believe it or not, it’s my first time in Las Vegas. I have no idea where to go. And it’s my first time with… ah… um…” Blushing, Adam let the thought die. 
   Gabby smiled and continued, “Okay, Adam, leave it to me. I think we can get into the Venetian for the 9:00 pm show of ‘The Blue Man Group’—I have connections—and they have several great restaurants on site.” 
     
   Gabby did, indeed, get them into the show. Laughing and clapping throughout, she seemed to delight in the comedy routines. Her wide-eyed fascination was almost childlike and certainly disarming. Although Adam found the comedic skits enjoyable, he was unable to fully relax. The exotic woman’s nearness was almost paralyzing. She seemed to suck the air out of the room, creating a vacuum in which only they existed. She would occasionally touch his arm or hand in a relaxed camaraderie, and twice lay her head on his shoulder, her perfume torturing him with future promises. 
   By the time the show ended, Adam found his nervous tension rising like a swelling tsunami. Instead of the comedy show relaxing him, he was again on the verge of panic. His heart was pounding in his chest and he kept swallowing compulsively. He was debating about bolting and running out on the whole thing, but his inner turmoil took too long to resolve. The next thing he knew they were sitting in the Canaletto Restaurant. 
   The Italian/Venetian restaurant’s lavish, Renaissance décor, sixteen-foot ceilings, hardwood floors, and its exhibition kitchen helped ease Adam’s discomfort. Their table had a view of the Grand Canal outside with the occasional passing gondola. It was enchanting and romantic. 
   Adam had noticed at the show and, even more so now in the restaurant, the subtle, but envious and sometimes leering looks he and Gabriella were getting from the men, and even several women. He realized that a few might assume anyone as beautiful as she had to be bought and paid for being with someone like him. But Adam didn’t care; he was grateful to have Gabby draped on one arm as they came and went. Her devotion to him was singular and undivided. She acted as if he were the only person worthy of her attention. 
   Adam’s eyes glazed over as he scanned the menu, most of which were in Italian. 
   Gabby looked at him, musing, a forefinger tapping her lip in thought, one eye squinting at him appraisingly. “I bet you’re a meat and potatoes man and, I’d guess... um… medium-well on preparing the meat?” 
   “Yes, I suppose I am, and correct on the medium-well, too.” 
   She continued, “I speak a little Italian, and since this was my idea, would you like me to order for both of us?” 
   Adam’s sheepish grin turned into a grateful smile. “That’s okay with me.” 
   One glance from Gabriella and the white-clad Maître d’ glided over to their table. Gabby launched into seemly fluent Italian. The waiter nodded and smiled in approval, replying and asking questions in equally unintelligible Italian. 
   Adam listened, open-mouthed. 
   When she finished, and the waiter had gone, it was her turn to grin self-consciously. 
   “Okay, so I know more than a little Italian.” 
   “I’m almost afraid to ask, what are we eating?” Adam asked, ignoring her confession. 
   “For me, ‘branzino al sale o alla griglia,’ which translates to Mediterranean sea bass, under a salted crust.” Abby winked, pointed at Adam, and continued, “And for you big guy, ‘costata di manzo,’ akin to a grilled, bone-in 22-ounce rib-eye with roasted potatoes. For dessert, we’ll be looking at ‘tiramisu al cuchiaio,’ an Italian custard thingy that’s to die for. Also, the sommelier is bringing us a bottle of ’06 Barolo Serralunga, an excellent wine which should go well with both our entrees.” 
   Despite Gabby’s easy banter, Adam couldn’t relax, fidgeting with his napkin and rearranging his silverware. She reached across and took his hand. “Hey, loosen up, there’s nothing to be nervous about.” 
   He laughed, more than a little self-conscious. “Right. I’m in a strange place, sitting with the most beautiful woman on the planet, with everyone staring at us, doing things I’ve never done before, facing a night of… well… it’s been so long I’m afraid that I… and… you might think that… um… well…,” he stammered to a stop, his face growing hot. 
   She squeezed his hand. “Okay, so tell me why you’re doing this. Obviously, this is the first time you’ve been…” her smile widened... “with an ‘escort,’ and I’m guessing that a thousand-dollar-an-hour hooker wouldn’t normally be within your budget either. So, why?” 
   Adam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. She seemed so warm, so genuinely concerned, it was hard to believe she was acting this way only because of the money. But what did he have to lose? Other than his drinking buddies at the Elks, he had never talked to anyone else about it, let alone a woman—any woman. 
   He rushed on before he could second guess himself. “My wife, Wendy, and I were high school sweethearts, marrying right after we graduated from college; we were both twenty-four. We never had any children and found out later that Wendy had a ‘bifurcated’ uterus. Several operations failed to correct it, so we resigned ourselves to never having children.” He rambled on for several more minutes before stopping. 
   He took a nervous sip of wine before continuing. “Wendy’s health problems started in her mid-thirties. By age forty-two she was diagnosed with Sclera Derma and Renaud’s Syndrome, by forty-eight with Multiple Sclerosis. Her auto-immune system was severely compromised. I retired from my job as a history teacher at Hoover High School to help take care of her. Fortunately, I had my twenty-five years in and received a full pension and retiree medical benefits for myself and Wendy.” 
   The waiter arrived with their dinner, and the next few minutes were occupied with readying themselves for their meal, conversation limited to trivial, food-related topics. Gabriella had not commented on the earlier, one-sided conversation. Now, cutting into her fillet, she looked at him, her smile warm. “Please, Adam, go on, about you and Wendy.” 
   Adam couldn’t return the smile. He took several deep breaths, unable to get enough air, his appetite waning. “There’s not a whole lot left to say. She deteriorated gradually, and the last several years she was in a wheelchair. Soon, I had to hire someone to help me with her and, even then, had to put her in an assisted living home for the last year. I visited her every day. Wendy died almost a year ago.” 
   Again, Gabby reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’m so very sorry, Adam.” 
   They finished their meal in silence. While waiting for their tiramisu to arrive, Gabby pressed on. “You never answered my question, Adam.” 
   He stared at her, confused. 
   “Why are you here, why are you doing this?” 
   Adam averted his eyes, blushing. “Wendy was too sick to… because of her illness, she didn’t want to, she couldn’t…” He fumbled with his napkin. “… I… I haven’t… um… I haven’t been with a woman… in 12 years.” 
   He expected the charming prostitute to laugh in scorn, to joke or ridicule. Instead, she was staring at him, deep in thought. Several seconds passed before she leaned forward, grinned, and whispered, “Well, now I know why you’ve been looking at me like a starving man in front of a buffet table.” 
   Adam thought if that were the case, every man in the restaurant was suffering from severe malnutrition. 
   But Gabby was continuing. “You’re trying to tell me you were never with another woman during those 12 years? Not once? Never sought solace or comfort, never cheated on your wife? I mean, it certainly would have been understandable.” 
   “I loved my wife; I took our wedding vows seriously. Sure, I was tempted many times, but no… I never did.” 
   Gabriella accepted this unusual confession without argument. “Well, Mr. 
   Anderson, that certainly puts you in a rare category, a definite minority among men.” Every time she leaned forward to take his hand, her cleavage breathtakingly deepened. Her smile took on a mischievous look as his eyes gravitated to the swell of her breasts and the bare expanse of her upper chest and shoulders. His starving eyes traced the delicate curve of her collar bone, followed the graceful upsweep of her neck, before tracking to her exotic face and penetrating dark eyes. 
   Gabriella laughed at his discreet, but ogling look. Not a derisive laugh, but one light-hearted and smile-inducing. “Believe it or not, Adam, I’m familiar with many things, and desire, lust, and need are included on that list. Still, being here with me under these circumstances seems to be a big leap for someone like you. I don’t mean to be critical or derogatory… but this just isn’t you. So, again, why are you here? You’re a decent looking man, still relatively young. Why aren’t you out meeting eligible women, establishing relationships, getting on with your life?” 
   As if on cue, the piercing, stabbing pain struck. Involuntarily, his hand flew up, covering his now watering eye, the sudden movement knocking his knife and fork off the table, both clattering to the hardwood floor. Adam recovered quickly, pulled out a small pill container from his pocket and fished out two oxy-codeine tablets, washing them down with a gulp of wine. He had forgotten to take them before leaving his room. 
   Gabby had been watching with concern shadowing her face. “Are you okay, Adam? What’s wrong?” 
   Although the pain had abated somewhat on its own, his watery right eye still flickered open and shut involuntarily. He wiped at a tear that had escaped and was coursing down his cheek. The urge to run away and hide gripped him, and he found it difficult to look at the beautiful woman staring at him. He stared at his dinner plate instead. “It was several months after Wendy died and all my friends were encouraging me to get back into the social scene. I started by checking out a few of those Internet dating sites and joined a couple of groups at our church. But I had been having these bad headaches for some time, well before Wendy died, and when they became painful enough, I made a doctor’s appointment.” 
   Gabriella was listening intently, a look of concern on her face. “I’m not liking any of these stories,” she said. 
   Adam glanced up at her before continuing. “They ran a lot of tests and came up with a diagnosis of invasive neoplasia, the exact term being glioblastoma multiforme. In layman’s lingo, a rapidly growing and spreading inoperable brain tumor. They could delay the inevitable outcome with radiotherapy and chemotherapy, but it would only be a delay. It’s pressing on the optic nerve behind my right eye, so I get to look forward to deteriorating vision and eventual blindness.” He glanced down at his left hand, flexing it several times. “I already have the tingly, ‘pins and needles’ sensations in my left hand and the sole of my left foot. It won’t be long until I am totally paralyzed unless the tumor takes out my autonomic nervous system first—things like my heart and breathing—in which case nothing else will make much difference.” 
   Gabby’s expression didn’t reflect shock or surprise, only sadness. “How long?” 
   “They said maybe six months, tops. And that was four months ago.” 
   Gabriella was silent for several long seconds before replying. “Adam, I’m so sorry; I can only imagine how difficult your life has been these last years. To say it doesn’t seem fair would definitely qualify as an understatement.” She cocked her head, frowning. “I apologize for being this blunt, but that had to make you very bitter, Adam. Years of tending to your invalid wife. Then you receive your own death sentence almost immediately after her passing.” Gabby shook her head and looked down, toying with the last of the dessert on her plate. 
   The Maître d’ materialized out of nowhere and replaced Adam’s silverware, then just as unobtrusively, disappeared. 
   Adam stared at Gabriella, his expression stony, his right eye still only a slit. “Bitter? You could say that. I cursed God and everyone else I could think of. I was drunk for a week and broke everything in the house that was breakable. But in the end, I asked for forgiveness for all those curses. I’ve always believed there was a reason for everything, and one day God would explain all the things I can’t understand right now.” 
   Gabriella looked up and shook her head again. “You certainly are a rather unusual man, Adam, a real ‘dinosaur’ by today’s morality. But somewhat refreshing, I must say. And yet, here you are, with me. Kind of contradictory, don’t you think? You haven’t finished explaining yet, have you?” 
   Adam stumbled on, “I’m not sure how… how I can explain this… without sounding completely shallow… and… and selfish… and self-absorbed. But I guess I am because… it’s just that I wanted…” he stopped, took a deep breath, another gulp of wine and stared at the woman across from him. 
   “Go on, Adam.” 
   The crumbling dam finally broke, the words poured out. “Yes… twelve years without a woman. And I miss it. I’ve longed, yearned and ached for it, remembered and dreamt of it. The sight, sound, feel and taste of physical love. The gentle caresses, the tangle of legs and arms, the softness of breasts and thighs, the moans and cries, the peaks and valleys, the shadows, nooks and hollows, the satiny smoothness of skin, the body’s scent, the legs wrapped…” he stopped, afraid that if he continued, he would cry in front of this woman. He tried reminding himself that she was only a prostitute, a high-priced one, true, but still… 
   He realized that Gabby had taken his hand again, her silence encouraging him to continue. “I know how trivial and shallow this all sounds, but when I realized that I would never get the chance to feel any of those things again… and then my friend, Pete, at the Elks Lodge, said he had heard about an escort service here in Las Vegas, Morrison and Dunlap, LLC, that catered to high-end clientele, like movie stars and politicians. He said, under the circumstances, I should get the best hooker that money could buy and go out in a blaze of glory. I don’t mean to sound crude, but the idea sounded great at the time. Please understand, I love… I loved my wife… it’s just that…” 
   Still holding his hand, Gabriella stood, moved to his side of the table and pulled him to his feet. “It’s still a good idea. And I am the best. I can’t make up for twelve years or guarantee glory, but I can make it a pretty big blaze.” 
     
   Gabriella’s body was a magnificent gateway, a highway leading Adam on journeys he never imagined existed. With hands and lips, he followed and explored the exquisite hills and valleys, the curves and hollows, the planes and expanses, from the tip of her toes to the top of her head. She was the fountain and he the thirsting traveler, she the drug, he the willing addict. He reveled in the flawless beauty of her form, its contrasting softness, firmness, its light, and shadow, the finest work of Michelangelo and Donatello come to life. 
   He couldn’t imagine anyone more versed in the art of sex and erotica than Gabby. She was a concert maestro, orchestrating intricate symphonies of the senses, sensual music that only she knew how to conduct and deliver. The consummate artist, painting masterpieces with the brushes of her imagination, their bodies, the canvas—sight and sound, touch, taste and smell the medium for her creations. She was the teacher, he the student—a devoted supplicant at the altar of her learning. She knew all the whens, wheres and hows. Gabby’s knowledge was the sexual equivalent of the Library of Congress, Viagra in human form. 
   She built an all-consuming blaze that even paled the fire burning in his head. 
   After that first night, they used room service. They used it a lot. 
     
   Adam stared at his reflection in the mirror, a repeat performance of a week earlier. But this time there was no nervousness, only resignation. His right eye was blood-red and slightly bulging, his vision in that eye blurred and almost gone. The pulsing and pounding in his head were constant, the painkillers fighting a losing battle. His left arm was almost completely numb, his left leg unreliable at best. And the tingling sensations had started on his right side. Gabriella had purchased a cane and black eye-patch two days earlier. She said the eye-patch made him look mysterious and menacing. 
   He turned off the light and walked back into the bedroom. The first faint graying of the early dawn had seeped into the large, south-facing bedroom window, highlighting the form of the woman lying on the king-sized bed with soft shadows. Gabby had been with him for the whole week, not only every night but every day. It had cost a small fortune, but Adam didn’t plan on taking any money back with him. This was his last hurrah. 
   The only living relatives Adam had were his divorced sister, Amanda, her four-year-old daughter, Jessica, and his estranged, younger brother, Jeffrey. Adam was—had been anyway—a financial conservative and had made prudent investments over the years. And after Wendy’s death, he had sold their home for a tidy profit. Then, there was Wendy’s life insurance policy, a twenty-year term, $250,000 policy. When she died, there was only a little over a year to go before its termination date. He smiled without humor; that had to have pissed Penn Life off. 
   His death would beat his own policy’s end date. Amanda and Jessica were his only beneficiaries; he had left everything to them. They both would be secure financially. He had saved a little for himself, which he was now spending on himself and Gabby. 
   Walking over to the four-poster, he slipped back into bed. Gabby was sleeping on her side facing away from him, towards the lightening bedroom window. Adam propped himself up on one arm, his fingers caressing the satin sheet covering her, before sliding it down and off her nude body. The growing dawn cast the long length of her form in soft shades of shadow and light. 
   Adam placed his hand on her thigh above her knee. He had only half-jokingly referred to her long, slim legs as the “twin highways to heaven.” He leisurely traced a course up the toned, sleek surface until he paused on the silken rise of her hip. Adam admired the erotic view of her rear, its gentle hills and valleys, what he liked to call “The Fabulous Duchene Derrière,” and what Gabby, just as playfully, described as “Adam’s plaine de jeux:” Adam’s playground. 
   Somehow, it didn’t surprise him that Gabriella was also fluent in French. Early on, he had referred to Gabby’s name, inquiring about its possible connection to a French lineage. This had earned him a smile, a wave of a finger and a shake of the head, indicating this was yet another example of a “don’t go there” question. 
   Actually, there wasn’t much he knew about her, even after a week. She had made it plain from the beginning that her personal life was off-limits. No questions like, “How did a nice girl like you get into this kind of work? Where are you from? Where’s your family?” About all she had volunteered was that she wasn’t from Nevada, but nothing else about herself, her family or her history. Even her exact age remained unknown. She seemed well-versed in a variety of subjects but was mum on when and where she had received her education. Gabby said everything was to be about him, what he wanted, what he needed. Adam managed a smile in the still shadowed room—she certainly had made good on those promises. 
   With reluctance, his hand left its supple resting place and resumed its course, leisurely traveling down the slope of her hip, pausing at her waist. Here, he changed directions, sliding over and down to the smooth plane of her stomach, then up to her chest, nestling between the warm softness of her breasts, his starving hand full of her, finally resting, its wandering over and home at last. 
   He moved closer, his lips now caressing her shoulder, without haste, tracing a route down to her neck. He breathed in deeply of her bouquet; this morning she smelled faintly of tangerines. Somehow, her scent changed almost daily. She said it was another “trade secret.” 
   Adam’s lips felt Gabby make a low, purring sound in her throat. She slowly moved her arm down, gently trapping his hand to her breast. She wiggled backward, her rump moving against his groin, her back and shoulders pressed against his chest and stomach, her legs folded back against his, their bodies meshed like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. “Do we have time before your plane leaves?” she whispered, her voice still clouded by sleep. 
   His lips brushed her skin as he spoke. “Last night it took you a long time to make things work, and that’s saying a lot. Only a dead man would not respond to you, and I’m not even sure about that.” He smiled into the curve of her neck, his voice muffled by its resting place. “But no, that was my last round-up, I think.” 
   Gabriella released his hand, pulled away, and rolled over onto her back, then her side, facing him. She looked at his bloodshot eye, his pained and pinched face. She reached up, her fingers tracing a route down the side of his head. She gently pulled his head down to her breast and lightly stroked the back of his neck. Her other arm she wrapped around his shoulders, cradling him. She worked her lower leg between his, draped the other over the top and pressed her body against him, trying to envelop Adam in a cocoon of warm flesh. 
   The pain in his head seemed to recede slightly. 
   As he relaxed in Gabriella’s warm embrace, Adam remembered a quip that someone had written years before. It went something like… “At birth, Man fights to escape the womb, then spends the rest of his life trying to get back in.” Adam knew it was meant in a sexual context, but maybe there was another meaning, a reference to an instinctual yearning of Man to return to the warmth and safety of the womb… its peace and security… 
   A short while later, way too short for Adam, Gabby sighed and kissed the top of his head. “It’s getting late, do you have to take a shower or anything?” 
   He breathed into her breast. “No, I will keep your scent with me for as long as I can.” 
   When he finished dressing, Adam stood by the door leaning on his cane, eye-patch in place, his suitcase already transferred to the waiting taxi. Nude, Gabby was sitting up in bed, the sheets pooled around her waist. Long seconds passed as he stared at her, his eyes drinking in the last memories of Gabriella. He placed the envelope on top of the dresser. He smiled and nodded at her. “Ms. Gabriella Marguerite Duchene, I want to thank you for making all of my dreams and prayers come true,” he managed, without his voice cracking. 
   Gabby looked at his eye-patch and returned his smile. “You’re welcome, my Macho Man.” Then her smile dimmed. “It was my pleasure, Adam,” she said, her voice low. 
   Adam leaned heavily on his cane, turned, and limped out the door. 
     
   Adam Charles Anderson’s funeral was a modest one, only thirty-seven in attendance. Visitation had been at the Lomas Chapel of French Mortuary in Albuquerque, NM, the eulogy given by Pastor Mark Nagel of Faith Lutheran Church. Interment was at Sunset Cemetery. 
   Folding chairs circled the gravesite. The bronze-colored coffin was suspended over its final resting place: a shadowy, rectangular opening in the dark earth below. Adam’s friends from the BPOE Elk Lodge #461, and friends of Amanda Anderson, occupied most of the chairs. 
   Jeffrey Anderson, Adam’s brother, stood apart from the over-flow group behind the chairs, along with his personal attorney, David P. Haskins. The two kept glancing over at the tall, dark-complexioned woman standing near the group opposite them. Dressed in a conservative black dress, the hem below her knees and the collar buttoned at her throat, she wore a wide-brimmed black hat and sunglasses even though the mild spring day was overcast. Thick, dark hair curled down to her shoulders. She had received several curious glances from a few of the other funeral attendees. 
   Pastor Nagel was reciting Psalm 23, his voice droning in the still air. 
   Staring at the woman, Jeffrey Anderson whispered to the thin, suit-clad attorney next to him. “David, that’s her, I’m sure of it. Even with the hat and sunglasses, I recognize her from the pictures the detective, Ed what’s-his-name, from the Burn’s Agency took.” 
   David Haskins glanced at the shorter, thick-set man next to him, then back across the way at the enigmatic, shadowy woman. “You really think a whore would travel all the way from Nevada for the funeral of one of her johns, even a whore that your idiot brother spent a fortune humping? Still, it would make things a lot easier if you were right; we’re having trouble getting information on her. With luck we could serve the papers on her while she was here, as well as serving notice on your sister, contesting Adam’s will.” 
   Pastor Nagel finished the eulogy and invited, on behalf of Amanda Anderson, the attendees to a small reception at her home in neighboring Rio Rancho. Cemetery workers lowered the casket carefully into its final resting place. Amanda and Jessica headed the line of mourners moving slowly by the grave, paying their last respects, pausing to drop flowers down onto the casket. 
   The dusky stranger had also joined the line at the rear. She stopped when she reached the grave, took off her sunglasses and knelt near the edge. A single, white rose had appeared in her other hand. She brought the rose to her lips for a second, then leaned over and dropped it into the grave. She rose gracefully and walked towards Amanda and Jessica who were standing and watching nearby. 
   Jeffrey and his lawyer eyed this little tableau from their original positions. They had no final respects to pay. But they did want to talk to the stranger. They hurried towards the trio near a large oak tree, but the black-clad woman was already walking away. As they scurried up, Amanda spoke. “If you’re after her…” she nodded towards the departing woman… “you can slow down guys, she’s coming over to the house in a bit. She said she needed to talk to me.” 
   The duo paused and watched the mystery woman heading for the roadway. Haskins spoke. “Who was that?” 
   “That’s Gabriella Duchene.” 
   “I told you!” Jeffrey said. 
   Little four-year-old Jessica chimed in, “That’s Uncle Adam’s friend from Nevada.” 
   Jeffrey smirked. “Yeah, his very expensive friend from Nevada.” 
   Amanda scowled. “Please, Jeff, not in front of Jessica.” She turned to Haskins. “Are you still contesting Adam’s will?” 
   “Amanda, Adam left none of his estate to his brother, Jeffrey; he left everything to you. Does that seem reasonable? And everyone knows his mental competency was questionable the last few months, as evidenced by his financial extravagance on that… woman… on Ms. Duchene. I feel a more equitable division of his assets is warranted, much better than tying things up in litigation for several years. I’ll bring the paperwork to your house later and we can go over it.” 
     
   The sun managed to break through the overcast sky, shafts of sunlight splitting the clouds, dissipating the gloom and turning the dour day into something more hopeful. Several of the guests had taken their plates of food out to the backyard patio of Amanda’s modest three-bedroom home to enjoy the warming sun. 
   Haskins and Jeffrey had heaped their plates and were standing in the backyard, surveying the people milling around. 
   “Well, if it isn’t Mutt and Jeff.” 
   The soft voice came from behind them. They both turned and were confronted by a smiling and dazzling Gabriella. She still wore her modest black dress, but the hat and sunglasses had vanished. She had pulled her hair up and off her neck, pinning it in back. Her flawless, bronze-tinted skin glowed in the light. Both men had taken an involuntary step back when they had first turned and seen her. Haskins recovered first. He chose to ignore her initial salutation and nodded towards Jeffrey. “I’d like to introduce Jeffrey Anderson, the late Adam Anderson’s brother. And I’m David Haskins, his attorney.” 
   Gabby closed her eyes and turned her face skyward, enjoying the warmth of the sun. “I know who you are, boys.” 
   Her comment was disconcerting, but Haskins attacked. “I’m not going to beat around the bush. After Adam made large withdrawals from his bank account and Jeff heard about his planned escapade in Vegas, we had a private detective follow him around town. We’d like a little information from you, Ms. Duchene… or whoever you are. You see, we’ve done a little research on you. Morrison and Dunlap, LLC has never heard of you. They received an initial call from Adam, but never returned a call to him; they only deal in well-heeled, high-end clientele. We checked all the other escort agencies. None of them have heard of a Gabriella Marguerite Duchene either. We haven’t been able to come up with any information on you, but we will. I figure you’re just an enterprising, independent scammer, using your looks to con and rip-off the gullible and naïve. In Mr. Anderson’s case, you took advantage of a mentally incompetent man. If you don’t relinquish the money you duped Mr. Anderson out of, I’ll be filing civil and criminal charges including, but not limited to, fraud, misrepresentation, physical, emotional and financial exploitation of an organically brain-damaged individual, one suffering from mental and emotional dysfunctions. And, of course, prostitution, illegal in Kent County.” He smirked. “We might even try elder abuse.” 
   Gabby had remained silent during Haskin’s recitation, her smile remaining in place, but a smile now morphing, becoming grim and brittle, her dark eyes smoldering, darkening even more. Her jaw muscles clenched, her voice now cold and hard. “No, you won’t.” 
   Haskins’ looked dumbfounded. Jeff just looked dumb. Again, the lawyer was quick to recover. “Excuse me, but I will not stand here listening to some two-bit whore…” 
   Gabby kept going, her eyes boring into the suddenly flustered attorney like lasers. “It was 
   1998 and you were just starting your law practice with your partner, James Whitmore. It was the same year that Cyntex Technology went public with its IPO. You remember, the company with your old college buddy on the board of directors, Jimmy Kemp? That little illegal piece of insider trading enabled you to make a big killing in the stock market and allowed your law practice to get off to a flying start. Your partner, Whitmore, had scruples concerning the whole thing, but then that unfortunate accident fixed that little problem, didn’t it? And the IRS might be interested in your questionable bookkeeping methods, your investments, and several tax returns.” 
   Haskins had paled to the color of the overhead clouds, his mouth hanging open. 
   Next, Gabby zeroed in her fiery glare on the shorter man next to him, who appeared ready to bolt and run. “And you, Mr. Jeffrey Xavier Anderson, Bernalillo councilman and married father of two teenage boys, I hear you intend to run for Mayor of Bernalillo. Politics, a noble career,” she mocked. “But I wonder if your constituents and your family know of your penchant for young boys? I wonder what the victims’ families would think. Then, there was that 12-year-old boy a couple of years ago who had trouble living with your little sodomy predilection and jumped off the I-40 overpass.” Jeffrey had turned an ashen gray and made a gagging sound. Gabby looked at both men in disgust. 
   Haskins finally croaked out, “How… how…?” 
   Gabriella’s voice was cold and hard, a contrast to her blazing eyes. “I have my sources and they are very good sources. And I can keep digging if you want. I can unravel every frayed, loose end of your miserable, little lives. Not a good thing for either of you. You will also drop any legal or civil actions concerning Adam’s will. Further, I do not want my ears polluted by hearing your names again. This matter is over, or you will be over. Boys, listen and listen carefully. Don’t force me to come back. If I do, I will destroy you.” She gave each another withering glare and strode off towards the house. The two cowed men were scurrying out the backyard gate before she ever made it to the door. 
   Little Jessica was in the living room talking to two of her pre-school friends. When she saw Gabriella enter, she detached herself and ran over to her. “Hi, Gabby, are you lookin’ for my mother?” 
   “Yes, I am. Is she nearby?” 
   “Just in the kitchen. Should be back pretty soon.” 
   Gabby grinned. “Well, that’s okay, it’ll give us a chance to chat.” 
   Amanda came around the corner several minutes later, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She saw Gabby and Jessica talking and walked over, smiling. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said. 
   “No, Jessica and I were just swapping stories.” 
   Jessica began tugging on her mother’s skirt. “Mommy, Mommy, I have to tell you some ‘portant stuff…” 
   Gabby put her forefinger to her lips. “Shhhhh, Jessica, it’s still a secret, remember?” 
   Jessica looked crestfallen but remained quiet. 
   Gabby turned to Amanda. “I have to go soon; my sister and brothers are meeting me. And, Amanda, I don’t want you to think any less of Adam for what he did with me. He—” 
   Amanda interrupted her by stepping forward and embracing her. “Gabby, don’t say another thing. I can’t pretend that I approve of what you do. All I know is that my brother had a very sad finish to his life, and you were the only one who brought him any happiness at the end. You brought him joy. Despite the pain, he was in the final weeks of his life, he always smiled whenever he talked about you. Somehow, you turned a nightmare into a dream. I can only thank you for that.” She stepped back, tears in her eyes. 
   Gabriella’s eyes filled, blurred. “Adam was a good man,” she sighed before adding cryptically, “Always remember, you get what you pay for.” She took Amanda’s hand in her own, giving it a quick squeeze. “You two, take care.” She bent and kissed Jessica on the head. “Be good for your Mom.” Then she turned and disappeared out the door. 
   Jessica was back to tugging on her mother’s skirt. “Mommy, here, this is for you.” She was holding an envelope. 
   She took it from her daughter. “What is it, sweetheart?” 
   “Gabby gave it to me to give to you after she went home.” 
   Amanda opened the envelope and removed a cashier’s check made out to her for $105,000. She gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. 
   Jessica’s wide, childish grin turned into a frown of concern. “You okay, Mommy?” 
   Amanda stared at the closed front door. “I don’t understand this… why… why did she…?” 
   Jessica’s grin returned, bigger than ever. “It’s okay Mommy, Gabby ‘splained everything to me, I’ll ‘splain it to you.” The little girl was literally jumping up in down with excitement. 
   “She was on a sorta ‘signment.” 
   “You mean assignment?” 
   “Yeah, that’s what I said, ‘signment. It means jobs. Gabby does lots of different jobs, some sad and some fun, lots of special kinds of ‘signments for a lotta different people who earn it and need it. She said she’s good at everythin’ she duz. Uncle Adam dint know her ‘signment was for him and was free, but she wasn’t ‘sposed to tell him anythin,’ so she saved the monies he gave her to give back to us. Her ‘signment for Uncle Adam was to make him happy cuz of all the unhappy stuff he had. Gabby said Uncle Adam had pre… had pre… preee-paid, that’s the word… prepaid… for his dreams and prayers already!” A look of consternation crossed her young face. “I’m still thinkin’ ‘bout that one. She said that other thing too, ‘bout payin’ for what you get, or somethin’ like that. Oh, yeah, she said Uncle Jeff and his mean friend won’t be bothering us never again, neither.” 
   Questions were flooding Amanda’s mind. She knelt, brushed the hair from her daughter's face and looked into the innocent blue eyes. “Sweetheart, did Gabby say who she really was, or where she came from?” 
   Jessica rolled her eyes upward in mock exasperation. “Oh, Mommy, those are easy ones, ‘cept she did kinda add to her name. Geez, dint I ‘splain it good ‘nuff? Dint she tell you her sister and brothers were meetin’ her?” 
   “Yes, hon.” 
   “Well, duh, Mommy, her brothers are Gabriel and Michael, and her sis is Mikaela! Get it, Michael and Gabriel, and Mikaela and Gabriella? Didya think angels were all boys?” Jessica shook her head in wonder; sometimes grownups were so silly. With that, Jessica skipped away in search of her friends. 
   Amanda stood, staring at the check. Maybe it was her stunned imagination, but she thought she could detect the faint sweetness of tangerines... 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
   
   
   Publisher: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG Implerstraße 24 81371 Munich Germany Text: John C. Laird Editing: Valerie Fee All rights reserved. Publication Date: September 22nd 2020 https://www.bookrix.com/-alsam2 ISBN: 978-3-95500-846-8