Getting Enough

Ineed life, Marty. I need life." Frank Ames looked over the rim of his third gin and tonic at his friend Marty Green. "Christ, I'm forty and not getting any younger, I've been married to the same woman for seventeen years; I got three kids...."

"I have somebody for you."

"Huh?"

"A girl. When you going up to the city again?"

"Two weeks."

"Good." Marty pulled from his pocket the stubby pencil he'd used to score their match, smoothed out his cocktail napkin on the bar and scribbled on it. "Here." It read, Sharon—815-8872.

"This on the level?"

"I kid you? She's the best I ever found. You want life, this is the lady."

Frank didn't wait two weeks to go to the city. Monday morning, he told his wife he had agency meetings both that afternoon and the following day. She drove him to the station, smiled and kissed him goodbye, not realizing that along with his clothes, he had packed the unopened bottle of cologne his daughter had given him last Father's Day.

When Frank checked into his hotel, he brushed his teeth, then dialed the number.

"Hello, Sharon Allison speaking...." The voice reminded Frank of a Black Velvet billboard.

"Uh, hello, Sharon. My name is Frank. Marty Green gave me your number."

"Oh, yes, he told me you'd be calling. He thought that maybe you and I could...do some business together."

God, this is easy, Frank thought.

"Would you like to come over here?" Her voice dripped with lust, with the promise of clandestine acts of indescribable whoopee.

He was about to ask for the address when, amid thoughts of silky flesh, came creeping other thoughts of hidden cameras, blackmail, divorce settlements, lawyers. "Well, maybe it would be better here. I'm expecting some calls."

"And when would be convenient?"

"Um...any time."

"Say in an hour?"

"Ah...sure."

"So tell me a little about yourself."

"Why?"

"Well, I have to know what you want."

Frank thought for a moment. "The usual, I guess."

"The usual?" She laughed, a clear, bell-like sound that made the base of Frank's spine sweat. "There are so many ways to go, Mr...."

"Ames." He bit his tongue. He'd been planning to tell her his name was Smith, but the truth had jumped out of his mouth faster than a bad clam.

"Mr. Ames...." He had always thought his name was short, but her voice made it delightfully polysyllabic. "And I do want to work up something very special for you, since you're a friend of Marty's. Now. How old are you?"

How old was he? Was she worried about his heart, or what? "Thirty-seven," he lied.

"Are you married?"

"Uh...." Why should I lie? Maybe there's a discount. "Yes."

"Children?"

Children? "Three. But...."

"You like to...travel?"

A leading question if ever there was one. "Oh, yeah."

"Yes?"

What the hell; he'd said sillier things. "Around the world...you know?"

"Hmm," she mused breathily. "That could be a little extra."

"No problem."

"Now, how about any illnesses?"

Although it was an intrusive question, it made him feel relaxed. If she was so concerned, the chances of picking up anything from her would be very small. And Marty, as Frank knew, was a very cautious man. "Oh, no, I'm clean."

"Oh!" She laughed again, and his toes curled. "It's so good to be clean. Just one more thing—do you smoke?"

"Smoke…what?"

"Cigarettes."

"No."

"Good. That'll make things much nicer. And less expensive, too."

Frank wondered if she were associated with the American Cancer Society or if she simply detested smoker's breath. Either way, he was glad he had quit.

"So," she went on, "I'll be there at six. Where are you?"

He gave her the name of his hotel and the room number.

"I assume you have everything we need?"

Another leading question. "Well, I…should hope so."

"Fine. Then you'll be all ready for me when I arrive."

He frowned. "You mean…be ready to start as soon as you get here?" He realized she was a professional, but there were, after all, amenities.

"Sure."

"Well, do you want anything to drink first?"

"Oh, no, I really don't like to drink on the job."

"Ah. I'll just be ready to go, then."

"Yes. Have everything out when I get there."

"Everything out?"

"Mmm-hmm. You know."

"Everything out."

"Right."

"Right."

"See you."

"Right."

There was a click, and she was gone. Frank sat thinking for a minute, then went into the bathroom, showered, shaved and splashed the Father's Day cologne into all his cracks and crevices. There was no telling what she might do, and if she was so concerned about smoker's breath, he wanted to make sure he didn't offend in any other way.

Cleansed and anointed, he stood before the full-length mirror in the bathroom door and looked at his pink and naked body. Not bad for 40. He thought the two miles a day on the stationary bike had helped. He brushed his teeth again, sat on the bed and waited.

At six o'clock, there was a knock on his door. He thought of getting up to open it, but romance and bravado overcame him, and he lay back on the bed, arranged himself to his best advantage and called, "Come in, Sharon!"

The door opened and she walked in, wearing a black dress that clung to her tall and slender body. Her face and form were so lovely that he didn't notice the briefcase in her hand until she slowly moved it in front of her like a shield.

He looked at her, she looked at him, neither saying a word. They remained like that for several minutes, giving Frank plenty of time to wonder what bizarre devices she might have in her case.

At last he spoke. "Well," he said, "aren't you going to say anything?"

She swallowed heavily, and he became suddenly and horribly aware that the red flush in her cheeks was not merely healthy color.

"I was going to ask," she whispered huskily, her voice trembling, "if you wanted term, whole life or endowment...."

Sharon left ten minutes later. In her briefcase, along with the print-outs she had brought for Frank Ames, was a check for $900, the first of four quarterly payments he would send to her company every year for the next two decades to pay for his $250,000 Flexible-Premium Policy.

At least, he thought that evening on the train home, she had complimented him on his cologne.