Chapter 1

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Bailey. Let me know if I can be of service in any way."

I got off the phone, then stood up to stretch my legs. Cold calling was a bear; I thanked my lucky stars that I'd progressed to a point where I didn't have to do a lot of it. As an insurance agent, however, I knew I'd never get away from it entirely.

I took note of the time: almost two in the afternoon. Rare was the day when I left work before six. I wandered down the hall to the water cooler, hoping that at least one of my colleagues would be in the midst of a break. No such luck. The break room, such as it was, was empty. I filled up a plastic cup with water, and carried it back to my office.

For the past three years, I'd been stuck in a rut of re-inventing myself professionally; re-inventing myself at thirty-seven. I had been a successful real estate agent, specializing in open lots of land for potential homeowners wanting to start from scratch in building their own home. I had worked this little niche into a lucrative business. Unfortunately, when the housing market crashed – especially here in southern Florida – that career went from lucrative to bust in a matter of months. I started losing money hand over foot. My wife, a sixth grade schoolteacher, became the primary breadwinner in the household. When school let out for the summer, we quickly found ourselves in financial trouble. I made a hasty decision to move into insurance sales. I got my insurance license, and paid my dues working as an independent agent. I spent my days making blind sales calls and visiting potential clients, from Miami clear up to West Palm Beach. Life on the road didn't suit me, however, and I finally landed myself a company position. I had an office, real co-workers, decent income, and one truly wonderful perk: a company car. In addition, I worked with mostly company-provided leads; selling medical, life, home, and auto policies. It wasn't the career I'd planned after graduating from college, but it was taking care of the bills.

I made a few more phone calls, and then had an urge to chat with someone face-to-face about less pressing matters. I headed down to Odalys' office. Finding it vacant, I eyed the exit door in the rear of the office. I knew that she sometimes slipped out back for a smoke break.

I opened the back door, and there she was, puffing away on a cigarette. Odalys Robles, you see, was another agent who'd started with the company at almost the same time I had. She was also my "work wife." Like me, Odalys was happily married, but with the long hours we spent on the job, she and I shared more time together than we did with our respective spouses. As a result, a fast friendship had sprung up between us. We discussed everything, both work-related and personal.

"How many times have I told you to quit smoking?" I said protectively, rehashing a never-ending theme. "You quit when you got pregnant last year, stayed off it for the entire nine months, and then had to go and start again."

"I need to keep the weight off," she said with gentle defiance. "If I quit, I'll balloon up into a whale."

"You won't," I asserted. "Ever heard of exercise?" And we went back and forth. As always, nothing was resolved. It wasn't resolution that we were seeking, anyway; rather, it was interpersonal communication outside the bounds of work in the middle of a long work day.

"Look, Jake. There's one of those Chinese girls again," said Odalys, gesturing toward another back entrance three doors away. There, a young woman had ventured outside, and was now walking toward the other end of the shopping center. Odalys, having veered onto another frequent conversation topic between us, inquired, "Heard any more about what's really going on down there?"

"Not a clue, Miss Busybody," I said with a grin. I enjoyed teasing Odalys; she could take it as well as anyone I knew. But I, like her, was also curious about the establishment three office spaces down from our place of business.

Our insurance office was located in a suburban strip mall. The shopping center was populated with typical tenants: a travel agency, a Thai restaurant, a dentist's office, a bakery, a pizza place, and a tax preparation firm, to name a few. A larger supermarket anchored one end of the strip mall. But getting back to the subject of our conversation ... according to the tacky neon lighting in the front window, it specialized in Oriental massage. As incongruous as it seemed, these massage parlors were actually quite common in this part of South Florida.

"Jose told me once that those places are run by the Chinese mafia," related Odalys. Jose was her husband. Both Odalys and Jose had been born in Cuba, and had emigrated to the United States as children, fleeing the Castro regime along with their families.

"Sounds like an urban legend to me," I snorted. "I'll have to check it out online sometime. Anyway, Steve assured me that the place is one hundred percent legitimate."

"Oh, really?" Odalys replied, raising her eyebrow. "And just what else have you and Steve been talking about?" Steve Robertson was a co-worker of ours. He was younger than both of us, in his late twenties. He was single, lived alone, and gave off a distinct man-of-the-world air when it came to discussing matters with even a hint of debauchery or sleaze.

"Keep your mind out of the gutter," I said with a slight laugh. "Nothing that would get me in trouble with Erin." I paused briefly, thinking fond thoughts of my lovely wife of twelve years.

By now, Odalys could read me like a book; she gave a soft smile and pursued a different line of conversation. "Did Steve actually ... um, patronize that business?"

I couldn't help but chuckle at that way too tactfully worded inquiry. "Well, he didn't come right out and say that he went there for a little rubdown, but you can draw your own conclusions. He said that the place is exactly as advertised ... a therapeutic massage establishment, nothing more, nothing less. There's maybe three or four women who work there, along with a guy who, according to Steve, acts as a manager. Not only do they work there, but they live in that small suite as well. I can only imagine how cramped it must be. Aside from the manager, no one in the place speaks even a lick of English. You tell the manager what type of massage you want, and for how long, and that's it. Any kind of 'extras' are strictly forbidden. They take great pains to avoid running afoul of the law. In fact, Steve said that it's a matter of routine for the women to be rotated among several of these places, to keep them from getting too attached to any one customer."

"Hmm," replied Odalys, a hint of disapproving skepticism in her voice. "Controlling bastards. Sounds like some kind of shady outfit is running the show down there. I wouldn't be surprised if the rumor is true."

"Well, we'll never know for sure, right? This is one case where I certainly have no interest in finding out the truth."

It was close to seven o'clock that evening when I arrived home and wearily trudged through the door, having spent most of the afternoon doing more of that infernal cold calling. Erin was waiting for me, and as she unfailingly did upon my arrival each day, greeted me with a warm smile and a kiss.

"You look exhausted," she noted immediately.

"It was a long, frustrating day," I uttered with a sigh as I plopped down into my recliner, kicking up the footrest.

"I have an idea," she said brightly as she settled into my lap. "You can work off that frustration..."

I proceeded to interrupt her. I knew full well what she was getting at, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. "Race you to the shower," I grinned cheekily.

"You have a one-track mind," she laughed. "That comes afterward. It's not too late, and if we start now, we can get our daily bike ride in. Later, we can have dinner out on the deck."

Despite my exhaustion, that prospect recharged my battery somewhat. Before too long, we were both out on the trail, pedaling our bicycles furiously. Today, I took the lead. Sometimes, however, I enjoyed trailing behind Erin, just to marvel at the way her magnificent legs pumped the pedals in piston-like fashion. She was a tall woman, standing about five-ten, with an athletic body, a long mane of natural blonde hair, and deep blue eyes. At thirty-one, she was six years younger than me. We'd met at a party over a decade ago, when I was a young buck of twenty-five, and she a mere lass of nineteen. Even with the age difference, the connection was immediate and lasting.

We wrapped up just as twilight began to set in. From there, we did indeed head straight for the shower. We took care of the basic concerns first, soaping up each other's nude bodies, removing all the sweat and grime. The lovemaking session which ensued spilled over into the bedroom and, eventually, the bed itself. We never used any form of contraception; it wasn't necessary. Following a long, frustrating, and ultimately unsuccessful attempt at conceiving a child, my doctor identified the culprit: a low sperm count. I was basically shooting blanks. After the initial disappointment, both of us came to accept the fact that parenthood just wasn't in the cards for us.