This excerpt from a book I read recently pretty well sums it up:
“You really want to help your guy?” Rogers said.
“Of course. That’s why I’m here,” Abel replied.
“You need a madam,” Rogers said.
“A what?” Abel said. “Rogers, you’re a cop.”
“That’s why I know what I’m talking about. You need to use a madam,” Rogers repeated, “or a top-shelf escort service. Somethin’ like that.”
Abel just stared at Rogers, unbelieving.
“Look, Aronson,” Rogers said, “all the big rock stars, athletes, they use ’em. Those guys, they come into a strange town, they don’t know nobody, they want some, uh, companionship. Their managers, whoever, knows somebody who knows somebody and with one phone call a top-shelf pro appears at the hotel door. She ain’t cheap but she’s worth every penny—and then some. Why? Not just because she’s the best, but because she can keep her mouth shut. She don’t steal the guy’s Rolex when he gets up to pee, she don’t try to shake him down, like that broad did with your guy. And, most important, she don’t get intentionally knocked up. If your guy don’t have somebody steady, wife or no wife, keep him out of the clubs. Call a pro. Best money he’ll ever spend, on several different levels.”