Fingernails scratched the outside of my door. I opened the door.

The man who stood there was a stranger to me. He was young, thin, and gaudily dressed. He had heavy eyebrows and a small mustache that were coal-black against a very pale, nervous, but not timid, face.

“I’m Ted Wright,” he said, holding out a hand as if I were glad to meet him. “I guess you’ve heard Whisper talk about me.”

I gave him my hand, let him in, closed the door, and asked:

“You’re a friend of Whisper’s?”

“You bet.” He held up two thin fingers pressed tightly together. “Just like that, me and him.”

I didn’t say anything. He looked around the room, smiled nervously, crossed to the open bathroom door, peeped in, came back to me, rubbed his lips with his tongue, and made his proposition: