I didn’t have to count to three because as I started down the dark narrow hall a door opened and a man appeared and bellowed at me as if I had been across a river, “In here!” Then he went back in. When I entered he was standing with his back to a window with his hands thrust into his pants pockets. The room was small, and the one desk and two chairs could have been picked up on Second Avenue for the price of a pair of Warburton shoes.
“Mr. Lipscomb?”
“Yes.”
“You know who I am.”
“Yes.”
His voice, though below a bellow, was up to five times as many decibels as were needed. It could have been to match his stature, for he was two inches above me, with massive shoulders that much wider; or it could have been in compensation for his nose, which was wide and flat and would have spoiled any map no matter what the rest of it was.
“This is a confidential matter,” I told him. “Personal and private.”
“Yes.”
“And between you and me only. My proposition is just from me and it’s just for you.”
“What is it?”