The three men who came to Curly Hamson’s office by appointment that afternoon had the gloomy aspect of funeral directors or salesmen of cemetery lots. They were in their mid to late thirties, beautifully dressed in dark pin-striped suits, and exuded a fragrant aura of expensive talcum, cologne, and aftershave.
“Curly Hamson, pleased to meet you.” Hamson came out from behind his desk to shake hands. “Take a seat.” The men shook hands and smiled their tight smiles, took seats on the couch and chair facing the desk.
“Like I said on the phone, we’re from an organization called The Fourth Choice. We have what might be a very good deal, an effortless assignment for good pay to offer you.”
“I’m sorry. You haven’t told me your names. That’s not how I do business. My name, in case you hadn’t noticed, is printed on the outside door, and it’s what I said aloud when I introduced myself.”
“Do our names matter? Our money has presidents’ names on it.”
Hamson laughed. “You know, The Fourth Choice, I can’t find it listed anywhere, not in Dunn & Bradstreet, not in any non-profit directory, not on the Web. You don’t drop the mask, show me some ID that I can verify, then this short meeting just ended.”
“We’re talking about substantial dollars, twenty-five hundred, for the use of your name on a mailing to a couple of hundred people, nothing more. Nothing illegal, I promise you.”
“Would you let somebody sit in...
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