I took him for forty, despite the white hair, but came to find out fifty was more like it. He had the manner of a well-heeled lawyer or maybe a politician, and I do recall he began with a fairly lengthy diatribe on how poorly I’d been treated by, well, just about everybody-my wife, the press, the legal system, even my family, and how the hell did he know that?

Another thing I remember is the chill I felt, when I realized this guy had researched me. Who was I, for anybody to look into me? But the Broker had it all down, chapter and verse, and now it gets vague in my memory. He didn’t come straight out and ask me if I was interested in killing people for hire, of course not; it was more like, How would you like to make real money at home doing what you did for almost no money overseas?

Looking back, I was ripe for the Broker. I might have gone in any direction about then. Maybe if that had been Amway at the door, or the Jehovah’s Witnesses, I’d have gone off into some other form of lunacy. But it was the Broker who caught me at just the right time, thank God.

And, anyway, Amway or the Witnesses wouldn’t have offered me an advance of fifty thousand dollars. That was attractive to a guy living in two dingy rooms. So was the notion that half a dozen jobs a year would bring in another fifteen thousand or so; and when the fifty K had earned out (I’d be getting only half of each fee till it was), I’d be at thirty a year, minimum. The average yearly income for an honest man was under ten grand.

I would have a bogus job to pay taxes for, though I wouldn’t have to record my real income, the bulk of which would be in cash. I would be a salesman with a sample case and could even call on clients if need be, to establish a cover. My wares? Lingerie. That made the Broker smile, and I smiled, too, but just to be nice.