William Craig had just arrived at his office and was looking over the envelopes from the previous day's mail delivery that Susan had handed him when he heard the phone ring in his inner office. His private, unlisted, line. He pushed open the mahogany door and dumped the letters into his IN box as he picked up the receiver.
"Bill here. How can I make your day brighter?"
"You can refuse the Oberdorff contract."
"Who is this?" Bill asked. He'd never heard of Oberdorff.
"A friend. An interested friend. Make it easy on yourself, Bill. Just don't sign the contract."
Bill reached out and pressed the button on the phone that started an immediate lock-and-trace on the call. "Suppose I do refuse the contract," he said, trying to keep the caller on the line long enough for the phone trap to do its work. "What's in it for me?"
"Maybe you stay in business," the voice said. Male. Trace of a Kentucky or Tennessee twang to the vowels, but the speaker had been living somewhere else long enough for a hint of mid-Atlantic seaboard to creep into the consonants.
"Not good enough," Bill said. "Make it worth my time."
The caller wasn't having any of it. "Remember what I said." The line went dead.
Susan walked in from the outer office a moment later, holding a sheet of paper. "Looks like it came from a phonebooth in Topeka," she said.
Bill took the paper and squinted at it. "Bet you anything it was spoofed. Could have come from anywhere. Next block over, or Moscow. No way to tell."
"You're probably right, boss," Susan agreed. "Coffee's made. Want some?"
Bill nodded, turning to his IN basket. One by one he slit open the envelopes, pulling out their contents and giving each a quick scan. Interview requests. Invoices for Old Spice. A kid's request for an autograph for a school assignment to write to 'the person you admire most.' Next to last in the stack was a letter from Oberdorff Associates with a contract inside, not yet signed. A contract to shave the Great Minsk Whale.
Susan walked in, a mug of coffee in her hand. Bill looked up. "Pack your parka," he said. "We're heading to the Arctic.
Page one of _This Razor For Hire_. The question is, as always... would you turn the page?