The call is . . . weird. He sure has a non-British accent. I ask what it is exactly, and he says he’s a Caribbean born in London. Not that I’ve met many Nigerians, but he sounds Nigerian. As to the deal-making, he says all the work will be done by him in London; I will not need to come. He will, though, need my name and address so he can submit it to the financial company. When the cash is released, he’ll send it over to America with a courier who will deliver the consignment. After I get it, the barrister and his wife will fly to the US “to take my own share for the opportunity to meet you face to face.”

So, I say: “I have the money handed to me. Then what do I do, give you a certain share?”

“No, no,” he writes, “this money be in your possession there with you. I will now come over with my wife to take my own percentage.”

Me: “I think that means yes, yes? But I’m still trying to figure out how this tax-free transaction actually works.”

Him: “Good. You see, once this money has been delivered . . . I will now come over there; after taking my own share, it will help me open a bank account and I will buy a house over there with your assistance.”

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Mmm . . . a house! With my assistance! (Does he know how cheap property has become in these parts?) Here’s how some money might change hands: there’s more back and forth, but a lot of murkiness over details. They must teach these guys e-classes in obfuscation. Finally I ask him to e-mail me with the complete instructions on how this is going to come down and what I need to do. Step by step by step. A-B-C-D.

He e-mails me, saying how much he enjoyed the conversation. He has God bless me. He wants my full name and address in order to facilitate the documentation.

Those are the details, the ones he’s willing to give up beyond what’s been said. He says he’s expecting my “swift response.” I am anticipating another few dozen trips around the merry-go-round of nothingness.

There’s my barrister again, knocking at the door. A voice in my head is saying something about walking away from a fool and his money. It sounds like a line from an old Badfinger song, “Come and Get It.” It is a line from that song.

I don’t think we want the courier, the barrister, or his wife to come and get anything.