Turnbull berates himself as he walks the dark street. The Inspector's laundry will be late. Again. He can't keep doing this. He promises himself--

"Hey, baby."

His cheeks flame. He walks on, looking straight ahead.

"Hey, mister. Where ya goin'?"

"What's yer hurry?"

"You want it rough, Red? You want it nasty?"

Turnbull stops. There is a time for silence. And then there is a time to say no, firmly and politely.

"No," he says. "Firmly. And politely."

The other man's mouth twists into a grin. Turnbull sighs, extends a hand-- and promises himself it will be the last time.