"The word," I repeated, "is _cuts_. And the blow is not illegal." I gave my eyes another treat. What a chassis. And _what_ a mind. "Anything these days, so long as you don't kill your opponent, is legal in wrestling." Suddenly we had company: a little man who made scarcely a sound as he slid into my booth and sat facing me. "Rassling, yet," he said, in bitter tones. "What a woid. Dun't be saying it." He helped himself to a cigarette from my pack lying on the table, and put the pack in his pocket. He lit the cigarette, using my lighter, which he held a moment longer than necessary before replacing it--regretfully--on the table. He inhaled deeply. "Rassling!" he repeated. "Leave us not discuss it." * * * * * He was thin, haggard, unkempt, and his brown suit--in which the chalk stripes were beginning to blend with the background--was threadbare. He needed a shave, and his fingernails were dirty. He was vaguely familiar. The beady little eyes flicked up at me, and all uncertainty dissolved. "Oh, no!" I said. "Not you. Not--" He exhaled a great cloud of smoke. "Hoiman Katz," he said, in dejected tones. "It is me, again. The same as like always, only not so better." He sighed. Sherry's tongue had been shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for an opening. "Are you a wrestler, Mr. Katz?" she asked brightly. Hoiman half rose from his seat, and the cigarette dropped from his lax mouth. Then he slumped down again, spread his hands, shrugged, and said, "Now I esk you!" Sherry said, "I guess not." Then, "Shall I bring you something?" Her eyes were on me as she asked. She hadn't worked on Vine Street for six years without learning the ropes--about people at least. I nodded. Katz was waiting for the nod. He licked his lips. "I'll have a--" "Planet Punch?" "No. I'll have a--" "Solar Sling? Martian Mule?" Hoiman's eyes squinted shut, and he winced eloquently. "Martian!" he groaned. "With rassling, too! Bring me a bottle of beer. Two bottles!" After a moment he peered cautiously through slitted lids. "Is she gone?" he whispered. "Such woids. Rassling. Martian. Better I should have stood in Hollywood." I laughed. "What's the matter with wrestling, Hoiman? Last I heard you were managing a good boy--what was his name?" "Killer Coogan? That bum!" I had to do some thinking back. "Yeah," I said, "that's the boy. Started wrestling back in the fifties. Good crowd pleaser. Took the Junior Heavyweight Championship from Brickbuster Bates. Had a trick hold he called the pretzel bend--hard to apply, but good for a submission every time when he clamped it on. Right?" "Okay, so he won some bouts with it. But that was twenty-five years ago. He's slower, can't use that holt any more. We ain't had no main events for a long time, and my bum is a big eater, see?" "So?"