"Hey, man," a voice said, "I've been lookin' for you everywheres." Marc hastily lowered his glasses. He glanced down to find a familiar shifty-eyed, weasel-like face peering up at him. "You!" he said. "Yeah, man," the diminutive peddler of lewd pictures grinned. "You still got the cool stuff, huh?" "The cool stuff?" Marc said with sudden stiffness. "If you mean that collection of disgusting pictures, no I haven't got them. At the moment, I believe they're listed as Exhibit A in the case of The People against Marcus G. Pillsworth." "Man!" the little man wailed. "You mean somebody goofed and the cops got 'em?" "Precisely," Marc said frigidly. "Who's this Pillsworth cube?" Marc drew himself up into a living tower of glowering hauteur. "I am Marcus G. Pillsworth," he said nastily. "You!" the little man said. "You got hooked with the goods?" "I got hooked," Marc said flatly, "with the goods just where you planted it on me." "Jeez!" the little man cried despairingly. "You just can't rely on nobody no more." He chewed his lip for a moment, then looked up at Marc anxiously. "What about the French Elixir? Did the bulls heist that, too?" "French Elixir?" Marc said. "I don't know anything about your French Elixir." "The hell you don't, man," the little man said. "I faded it into your coat pocket. Did they find it?" Marc paused. A chill of apprehension skittered up his spine. "Into my coat pocket," he said. "A small brown bottle?" "It wasn't a big blue jug," the little man said impatiently. "You still got it?" Marc reached into his pocket and pulled out, first one brown bottle, then another. They were almost identical except that the liquid in the one marked 'French Elixir' had been depleted by approximately one fourth. "Good night!" Marc yelled. "I drank the wrong stuff!" "You drank the Elixir!" the little man said. He snatched the bottle from Marc's hand. "You _drank_ it?" "I said I drank it," Marc said distractedly. "Then, you owe me twenty bucks, man. That bottle of genuine, hard-to-get French Elixir sells for fifty, sixty dollars." He held out his hand. "Pad my palm, friend." "I certainly will not pad your palm," Marc said indignantly. "Do you know what that stuff's done to me?" "Huh?" The little man paused reflectively. "How should I know what it done," he said. "They say all sorts of stuff could happen to you, according to how you're repressed." He regarded Marc interestedly. "What happened?" "I've got X-ray eyes!" Marc said dramatically. "That's what happened." The little man looked at him skeptically. "What's X-ray eyes?" "When I look at people," Marc said, "I see right through their clothes. If I didn't have these glasses on everyone on this street would be stark naked." * * * * * The little man made a thin whistling sound, then began to chuckle. "Lord, man," he laughed, "you ain't got X-ray eyes, you just got a dirty mind!" "What!" Marc said.