“Hands off!” The stick crashed down on the edge of the cart and Billy jerked his fingers away.

“I’m not touching your junk,” he complained.

“Move on if you’re not buying,” the man said, an Oriental with lined cheeks and thin white hair.

“I’m not buying, I’m selling.” Billy leaned closer and whispered so that only the man could hear. “You want some soylent steaks?”

The old man squinted at him. “Stolen goods, I suppose,” he said tiredly.

“Come on — you want them or not?”

There was no humor in the man’s fleeting smile. “Of course I want them. How many do you have?”

“Ten.”

“A D and a half a piece. Fifteen dollars.”

“Shit! I’ll eat them myself first. Thirty D’s for the lot.”

“Don’t let greed destroy you, son. We both know what they are worth. Twenty D’s for the lot. Period.” He fished out two worn ten-dollar bills and held them folded in his fingers. “Let’s see what you have.”

Billy pushed the stuffed handkerchief across and the man held it under the cart and looked inside. “All right,” he said, and still with his hands beneath the cart transferred them to a square of heavy, wrinkled paper and handed back the cloth. “I don’t need that.”

“The loot now.”

The man handed it over slowly, smiling now that the transaction was finished. “Do you ever come to the Mott Street club?”

“Are you kidding?” Billy grabbed for the money and the man released it.

“You should. You’re Chinese, and you brought these steaks to me because I’m Chinese too and you knew you could trust me. That shows you’re thinking right…”

“Knock it off, will you, grandpa.” He hit himself in the chest with his thumb. “I’m Taiwan and my father was a general. So one thing I know — have nothing to do with you downtown Commie Chinks.”