“The Golden Gate,” he said, slamming the table with his open hand and letting a whole series of tics tumble through his face. “I want the Golden Gate and nothing but the Golden Gate. Don’t give me a hard time again. Do you want to sell or don’t you?”

I’d had a chance to think it through. And I knew that Ricardo’s angle had been the angle. I was in.

“Sure I’ll sell. If that’s what you want, you’re the doctor. But look—all I can sell you is my share of the Golden Gate Bridge, whatever equity in it I may happen to own.”

He nodded. “I want a receipt. Put that down on the receipt.”

I put it down on the receipt. And back we went. The druggist notarized the receipt, shoved the stamping outfit in the drawer under the counter and turned his back on us. Eksar counted out six twenties and one five from a big roll of bills, all of them starchy new. He put the roll back into his pants pocket and started away again.

“More coffee?” I said, catching up. “A refill on the soup?”

He turned a very puzzled look at me and kind of twitched all over. “Why? What do you want to sell now?”

I shrugged. “What do you want to buy? You name it. Let’s see what other deals we can work out.”

This was all taking one hell of a lot of time, but I had no complaints. I’d made a hundred and forty dollars in fifteen minutes. Say a hundred and thirty-eight fifty, if you deducted expenses like notary fees, coffee, soup—all legitimate expenses, all low. I had no complaints.

But I was waiting for the big one. There had to be a big one.

Of course, it could maybe wait until the TV program itself. They’d be asking me what was on my mind when I was selling Eksar all that crap, and I’d be explaining, and they’d start handing out refrigerators and gift certificates at Tiffany’s and …