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This was the life.

A gorgeous May Day, a chrome and maroon sedan, a suit of sharp black and white checks, a sandwich and a bottle of beer.

What more can a man ask?

Oh yes, the contented customer remembered, bring some potato chips.

He explained with a grin, potato chips are my favorite dish.

Later, having cleaned up the last crumb, he peeled a $10 bill from a sizable roll,

took his change of the five and four ones he picked up, a little pile of silver he left on the bar.

He waved a fat hand, flashed his teeth, and sauntered out to his car,

and drove away from the Frankfurt taproom in Philadelphia.

The man was suave, assured, plainly prosperous.

He was sleepily good-natured.

He looked like a citizen pleased with life,

benevolently disposed toward humanity at large. But evil walked with him through that

Frankfurt Street. Murder was his companion in the May sunshine.

As the day wore on, the proprietor emptied his cash register, bagged the receipts and carried them to the bank.

A teller, riffling through the bills, examined one ten-dollar note carefully.

He asked, where'd you get this? You've been jipped. It's counterfeit.

Sputtering indignantly, the tavern keeper mentally reviewed his day. Most of his customers

were neighborhood friends. They wouldn't knowingly stick him with a fake bill.

He exclaimed,

It must have been the guy with the potato chips.

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