Well, what do you think about that?

Excuse me?

The drunkard crossed the bar had waited until Gathbrox was winding down on the old word

it to in the corner to sit all over to me, bringing this thing of nighttime streets, and

not just cloud of mental and cheap liquor with him.

I said, what do you think, ever see something like that before?

He stabbed a finger at the smudged and crumpled half-page of ad-print, torn from some local

penny-saver, tapping his decar to a little drumbeat with one dirty nail.

Probably some kind of scam?

I'm used, pushing it away with a flat on my pier, a chance to start selling Herbalife

or Luloro head of the drunkier car or something, you know.

He slashed precariously in his seat, ice spinning like glassy marbles.

Some kind of scam, sure.

He slurred, slapping one look like a crisp pair of $1,000 notes down by my elbow.

A scam, with 16 identical brothers and sisters stacked up a home.

How's that for a scam?

Christ, are those real?

I turn one over in my hands, tracing a finger along the unfamiliar contours of Grover

Clevver's profile.

Bank certified and all, I've been trading them in for smaller bills all week.

He called for another beer.

I look the guy up and down.

...