"Hey, man," he said furtively, "how about a look at some hot stuff straight from Paris, France. It's the real thing."
"I beg your pardon?" Marc said stiffly.
"You know," the little man said with an odious wink, "dames with their skin showin'—all the way down." With the quick movement of a conjurer he turned his hand and produced for Marc's edification the photograph of a dark-haired, not-so-young lady, peering back lasciviously over a shoulder that was bare clear down to the soles of her feet. Flushing with surprise and embarrassment, Marc looked away.
"That's one of the tame ones," the little hustler said. "Man, the others will stone you! Dig?"
"I do not dig," Marc said tersely, "and I do not wish to be stoned. Please go away."
"You mean you don't care about feminine pulchritude?" the little man asked in a scandalized tone.
"I am not interested in dirty postcards," Marc said. "As a respectable married man...."
The little man made a sharp sound of alarm. "You got trouble, man," he said. "Respectable and married too! I bet you're a big bomb around the house. There's nothin' a woman hates worse than bein' married to a respectable married man."
Mercifully, the light chose that moment to change, and Marc turned away. The nervous hand, however, again caught at his sleeve.
"Hold up, man," the little man said urgently. He produced a small brown bottle from the inner reaches of his disreputable suit. "I like to see people happy, man, and if ever I saw a guy in a bind, it's you. So, in your case, I'll make you an extra special exception. I'll give you a crack at this single last remaining bottle of genuine French Elixir."