"Well," the cashier said philosophically. "I guess I'm out three dollars. His talking was what threw me off."
I picked up the three dollar bill and squinted at the fine print. It said Series of 1964. The date on my newspaper on the counter beside my cold coffee was April 5, 1954.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," I said. "I'll give you three dollars for it."
"Oh no!" the cashier said quickly. "I can't do that. The law says I must turn all counterfeit money directly over to the nearest F.B.I. office."
"Sure," I soothed. "Sure, I know that. But this isn't the same thing. A counterfeit is an imitation of real money—and there aren't any real three dollar bills."
The cashier chuckled suddenly. "By gollies you're right," he said. "That means I can keep it. Think I will. I'm going to deposit it in the bank tomorrow morning. Just for a laugh. Ned Sparks'll fall off his high stool when he sees it."
"I'll give you three and a half for it," I said.
But I was already turning away as he shook his head. I knew the only way to get a three dollar bill was to catch up with the little man.
Outside the drugstore I looked up the street the way the little man had gone. He wasn't in sight. I saw the stop sign a block away, and hurried toward it.
It was Lincoln Avenue, in a part of Evanston that was just like a small town set off by itself, downstate instead of a northern suburb of Chicago. I followed the directions the cashier had given the little man. Turn right two blocks.