"She didn't. She bought it here. I saw the receipt."
"Then she traded with one of my other customers!" snapped the old man.
"Two of your customers have the same name—Adelia Schultz? Not likely. Let's see your duplicate receipt book."
O'Reilley's wrinkled face set itself into a stubborn mask. "Doubt if it's still around."
Norris frowned. "Look, pop, I've had a rough day. I could start naming some things around here that need fixing—sanitary violations and such. Not to mention that sign—'dumb blondes.' They outlawed that one when they executed that shyster doctor for shooting K-108s full of growth hormones, trying to raise himself a harem to sell. Besides, you're required to keep sales records until they've been micro-filmed. There hasn't been a microfilming since July."
The wrinkled face twitched with frustrated anger. O'Reilley shuffled to the counter while Norris followed. He got a fat binder from under the register and started toward a wooden stairway.
"Where you going?" Norris called.
"Get my old glasses," the manager grumbled. "Can't see through these new things."
"Leave the book here and I'll check it," Norris offered.
But O'Reilley was already limping quickly up the stairs. He seemed not to hear. He shut the door behind him, and Norris heard the lock click. The bio-agent waited. Again the thought of a black market troubled him. Unauthorized neutroids could mean lots of trouble.