needed a shave, and his fingernails were dirty. He was vaguely familiar. The beady little eyes flicked up at me, and all uncertainty dissolved.

"Oh, no!" I said. "Not you. Not—"

He exhaled a great cloud of smoke. "Hoiman Katz," he said, in dejected tones. "It is me, again. The same as like always, only not so better." He sighed.

Sherry's tongue had been shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for an opening. "Are you a wrestler, Mr. Katz?" she asked brightly.

Hoiman half rose from his seat, and the cigarette dropped from his lax mouth. Then he slumped down again, spread his hands, shrugged, and said, "Now I esk you!"

Sherry said, "I guess not." Then, "Shall I bring you something?" Her eyes were on me as she asked. She hadn't worked on Vine Street for six years without learning the ropes—about people at least.

I nodded.

Katz was waiting for the nod. He licked his lips. "I'll have a—"

"Planet Punch?"

"No. I'll have a—"

"Solar Sling? Martian Mule?"

Hoiman's eyes squinted shut, and he winced eloquently. "Martian!" he groaned. "With rassling, too! Bring me a bottle of beer. Two bottles!" After a moment he peered cautiously through slitted lids. "Is she gone?" he whispered. "Such woids. Rassling. Martian. Better I should have stood in Hollywood."

I laughed. "What's the matter with wrestling, Hoiman? Last I heard you were managing a good boy—what was his name?"

"Killer Coogan? That bum!"

I had to do some thinking back. "Yeah," I said, "that's the boy. Started wrestling back in the fifties. Good crowd pleaser. Took the Junior Heavyweight Championship from Brickbuster Bates. Had a trick hold he called the pretzel bend—hard to apply, but good for a submission every time when he clamped it on. Right?"

"Okay, so he won some bouts with it. But that was twenty-five years ago. He's slower, can't use that holt any more. We ain't had no main events for a long time, and my bum is a big eater, see?"

"So?"

"So Hoiman Katz is not sleeping yet at the switch. He's got it up here." A grimy forefinger tapped his wrinkled brow. "I says, Hoiman, if we don't get it here, we gotta go where we can get it."

Sherry came back with Hoiman's two bottles of beer, and my steak and french fries. The steak was a dream, and the french fries were a crisp, rich golden brown that started my mouth watering.

Sherry wanted to talk. I waved her down, and she went away pouting. If there was a story in Hoiman I wanted to get it without interference.

He was pouring a second glass of beer. His beady eyes swivelled up to mine, then quickly away. "You want I should tell you about my bum?"

I mumbled something through a mouthful of good juicy steak.

Hoiman sighed, reminiscently, and a grimy paw swooped into my french fries. I moved them to the other side of my steak platter.

e woiked all up and down the Coast, (Hoiman said). My bum took all comers. Slasher Slade had his abominal stretch. Crusher Kane had his rolling rocking horse split; Manslaughter Murphy had his cobra holt—but none of those guys had anything like my Bum's pretzel bend. He trun 'em all, and they stayed trun.

That was fine. All through the fifties, and the sixties we made plenty scratch. Maybe it slowed down, but we was eating regular. In the seventies my bum was slowing up. I shoulda seen it when he started missing his holt. That leaves him wide open, see? And twict the other bum moiders him.

That was recent—they was just putting in regular passenger service on the space lines, so you could buy tickets to the Moon, or Venus or Mars. Depended on whether you was ducking a bill or some broad.

By this time my bum is getting pinned to the mat too regular, and we're slipping out of the big dough. I counts up our lettuce one day, and I