'Pssst. Hotdogs ten bucks each'

"Wait!" I pleaded, digging into my pockets. "I've got change."

He laughed, contemptuously. "That's not even coffee money."

"I don't drink coffee," I mumbled. "Not since the government arrested Juan Valdez and his donkey for being unhealthy influences on impressionable minds."

I grabbed for his supply of hotdogs, each disguised in a plain brown wrapper, each more valuable than a banned rap record. He again pulled them away.

"I ain't no Salvation Army. You want 'dogs, you pay for 'dogs. I got thousands who will."

"I need a fix. You can't let me die out here on the streets."

"If it was just me, I'd do it. But there's the boys. They keep the records. If I give you a 'dog and bun, and don't get no money, they'll break two of my favourite fingers. I don't cross nobody. And I don't give it away."

"Please," I begged. "I need a 'dog. It's all I have left to live for. I don't care about colorectal cancer. Without hotdogs, my life is over. You can't let me die out here on the streets."

He shrugged and so I suddenly got bold.

"Give me a 'dog," I demanded, "or I'll tell everyone you have the stuff. You won't be able to meet the demand. The masses will tear you apart like a plump frank."

"You wouldn't do that to a guy just trying to make a buck, would you?"

"Two 'dogs with mustard and onions, and I keep my mouth shut. No 'dogs and I scream like a fire engine." He had no choice.

Walking away, he stopped, turned back, and called after me.

"Tomorrow. This corner. This time. Two 'dogs. Twenty bucks. I'll see you every night."

I didn't reply. He knew he had me.