"Everything's still cool here, officer," the street vendor assures you.

"That's cool. Especially after you already said you're into them. All the coolest detectives in the movies do drugs and are very conflicted about it. Still -- no drugs here." He smiles.

Sir, it appears to be true. No drugs in sight -- not in the box of sunglasses or under the speakers.

"That's very cool. I don't like drugs, either. I only said I do because I didn't want to sound lame." He smiles. "Peer pressure."

"I'm super into drugs."

"That's cool. Especially after you said you don't like them. All the cool detectives do drugs without liking them. Sadly I don't have any drugs on sale here." He smiles.

"That's very cool, a lot of the coolest detectives do drugs. Sadly, I don't have any drugs on sale -- or at my home. Or on my person." He smiles.

"Do you accept net worth as a form of payment?"

"I only accept legal tender, officer." He lowers his voice. "Unless that's code for something?"

"It is not code. He really means his individual net worth," the lieutenant jumps in. "It is not legal tender."

"In that case, I cannot accept that as payment, officer. I run everything above board here. Cash only."

"Nah, it's not code. I really mean my individual net worth."

"Wow."

"Wow what?"

"A cop limping down the street, bleeding from the shoulder, face bruised, looking like hell... You know what that is?"

"Cool. That's cool." He nods and settles back into the pile of boxes.

[Leave.]

You see a Samaran street vendor surrounded by a motley assemblage of goods. When he realizes you're looking at him his face breaks into a wide welcoming grin...

The name "Siileng" is embroidered over his breast pocket.

"Happy shopping, officer! Everything's cool here!" He gives you a thumbs up.

[Leave.]

"What's so cool?"

"Everything's cool. The goods are cool, the customers are cool, the place is cool -- and one more thing, officer..."

...from out on the bay a cool wind gathers. It sweeps into the city, tugging at the textiles hanging around the stand. Some distance away the sound of a tin can clattering across the street can be heard...

"... you're very cool." He makes both hands into finger-pistols and fires a few finger-bullets into the air.

You feel a twitch in your index fingers. There's a finger-shootout a-brewing.

Whip 'em out!

He raises his arms in mock alarm. "Don't shoot, officer! Have we got an arrest here, or just a shakedown?"

Even better! It's like a shakedown, but somehow legal. This is "civil asset forfeiture."

"A shakedown."

"Good one, officer. You're a funny guy! Now what can I do for you?" He nods toward his shabby wares.

"Just kidding. I'm really here to shake you down for some answers to official police questions."

"Then fire away, officer!" He settles back into the pile of boxes he's sitting on, getting comfortable.

"This isn't a joke. Give me your money. I need money."

"He does not need your money. Please disregard that. We're just here to ask some questions."

"Of course. Fire away!" He settles back into the pile of boxes he's sitting on, making himself comfortable.

"I would, officer, gladly, but I don't have any cash on hand, you know?" He winks. "But maybe if you buy something first then I'll have some money you can shake me down for. Sound fair?"

"I think that's fair." He settles back into the pile of boxes he's sitting on, making himself comfortable.

"An arrest."

"Of course, I'll come quietly." A sly wink. "But perhaps I could convince you to arrest some of my wares, officer? With your money, maybe?"

"Even better, it's civil asset forfeiture." (Make an imaginary warning shot.)

"You're threatening my inviolable property rights?" He inhales dramatically, then simmers down.

"Good joke, officer, you're very funny, you know that?"

"This isn't a joke. Give me your money. I need money."

"Yeah, I'm funny. This isn't a civil forfeiture, I just want to ask some questions."

No, it's a safety hazard.

"What, no finger-pistols, officer?" The street vendor makes a little pew-pew sound.

"What do you think is going to happen when all those finger-bullets come raining down to earth?"

The lieutenant nods approvingly.

"You're right, officer, 100%." He returns his finger-pistols to their finger-holsters. "No playing around then. Strictly business. Maybe I can interest you in some premium menswear instead?"

"I'm not here to play with finger-pistols. I'm here on official business."

"Really? You think I'm cool?"

"Oh yes! You got style, you got personal style. You know what you like." He surveys his consumerist kingdom with an air of satisfaction.

"You like premium menswear! Look around and browse, everything looks cool on a guy like you. Take your time." He settles back into the pile of boxes he's sitting on.

Don't be distracted by the flattery and funny-man act. Questions.

"Whether I'm cool is unimportant, I have police questions for you."

"I'm not cool."

"What? No. I can't believe you said that! You got personal style! You know what you like."