I left the market and called in its address to my manager. When I met the team that night at the Irish pub, I heard they'd rolled into the grocery with a warrant an hour after I left. The bags were exactly where I'd said they'd be. Somebody bought me a beer. The next day I worked at Chumley's, slinging burgers and returning beers when they became flies' watery graves. But the day after that I was back in Chinatown. I should've waited longer, let things cool. I cased a few stalls: usual shtick, usual scores. And then, near the intersection of Canal and Centre, a man in a baseball cap caught my eye and held it for a millisecond longer than I expected him to. I felt it immediately. I continued in the same direction at a casual pace for a block and a half, and then looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, he was behind me -- talking on his cell phone. To confirm what I already knew, I popped into another storefront or two, but, wouldn't you know: No one was selling knockoffs anymore that day, not even when I batted my eyelashes, drew out my "i"s, and talked about Jesus. Returning to the office, I expected a burn notice, but when the elevator doors opened all I heard was, "Hey Jane." It's possible I was wrong but . . . there's no way I was wrong. An agent knows. I must've blown my cover in the