Guaranteed—Forever! by Frank M. Robinson - Manning had spent his life exposing mail order frauds. But Forsythe's outfit topped them all. Its products were too good to exist—yet!

Clark Street, just north of Chicago's Loop, was the symbol of a million things, all of them bad, Manning thought. Bumpy paving bricks rutted with street car tracks and bordered on both sides by cheap saloons and quarter-a-night flop houses. Hot summer nights when the drunks clustered like flies on the sidewalks and Newberry Park was crowded with cranks trying to save the world and floozies just trying to make a living in it. Old magazine stores where a nickle bought a copy of an old comic magazine and a five spot bought photographs guaranteed to make a high school kid's eyes pop out.

Clark Street, where a thousand and one manufacturing gyp artists had office space.

He slowed the car and went through the motions of parking. He jockeyed it in towards the curb. There was a scraping sound, and he cut the motor.

"You ought to watch it, Fred," Wheeler said. "You scraped the paint."

"It's just a scratch," Manning said quietly. "Just the fender."

"You scrape a fender on these models," Wheeler said doggedly, "and you have to get a whole new paint job. It costs money."

Manning looked coldly at the fat man sitting next to him.

"The government's got money; it can afford it."

The fat man shrugged and changed the subject. "How did the biopsy come out?"

"I don't know." Somewhere deep inside Manning a dozen tiny hands plucked a pain nerve. "The doctor will send me a report in a couple of days." The doctor had already told him that morning but he didn't want Wheeler to know. "Let's forget it. Who's on the list this time?"