New York City, 1980

Mortimer Hadby wasn't someone easily fooled, so he felt especially embarrassed when he reached into his pocket and found his wallet curiously absent.
"Damn it all," he cursed, growing red. Harriet, his wife, turned away from the vendor she'd been bargaining with.
"Why, what is it, dear?"
"That street performer we just passed must have taken my wallet. It isn't here."
"You must have left it in the restaurant -"
"I never leave anything anywhere. You know that. I haven't lost anything since I was a boy."
Harriet sighed. Her husband's obsession with keeping on top of everything was often useful, but she'd seen this day coming.
"Darling, we all slip up sometimes. Let's return to the restaurant and ask if anyone's seen it."
"It's no use. I didn't leave it. It had to have been that damn swindler. There's just no other explanation."
Before Harriet could react, Mortimer was walking quickly away, shoving his hat onto his head as he walked down the sidewalk to the corner, where the aging man was packing away his guitar and magic set.
"Very good show," Mortimer observed, though in truth he'd only seen a second of it as he'd passed. "Lucrative, I'm guessing?"
"These gigs never are," the man responded, eyes on his equipment. "I make the real cash in restaurants and the like."
"Then why stick it out out here? Is it because sometimes there's a little...extra money in it?"
"How do you mean?" This time, the perfomer stopped packing and squinted up at Mortimer, and was taken aback by the intensity his eyes revealed was behind the question.
"You know what I mean, you scumbag," Mortimer growled, face flushing with anger. "You pick the pockets of innocent passers-by and leave them stranded on the streets without any kind of money. What if I had nothing else, huh?"
"Then you'd have more than me," the man responded before adding, "Look, man, I don't have anything of yours. I used to be like that, but I swear to you I haven't done anything illegal since I was a teenager. It's what landed me this nothing life in the first place."
"God damn it, don't lie to me. I'm friends with more police officers than you'd care to count -"
"And you'd be willing to call them up right now and have them take me away, right? I've heard all of this hot air talk before, but I swear to you I've never stolen a thing past the age of 20..."
Randy, tiring of the argument, trotted out from his hiding place behind the Dumpster and approached the men. The tall, salt-and-pepper-mustached one noticed him first, stretching to his full suited height and grimacing.
"What are you looking at, you street rat? Think you can score a cut if you help out your fellow homeless man? Well think again, because this guy isn't getting away with any of my-"
"Oh, no sir. Street rat, sir?" He glanced down at the apron thrown over his grimy clothes, as if it indicated any sort of station. "I work at The Bella Plaza Restaurant, and noticed this laying on the booth you and your wife just left." He flipped the wallet out of the apron's pocket. "The manager sent me out to catch up with you and return it. hope it didn't cause you any worry, sir."
"Why, I..erm..no. No trouble. Here's a couple bucks for your trouble," Mortimer said gruffly, shoving a few bills from the wallet and shoving it into Randy's hand. The performer said nothing and merely continued packing up his things.
Once Mortimer was gone, Randy grinned and handed a bill to the street performer, who merely scowled.
"I ain't gonna play the punching bag in your little schemes any longer, Randy!" he said. "You gotta find some other desperate guy to do your dirty work."
"There'll always be someone to replace you, Martin, just remember that," Randy threatened gleefuly as he traded his dollar for a pretzel at the booth opposite, removing the apron and tossing it on the ground instead of returning it to the trash bin where he;d found it.