Trouble is my business

We inched into the city along a choked highway where cars moved slower than the dead-cert I'd bet on the day before.
From the passenger seat, the woman looked across at me. She was short, neat and quick, like a tap to the back of the head.
"Park down there," she snapped, pointing to a closed-off road by the riverside.
"I can't do that, it's a one way road," I replied. "We'll have to drive round."
"You better not be stalling, Mo."
Her small, wrinkled hand reached inside her bag. I sneaked a peek out of the corner of my eye as we waited at the lights. I was right, the bag was loaded. If she tickled me with that one I'd have a lump on my noggin the size of a politician's expense-account.
"Listen," I said. "I know these streets. Believe me, some of them you wouldn't want to walk down, even with your granny."
She didn't buy it, though, "Funny, wise guy. But this is one old lady who can take care of herself. Now find a parking slot before I introduce you to the sharp end of my walking-pole."
The Market is a covered district where all kinds of people buy all kinds of merchandise. It isn't a pretty place, a bit fishy if you ask me, and a lot of faggots, too, but she knew who she wanted.
"Where's the Stick-man?" she asked quietly, looking right at a guy selling hot rolls.
"For why?" he growled, and I could tell by looking at her that he'd soon wish he hadn't.
The little lady looked up at him and smiled, slowly, " I want, to buy, a stick. Do you sell, sticks?"
He'd tried to brush her off, but she had him pat.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean no harm, lady," the sap blurted out. "He's over there, on a stall behind ... the Book-man."
Her precise, "Thankyou" hit him like a glass of ice-water and left him shivering over his little pastries.
He looked at me.
"You with her?"
I nodded.
"Jeez," he said.
"What kind you want darlin'," the stick-man asked. " I got canes, poles, swaggers, wood, metal, plastic, plain, fancy ... "
"I want folding," she said.
He looked her up and down; it didn't take long.
"You sure, doll?" he said. "Folding sticks ain't cheap."
"My last one was. The guy I bought it from was glad to sell it to me ... without VAT."
I watched the words hang in the air between them, like spiders on silk.
"Try this one."
He reached across and pulled down a small package from the side-wall. He flipped it open, snapped his wrist and, with three sharp well-oiled clicks, a full-length stick was in his hand.
It was quicker than any stick-up I'd ever seen, but the she wasn't impressed.
"It looks heavy," she said.
"Lady, this is the latest, lightest, four-section fold-up on the market. Anything else is just tubing."
He caught her eye.
"Listen, rube, I can see you're no tenderfoot. OK. I'll throw in a tooled leather wrist-loop."
She looked a little interested. He leered. She pulled his lead.
"I want it sawn-off."
The Stick-man paled and eyed the passing crowds nervously. He swallowed like a big scared frog and gulped out,
"Jeez, lady, don't tell the world, you'll get my licence revoked. Sawn-off? You know what that means?"
"Yeah, you might make a sale," she shot back, quicker than a hen off a nest.
"OK, OK, sawn-off it is, but keep it down."
"Deal. I'll pay cash," she said. "Don't trust electronic card machines. They never work anyhow."
I followed her as she trotted out of the market. It was raining and the pavements were wet and we had a long walk in front of us.
"Danged if he hasn't cut it too long," she said,
I winced in anticipation, but she smiled.
"Hey, never mind, Mo. I think you've earned a cup of coffee. I'll buy."
I nodded my head. I knew it was not the time to say a word.