Gary Adams spent yesterday afternoon 500 feet from PNC Park, near six Royal Flush portable restrooms, beneath the Interstate 279 overpass. He worked there -- in the gray area, where legality borders illegality, and where Mr. Adams, a ticket scalper, again tested his limits.

	Peter Diana, Post-Gazette A scalper -- he'd only identify himself as "Joe B" -- does business outside PNC Park before yesterday's Pirates game against the White Sox. Click photo for larger image.

He stood in a thicket of foot traffic, waving his hands, hustling through transactions. He held, in his right hand, eight tickets for yesterday's Pirates-White Sox matinee. The number fell to six at 12:05 p.m., when he ran across toward General Robinson Street -- an area, by law, too close to the stadium for scalping -- and found two more buyers.

Private ticket vending in Pittsburgh has become a game of guesswork, shaped by inexact law enforcement and the scalpers' shared belief that existing city restrictions ought to be loosened. Mr. Adams tried to help: he and 15 other ticket-sellers filed a lawsuit in May 2005, aimed to halt the very city ordinance that threatened them. But Wednesday, Commonwealth Court denied the group's appeal.

So Mr. Adams and others returned to work.

In April 2005, the city reformatted its treatment of scalpers. Private vendors suddenly had two choices: They could apply for a license from the Bureau of Building Inspection, currently costing $515 annually. Or, they could sell without a license in a designated "reselling zone," an area on Tony Dorsett Drive, under the Interstate 279 overpass.

No matter how scalpers reacted, Mr. Adams said, their business suffered. (He estimated losing between $2,000 and $3,000 in 2005.) With a license, vendors were allowed Downtown near the Byham Theater -- no closer. Without a license, they were forced, by law, into the "reselling zone," a 23-foot-by-30-foot rectangle marked off by black chains.

"Nobody comes back here to buy tickets," said Mr. Adams, who purchased a license in October but decided he'd rather operate in the reselling zone. "My regular customers can't even find me anymore."

Prompted by anger, scalpers have tested their limits by wading into the gray space. Stepping closer to PNC Park weighs reward and risk. They attract buyers. They attract citations.

Yesterday, a vendor who identified himself only as Bob stood 10 feet from the chained selling zone. A police officer asked him to step back. "They want us in that little box," he said. "Like animals."

Meanwhile, a half-dozen scalpers roamed up and down Tony Dorsett Drive, mostly unencumbered. Mr. Adams, a scalper for 30 years, knew the routine. He watched for eye contact and small groups. On this day, he unloaded tickets below face value, sometimes while standing 50 feet from the reselling zone.

"They want every [sale] to be within that cage, or you get a citation," Mr. Adams said. "Sometimes you can stretch it. Now if an undercover [officer] is there -- and, my guess, an uncover will be there tomorrow, because it's the weekend -- you won't be able to stand where I'm standing now. And I can smell a cop a mile away. That's just my line of work."

Six scalpers interviewed yesterday complained, without exception, about the double standard they faced. They could make legal transactions only on the stadium outskirts. But season ticket holders, they said, routinely sold tickets outside the stadium without problem.

"No matter what law is written, it's not going to be perfect," said Councilman William Peduto, who proposed the ordinance. "I'll say this: The enforcement of this law should be equal, whether you're a scalper or season ticket holder."

A sign posted near the reselling zone lists the state laws about scalped tickets: they cannot be resold for more than 25 percent or $5 above face value, whichever is greater. And the sign warns fans that tickets purchased from resellers may not be valid.

One PNC Park employee stationed near the scalpers yesterday held a scanning device, aimed to help fans quickly learn the legitimacy of scalped tickets. In two seasons on the job, security guard Jamie Gruber said, he'd never found a counterfeit baseball ticket. Mr. Adams, though, admitted that scalpers -- for premier games -- routinely ignore the 25 percent-or-$5 regulation. "Yeah, that means nothing," he said. "Nobody cares."

Mr. Peduto had originally hoped to create a scalping area small enough for enforcement, where officers could supervise without chasing. Though the city has plans to eventually enlarge the reselling zone, nothing will change before the July 11 All-Star Game, when fan demand -- and police presence -- figure to peak.

Yesterday lacked such interest. Mr. Adams unloaded two tickets for $40 total. One ticket-seeker, offering $10 for a single ticket, continued his walk toward the stadium. A final vendor stood on General Robinson Street, wearing a white T-shirt and black Pirates cap.

He wagged four tickets in the air.

"Yeah, I'm not supposed to be here," he said. "But they have to come find me."