Rubin Callaway's Pictures

Pat Novak for a hire. Hire. That's what the sign out in front of my office says.

Pat Novak for hire. Oh, you don't get in the blue book that way, but you don't embarrass your friends either. Because down on the waterfront in San Francisco, they don't separate the good and the bad.

They let them run together. Before long you got a caste system. You're either alive or dead. If you're on top, keep feeding the crowd the crowd and trying for sevens until you lose the dice. It's about the only way to play it unless you like worms. I rent boats and do anything else that'll put a fast handle on a buck. But it

doesn't always work out because down here all your luck is junior grade and trouble is trumps. I found that out Tuesday night. It was the first time I ever saw a Ruben Callaway and the last time to if you like to keep a tidy record. It was about seven o'clock and I just

started back across the bay from Sausalito. It could still see Mount Tamalpias squatting on the Marin shore, light brown near the top, but dark and black farther down like a cupcake that's been in the oven a little too long. A low fog was beginning to squeeze in on the far side so I kicked in the searchlight and that's when I picked him up. It was struggling

with his face near the water and was almost bald so that when the light hit him he looked like a candle up but somebody got tired of him. I pulled alongside and started to haul him aboard and brought most of the bay with him.