Father Leahy - Joe Feldman

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

It's about the only way to say it. Now you can dress it up and tell how many shopping days there are till Christmas. But if you got yourself in the market, you can't waste time talking.

You've got to be as brief as a popper's will because down in the waterfront in San Francisco, everybody wants a piece of the cake. And the only easy buck is the one you just spent.

Well, it's a good life. If you work real hard and study a little on the side, you got a trade by the time you get to prison. Boats and do a few other odd jobs you can't afford to pick it on.

It works out alright if you put your tongue in a hawk. Because down here you shouldn't talk. It's like installing a set of drums and a belfry. You make some noise, but it's never the right kind.

I found that out a few days ago. Must have been Tuesday or Wednesday night anyway. I was sitting in the office reading time magazine when the door opened. I looked up and had to keep right on going because the guy was so tall he'd have to bend over to see through a transom.

And he had a voice deep enough to read out as a bassoon. Good evening, Mr. Novak. I'll take your word for it. You have a small office. I'm small time. What's on your mind? My name is Lehi. I want to hire you.

Yeah, sit down. Are you cold? Yeah. That overcoat around your neck. You're either cold or a priest. Oh. I'm a priest, Mr. Novak. I'm sorry, Father. You got a slow brogue. What do you need?