Rita Malloy

Pat Novak for hire. I have no back for hire. That's what the sign out in front of my office says.

Pat Novak for hire. Down on the waterfront in San Francisco, billing doesn't mean much. Everybody's got the same act. They're all out to turn a fast buck. When you're in business down here, everything but murders a parlor trick.

Once in a while your eyelids get sore from winking it too much, but it's a living. You get to meet the best people in town. There's only one hooker. You'll have to wake up some morning dead.

Because around the waterfront you don't need a union card for trouble. It sneaks up and paws you like a wet ghost. I found that out when I met Bruno's wife. I closed up early Tuesday night and I went home to catch up on last month's sleep.

I don't know how long I was in bed. Must have been about 11 when I woke up. The room was dark and it's stale as last year's Christmas candy. I had the goofy feeling that somebody was in the room with me. I was breathing kind of hard and I stopped to have a listen.

Somebody was sitting on my bed either that or the landlord had put in an echo. I listened again. You're a mixed up friend. I pay the rent here. Get your hands away from the light, Novak.

Just be a good boy and you can collect your old age pension. Now look, I'm not crazy about waking up with strangers sitting on my bed, especially if they got baritone voices and I'll say your piece and beat it.