Wendy Morris

No back for a higher. I'm Pat No back for a higher.

That's what the sign out in front of my office says, Pat No back for a higher. It's up there in block letters, but down on the waterfront in San Francisco, good printing doesn't mean a thing.

You get that on the death certificate. If you're trying to make a living down here, you're not going to have any standing in the community except in a police lineup. I rent boats and do anything else that goes with a weak well and a strong stomach.

It's not all bad. Once in a while, something happens, it makes you feel good for a moment. Like remembering somebody you kissed a long time ago. But most of the time, you buy your beer the hard way.

It works out alright because most people learn to fall in love with a dollar bill and forget about trouble and everything sounds alright. All right, but sometimes it isn't like saying happy New Year to a lifer.

I found that out Wednesday night. I was sitting in the office with a sports page reading about those big tears that Washington senators were shedding when I saw Crocodotum for the first time. He was a big red face guy and the vein stood out on his face and made a pattern as if he slept on an alligator bag instead of a pillow.

He walked over to the desk instead of to get quiet and a loud voice. I want to talk to you, Mr. Novak. Go ahead, pile up a lead. My name's Odom. You heard of cock-a-dodom.

I don't get around. Tell me about it. I'm a lawyer. I want you to watch a client for me. The name is Wendy Morris. Is she hard to watch? You can get bloodshot eyes just looking at her.