Give Envelope to John St John

Pat Novak. Higher. Put the sign out in front of my office says, Pat Novak for higher.

Down on the waterfront in San Francisco, you don't get prizes for being subtle. You want to make a living down here? You got to get your hand in the tell any way you can. You're a rob Peter to pay Paul, and then you put it on the cup.

Tell a few white lies if the price is right. It's a happy life. If you don't mind looking up at a headstone, because sooner or later you draw trouble a size too big. I found that out Tuesday night.

It was raining, and the street was as deserted as a warm bottle of beer. Must have been about 11 o'clock when I came out of the office and started down the waterfront. As I got near the corner I stopped.

An old man stepped out of the darkness and started across the street. It was a short trip because a car started up down the street and the old man couldn't have made it with a pocket full of aces.

I started over to him. The car slowed down for a minute and then turned the corner and disappeared. As it passed under the streetlight I caught a glimpse of the license plate in a dull, surprised way the way you'd grab a feather out of an easel's wing. I bent over the old man and rolled him on his back. He didn't seem to

be in pain. He was just an old man with a frightened look of a small boy in a storm who was breeding hard as I cushioned his head. Please help me. Can you please help me?