Georgie Lampson

That's what the sign on in front of my office says. That's no vac for hire.

Oh sure, you can spell it 50 different ways, but down in the waterfront in San Francisco it all means the same thing. You pay and all do, and the customer's always right if he's got an open wallet.

Then I'll match it with an open mind. Unless you have to murder, then the price gets out of range. But down here you're either high on your toes or flat on your back, because most of the time you get only one kind of fits fast and inside.

You don't drive your file but there's nobody cares. Even then you can't complain. During the summer the morgues are cool with Spotting Town. Oh, I went boats. You wrap up small fins and $20 bills.

The money's good when you get it, but there's no retirement planning. You can't buy vaccination for trouble. I found that out last Wednesday night. I closed up shop about eight o'clock and I started walking home.

The city was down at hand and then he was trying to crawl through one of our San Francisco hot spells with blast by every five years. From up on the hill, a Chinatown town tellman's lined up down below like sweaty little kids waiting for a shower.

It was heating headaches all the way. But when I opened my front door and stepped inside, who wanted to talk about the weather? She was standing in the dark, smoking a cigarette, and a silhouette of her figure cut against the window was something you'd never believe.

And she reached over and turned on her lamp, was a fast, dizzy trip. When I got around to her eyes, they were the kind You know you could count on some fast action when they came to the boil.