Pat Novak, for hire.

Sure, I'm Pat Novak, 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 murder is 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 pauses 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 as stale as last year's Christmas candy.

Right at 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.

Hello Novak.

You're a mixed up friend. I pay the rent here.

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