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 you always bite off more than you can chew. Its tough on your wind pipe, but you don't go hungry. And down here a lot of people figure its better to be a fat guy in a graveyard than a thin guy in a stew. That way he can be sure of a tight fit. (Pause) Oh, I rent boats and do anything else which makes a FX like money--

-it works out alright, if your mother doesn't mind you coming home for Easter in a box. I found that out on Wednesday night at about 9 o'clock. I closed the shop early and I came home to read. It wasn't a bad book, if you ever wanted to start a forest fire. It was one of those historical things and the girl in it wandered around like a meat grinder in ribbons. Ah, I was moving along alright. She was just getting her second wind before going for the world's record when the door to my apartment opened and the place began to get kinda crowded. From where I sat, the crowd looked good.

She sauntered in, moving slowly from side to side like a hundred and eighteen pounds of warm smoke. Her voice was alright, too. It reminded you of a furnace full of marshmallows.

Yeah. Thanks for knocking.

No. I get the cabbage smell from next door the same way.

It saves you the trouble of saying, "Please". What's on your mind?

No I won't. You'll save dough if you look up a bartender.

Let's hear.

That's too much dough unless it's murder; and if it is murder, its not enough dough.

I just don't like paid murder, I told you. When you get caught, the pay gets expensive.

Why don't you hire a friend? Are they too pretty?

That's what they told Benedict Arnold.

Suppose he wants to put it off?

Look, lady, you'd better go on home. For three-hundred bucks I won't buy a tissue-paper plot. Now tell me more or say goodbye.

Why?

(Pause) Why doesn't he bother you?

Yeah, its gonna be a long summer. Put it on the table.

No, you keep that. I don't want a gun.

(Irritated) Look, Sis, I've got a nasty disposition. You can rent that for three-hundred bucks. But if you want more, find a gunsel.

(Resignedly) Alright. Its your three-hundred.

Yeah. Wait'll I get a coat will you.

If your doorbell rings, don't play mouse--

-because I may look you up.

Because if anything goes wrong I'll be around looking for you. And from there on it won't be nice. (Threatening) I'll dirty you up like a locker room towel.

She handed me the gun and walked out of my apartment. Seeing her leave made you feel like Frank Buck losing an argument. She walked with the nice, easy swing of a satisfied leopard. For a small leopard, she had pretty good spots, too. Well, I put the gun in my overcoat pocket and I went down to Folsom Street. The address was down near the bridge entrance and the street was deserted except for a couple of winos near the corner trying to buy back 1926 at a dollar a jug. I stopped in front of the place. It was a machinery company. And I could see a light burning in the back. I began to walk through the place. It was so quiet you could a hear worm with the whooping cough and there were enough shadows around to keep a ghost happy for years. When I got to the office back in the corner, through a glass I could see a man sitting at the desk. When I opened the door--

-and walked in, he didn't seemed surprised.

Yeah?

About ten words if you're Dixie Gillian.

You'd better look up a timetable.

This.

Now look, I'm gonna say it slow, Mister. Pack up your rompers and get out.

I'm just the guy with the gun. Adrian does the talking.

That's right. You got the whole message now.

I will.

You'd better stand back or I'll share it with you.

Save your muscle, fella.

Save your muscle, fella, the gun's empty.

Sometimes you can get a home run with a half swing. That's the way it was this time. He couldn't have made it with a prayer book in both hands. He slid down on the floor, trembled for a minute, and then flattened out like a leaf in a pool of water. Just before he died he grabbed his side as if he didn't like the way it hurt. And then he didn't care. I rolled him on his back and let him look at the ceiling. His eyes were open and he looked surprised, like a guy who didn't figure on a change in the weather. There was a scar that ran across his forehead and dug deep into his hairline. And he was lying there with a bunch of pink gum showing as if he was trying to pick up a few bucks with a toothpaste ad. Well, I didn't have time to tell him how sorry I was because if homicide caught me here I'd have about as much chance as a canary in a basement full of cats. I started for the door, but right them I knew I could start ordering bird seed. It was Helleman, and he walked over to look at the body.

Yeah. I guess he is, Helleman.

Putting in a beef somewhere, I guess. He rates it.

A team play. We worked it out together.

That's right. I got the gun.

No. Just keep stealing the old way.

You feel flabby to anybody else, but to yourself I suppose you feel good. Look, I walked in here with a gun. There was some quick fight talk and I killed him but its still not a good rap.

I'll bet you can Helleman. You can give me a bad deal, but part of the time it'll be from the other side of the deck.

I'm gonna scream, if that's what you mean, Helleman. I'm gonna scream about a gal who sent me in here with an empty gun.

I got a last minute curve. It was empty once.

Alright, alright. I told you I didn't come in here to kill the guy. I don't know him. He may even be a good guy. I'm sorry he's dead.

Helleman had me up against the rail and he knew it. When we left there he was wearing a big, toothy smile that was big enough to sew on his ears. He called the coroner and told him to pick up the stiff and then we went downtown. He dropped the gun into ballistics and hauled me into his office. The reporters were there; he gave them the whole story and told `em how to spell Helleman. After that we wound up at the desk and he booked me on suspicion of murder. The next hour-and-a-half was the kind of stuff they don't write about in the paper. They call it interrogation and when you're finished you've been through a lot of tight spots like an atom up at Cal Tech. About eleven o'clock Helleman brought me into his office. From there on, it happened kind of fast.

Well, he's gonna look funny going to trial on a guy you can't identify.

You can't count his fingers without making a mistake. If you want to know who he is, talk to that girl. Her name's Leigh Underwood.

I don't know, Helleman. The girl said his name was Dixie Gillian.

Sure.

You're getting pale. You need some more rouge, Helleman.

No, talk to him now, Helleman. If that bullet doesn't match the gun, talk to him now.

I'm not that fast, Helleman. Come on, get out of that chair so you'll have room to squirm.

I won't bother you. I'm going home.

I'm walking out of your jail, Helleman. You got a broken down .38 that won't fit anything but your thumbs. You can't hold me on that.

It'll hurt tomorrow morning, Helleman. The papers will be down for a follow-up and you'll have to tell them what it looks like out in left field.

You can't afford to let them start laughing at you. People will get the idea it's your face.

You're not that good, Helleman. You couldn't hold a moth with a search light. The town oughtta thank you.

Oh, you've got a nice jail, Helleman. With you around it'll last for years.

When I walked out of headquarters I had a nice mess to juggle. It was like trying to walk the baby on a floor full of marbles. If things didn't add up for Helleman, they weren't gonna do any better for me. I knew that gun I had went off. If it did, what happened to the bullet? And where did the other one come from. And why weren't there two shots? Well, I couldn't put my finger on a thing and nothing added up. It was like trying to follow a grain of rice in a Shanghai suburb. So I looked up Leigh Underwood's address and I went by her apartment. The girl downstairs told me that she worked at a night club out on the Bay Shore Highway. Well, I had to hit a couple of places, so I looked up the only honest guy I know, an ex-doctor and a boozer by the name of Jocko Madigan. A good man until he figured that last drink in the bottle is just as easy to get at as the first. I found him in a little leather- trimmed sink on Powell Street. It was a grimy little hole where they wash the glasses once a week and served stale beer. But Jocko was more at home than a vulture in Calcutta.

No, forget it, Jocko. I've gotta talk to ya.

Alright, Jocko.

I'm in trouble and you've gotta help me.

Alright. Alright.

Calm down will you, Jocko. I got a bum shake tonight.

I killed a guy--or thought I did.

I got hired to scare a guy down on Folsom Street. Ten minutes later the guy was dead.

One of the problems is that when the fight came it grew bullets. Helleman walked in right after on a telephone tip.

The whole thing backfired down at headquarters. The bullet and the phony gun wouldn't match. Oh, it doesn't add up, Jocko. That call to Helleman is the tip-off. I was framed. But why wasn't I framed all the way?

Just a guy with a falling blood count. His name was supposed to be Dixie Gillian but there's no identification and no record on him.

I told you, I didn't hire out as a gunsel. It was somebody else's idea.

Alright, Jocko, I'll cry with you later. I need help now.

I want you to break into a girl's apartment.

Don't worry. She won't be home.

It's at this address, here. Up on O'Farrell. Her name is Leigh Underwood. She's the one who hired me.

Anything that will connect her with the dead man. He's a big guy with a scar.

You can't miss. Go through the desk and drawers... Pick up everything you can, will ya? Leave a message at my place.

Oh, hurry up, Jocko. Leave the glass alone and get going.

Hurry up, will, ya. The glass is empty anyway.

I went by a horse parlor on O'Farrell Street and borrowed a car from a guy. It was after midnight when I started down the Bay Shore Highway. And about a half-hour later I pulled up in front of the Cat's Paw. It was a long, rambling place on the left side of the road. There was no plan. It just followed the erosion line until they ran out of material. There was enough neon to light up a main intersection in Heaven. In the lobby I saw a picture of Leigh Underwood. One of those shadowy things that was supposed to make you think that she'd die in a cold climate. She was sitting at a piano with a little microphone in front of her and you got the idea right away. She didn't have much of a voice but plenty of songs that made your wife lean over and ask you to explain. I asked a 50-year old bus boy and he said she was back in her dressing room getting ready for the one-o'clock show. When I walked in she was sitting in front of a mirror working on an up-swept hair-do. If she swept it up any more it was gonna leave her head. I stood behind her looking at the pink, flesh part of her neck that didn't show when her hair was down.

No, I just want to know where to break it.

Mmm.

No, brush it back so I can see your answers. Who's Dixie Gillian?

None to him and some to me. He's dead.

He'd like to believe that, too. I couldn't sell him that story about an empty gun.

No?

Somebody used a hard-working bullet because Dixie's dead.

Yeah. Well, that makes you even with homicide. But they got a bigger team. Now look, I made a diagram, Angel. Up at my place I ran over murder with you. I don't like it. If you kill people you don't get invited out enough. So if it's you or me on this one, I'm gonna push you all the way.

Who's Dixie Gillian?

You better be ready to identify him because homicide's stumped. Even that scar didn't help.

The scar across his face. There's no record on him.

Yeah. Well it's too late for a recount.

The gun's too big. I'm goin' with him.

... it was raining outside.

We walked about forty feet over near some trees, where the dark was working overtime. And the gunsel made her stop.

She's gonna get wet, Mister.

(Grunt)

When I woke up it was still raining. I was lying on top of the mud like a stubborn seed. My wallet was gone, and the gunsel had ripped open my pockets. I stood up and walked over for a last look at Leigh. The rain had washed the make-up off her face, and she looked small and tired as she lay there like a broken doll that had been tossed out in the rain. I guess she was. Well, I got to my car and I drove back to town. I checked my place and there was no word from Jocko so I went up to Leigh's apartment. When I opened the door the room was dark but I knew somebody was on the rug, either that or they'd varnished the floor with bourbon. I flipped on the light and bent over Jocko.

Hey, hey, Jocko.

Jocko. Jocko. Com` on, wake up. Wake up.

What happened?

Yeah--everybody's got the same act tonight.

I went down to meet the girl.

I've been in the rain all night. She's gonna stay longer. What did you find out?

Yeah?

Are there any more pictures?

Where--in here?

Well, well.

Must be Dixie Gillian. He was down to pay off a debt tonight. She called him Dixie once.

He's our boy. We'd better get up there.

We can't wait for Helleman. If he gets away I'm all through. I won't have a leg to stand on.

I felt better now. Gillian was the only guy left in the picture so I dragged Jocko up to his place. It was an apartment up on Post Street. The elevator operator took us up to the eighth floor and said that Gillian had come in a few minutes before. There was no answer so we tried the door and it was open.

Jocko didn't like the idea.

Keep still, Jocko. What are we supposed to do? The door was open, wasn't it?

Hey--look at the furniture. There's been a fight in here. I'll look in here and you check in the bedroom.

Alright.

Yeah.

Alright.

Come here. Stand back here.

Alright, I'll get on this side. You raise the window. Now go easy, Jocko.

Can you see him from there?

Alright.

(Grunting from the effort.)

Alright, watch yourself. If he's kidding you'll lose an arm.

Let me through there.

Hang on, Jocko.

Well, he was probably dead, anyway.

Well, it was an easy night to die. Three of them had already checked out and there was still time to look for more. Jocko went downstairs to see the guy. He was lying face down in the alley and as you looked at him you got the funny feeling he belonged there. He didn't disturb the scene. He just fitted in like a dirty, wet newspaper under a grandstand. There was a gun in his pocket; probably the same one that killed the girl, but there was no way of knowing. Jocko and I watched him for a minute but your eyes begin to hurt as you see your only warm lead in a deep freeze.

It was past two when I got down to headquarters and looked up Helleman. I briefed him on the girl and the guy in the alley and then I asked him if any microfilm had turned up on the first guy in the morgue. That was a waste of time. Helleman couldn't find a brass ring in a dead man's nose. But we went over to the morgue for another look. So, far it was working out like a crossword puzzle torn in half.

The film must be on the guy. Three people have been killed for it and I got roughed up just for laughs.

Yeah.

Well, well. He sure got thin under that sheet didn't he.

Oh, you run a good morgue, Helleman. What'll the papers say when they hear that stiff got up and walked out.

Well, he's gone, Helleman. You got an answer?

I don't know, Helleman, you do it with one in your head. Don't sell the guy short.

When Helleman found out that the body was gone he stood there and stared at the empty slab. Then he began looking around in a nervous way like a man trying to find the sugar bowl at a restaurant counter. A few minutes later he turned and walked out of the morgue. We were half-way downtown when it happened. It must have hit us at the same time--it was sharp and quick like a piece of candy on a bad tooth. The guy back in the alley had come off that slab in the morgue. We got out to Dixie's place and we began to check. There was a phone operator downstairs and she said that Dixie had put through a call about two hours ago. Helleman checked the number and it was the ticket office of a railroad. We got downtown and ran through the timetable. There was a train leaving the Oakland Mole in about forty minutes. Well, it was an outside chance, but tonight that was the only kind for sale. We got down in time to slide onto the last ferry over to the mole.

But over toward the Berkeley hills it was beginning to get light. The sky was the color of a bruise spot on a man's arm.

He doesn't have to be on this one.

Wait a minute. You don't have to check. There's your boy.

Up there on the rail. See? You better go easy, Helleman. He's not a scale model.

Alright.

Meet Inspector Helleman. You'd better turn in your ticket.

Grab him, Helleman.

I'm worried, Helleman.

(Grunt). I landed on the deck and watched him disappear into the dark. Half way down the guy turned in. I got up and followed him down the ladder and along the main deck. He ducked into one of the engine spaces and I started in to look for him. It didn't take long because he turned out to be real helpful.

I'll come closer. Tell me then.

Watch that platform! You're backin' into trouble.

Watch out for that platform, will you? You're backing into the engine.

Yeah. That's the way it looks. (Pause) Did you get the microfilm?

A little.

Yeah. But your worries are over. It's almost dawn.

They fished Helleman out of an oil slick a few minutes later. It was the first time his hair ever looked good. Dixie Gillian lasted long enough to piece the story together for homicide. Leigh Underwood knew her husband was carrying microfilm. She was worried, so she hired me to scare off Gillian. Well, it might have worked, too. But the first slip came when Leigh's husband went by to make a deal with Dixie without telling her. When I jumped him, Dixie was outside and figured it was a double cross so he killed him with a silencer when that phony gun that Leigh gave me went off. Dixie knew that the microfilm was still on the dead man. But the only way he could be sure was to get the body out of the morgue. He took it up to his apartment and when he got the film he planted the gun and put the body on the fire escape. He was a little safer that way. It was a 50/50 chance the police would miss it the first time around and he'd have a fair lead. It almost worked out for him except for that phone call. The microfilm was in a capsule next to the roof of the guy's mouth. So old it was new again. Helleman asked only one question -- In that fight did I have anything to do with pushing him against the rail? I told him, sometimes those ferry boats roll as much as forty-five degrees.