“They yanked my license,” I told him. “Get yourself a bona fide private detective. Don’t come running to a Bowery bum.”
“Is that what you are, Curt?”
“What the hell did you think I was? A society swordsman? A pedigreed dog trainer? I’m a bum Me. Curt Cannon, ex-private eye. I sleep on park benches when I don’t have the money for a bed. I drink twenty-five hours out of twenty-four. I’m a bum. Do you want me to yell hallelujah?”
He was a stubborn guy. He leaned toward me and said harshly, “I don’t care about all that, Curt.
You’re good and I need you. I need you to find a killer who’s trying to murder me … “