But Nothing Seems To Do Any Good.

If People Could Deal With Each Other Honestly, They Would Not Need Agents.

It Was About Eleven O'clock In The Morning, Mid October, With The Sun Not Shining And A Look Of Hard Wet Rain In The Clearness Of The Foothills. I Was Wearing My Powder-blue Suit, With Dark Blue Shirt, Tie And Display Handkerchief, Black Brogues, Black Wool Socks With Dark Little Clocks On Them. I Was Neat, Clean, Shaved And Sober, And I Didn't Care Who Knew It. I Was Everything The Well-dressed Private Detective Ought To Be. I Was Calling On Four Million Dollars.

Organized Crime Is The Dirty Side Of The Sharp Dollar.

A Good Title Is The Title Of A Successful Book.

Could She *be* Anymore Out Of My League?