Harry Gittes is a tall, lanky son of a gun in his mid-20s or so with an expressive face and a ready smile that seldom touches his eyes. He’s your best friend that you never met before, even if when everybody’s buying rounds it never gets to be Harry’s turn. Maybe he’s a cheap grifter like certain unpleasant souls claim, but he’s so darn charming that you can’t hold a grudge, even when you’re his mark. And those long, fluttering fingers are so quick.

His nickname comes from the hat he’s never without. Sure, every guy wears a hat outside, but Harry’s never seems to leave his head. Guys wonder whether he wears it in his sleep. The few gals in a position to know never tell.

He blew into Miami a few years ago, never says where he’s from or much else about his past. Some say he’s the son of a Northern railway magnate, others that he’s wanted for bigamy in three Western states. Most agree he’ll come to a bad end.

Days Harry hangs around the train station, beguiling new arrivals with card tricks and vanishing balls, and coins that sprout from their ears and pour from their noses—sure keep the change, you’ll need it for tips. He sells departing tourists the wristwatches he stole from yesterday’s flock and lifts their wallets in return. The cops know him, but he greases just the right palms to get away with clipping the out-of-towners.

In the evenings, he cruises the southside speaks, doing magic tricks for drinks and winning crazy bar bets for eating money. He always ends up at the Golden Corral for a late supper and to chat with his few friends. He has a room in the cheap hotel next door, turning in before sunrise, getting up after noon and stopping in at Rosenquist’s for a pastry and a cup of Joe before heading off to get a shoeshine at the station and start his afternoon work shearing the sheep.

Every so often he disappears for a day or two, but, like a bad penny, he always turns up again.