Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

“ ‘For latecomers the bones.’ Or, to put it in the common vernacular, with which you are no doubt more conversant, ‘You snooze, you lose.’ ” He signaled for another drink. “Business is, unfortunately, a bit slow at the moment, although the bills arrive with depressing punctuality. It is the usual case of ‘a fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi.’ I fear.”

“Philly, can you for chrissake speak English?”

He shook his gray head sadly. “I said there is a precipice before me and wolves behind. Don’t they still teach Latin in the schools?”

“They don’t even use it in church any more, Phil. Decline of the empire and all that.” The waitress brought his drink and made a point of waiting for the money.

“And you, Charles. What brings you to town. Beach getaway?”

“I’m looking for a guy named Richard Manso. Know him?” There was the slightest pause as he brought the glass to his mouth.

“Nope. Never heard the name.” He sloshed whisky around in his mouth and swallowed. I waited a long minute.

“Maybe you remember a disgruntled fellow — what was his name — Starr. As I recall, couple of years back you owed him some money. He was threatening — correct me if I’m wrong here — to make you so ugly that you’d have to tie a porkchop around your neck before a dog would even come near you.”

“That barbarian!” He looked up from under his bushy eyebrows. “So it was you that cooled, Starr out?” I didn’t say anything. He threw back the rest of his drink.

“You’re a romantic, Charles. You were born several hundred years too late. This is not a propitious point in history in which to practice the romantic’s trade. We live in an age when minds are beclouded by materialism and greed. ‘Things are in the saddle and ride mankind,’ quoth the poet.”

“You sit there jabbering in Latin and quoting poetry, and you tell me I’m a romantic?”

Cook burped, got up, and made ready to leave. “By the way, Charles, do you remember the Laura B, Manny Cordeiro’s old dragger?” I nodded. “Well, Manny died, and the boat’s been on the beach for over a year. Word has it that a couple of the local wharf rats have taken to living aboard her.” He gave me a sloppy salute.

“Have a care, Charles. ‘Homo homini lupus.’ Man is, indeed, a wolf to man.”

The Laura B

lay bathed in moonlight not far from Macara’s Wharf, her hull warped and her blue paint chipping. From my position among the pilings I had a clear view of the boat. Phil’s advice had been oblique, but I knew him well enough to follow it up.

I had no plan as such. I just figured on bracing Manso if and when he returned to the boat. He’d be easy enough to spot: Gilliat had described him as big, blond, and bearded, with a tattoo circling his left forearm that said “Hellraiser” in old English script. Bob also advised me that Manso enjoyed hitting people.

It was twelve twenty. The bars didn’t close until one. I settled down to wait.

Twenty minutes later Manso walked out of the shadows and onto the beach. I couldn’t see the tattoo, but the rest fit. I called his name and he swung around to face me.

“Who are you?”

“Easy. I just want to talk to you.”

He sighed and shrugged. “Cop, right?”

“Private cop.” His piggish eyes widened a bit at that.

“Oh, a private cop.” He moved towards me. “That’s different. I don’t have to talk to a private cop if I don’t want to.” He looked past me, around the beach, to see if I was alone.

“Might save you some grief if you do.”

“You think so?”

I nodded.

“Know what I think? I think cops are the lowest form of life on the planet. Lower than whale crap, and that’s on the bottom of the ocean.” He had been drinking, and it hadn’t done anything for his disposition.

“And I think I’ll teach you to mind your own business.” As he spoke he charged, swinging a beefy right hand at my head. I slipped the punch and hit him in the solar plexus with a right hook. He doubled over with a grunt and fell to the sand, struggling for breath. When he got it, he swore a bit and sat up.

“Now about that talk.”

“Screw you.”

“Be smart. The sooner the cops nail whoever blew up the cabin, the better for you. Somebody’s serious about folding your hand.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Come on, Manso. The guys that missed you in Maine aren’t going to give up.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. Nobody’s looking for me except the cops, and most of them couldn’t find their ass with both hands and a road map.”

“You don’t know what happened in Maine after you left?”

“No, man. I don’t know nothin’. I called the old lady third day I was there. There was a beef back here needed attention. I came back, took care of it. Right away the law’s on my case. I figured it had to do with this beef: I had to lay a beating on a guy. So I been keeping a low profile.”

I told him about Kessler. He thought it over for a minute.

“Look, Ace, I got enemies, but nothin’ heavy like that.”

“You sure?”