standing there and joined Seth. ‘Any luck?’
The big man nodded. ‘Took some doing, but I finally made it. He’s got a room in an hotel not far from here. What was Morrison after?’
‘Wanted me to have a drink with him. I had to chop him off pretty short, but it can’t be helped.’
It took them about five minutes to reach their destination, a seedy tenement used as an hotel by seamen. It wasn’t the sort of establishment that kept a receptionist. They entered a dark and gloomy hall and mounted a flight of wooden stairs. Seth opened a door at the far end of the corridor and led the way in.
The stench was appalling and Manning stumbled across to the window and opened the shutters. For several moments he stood there enjoying the cool breeze from the harbour and then he turned and looked down at Manny Johnson.
He lay on his back, mouth opened and twisted to one side, the soiled and filthy sheets half covering him and draping down to the floor. Manning sat on the edge of the bed, pulled him upright and slapped him gently across the face.
When the old man opened his eyes, he gazed at him with a peculiar fixed stare, and then something seemed to click and a slow smile appeared on his face.
‘Harry Manning. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘No time to explain that now, Manny. I want information and I want it fast.’ Manning gave him a cigarette and a light. ‘You ran someone over from Spanish Cay last night. A man called Garcia.’
The old man rubbed a knuckle into his bloodshot eyes and nodded. ‘That’s right. What do you want him for? He owe you money?’
Manning ignored the question. ‘Any idea where he went?’
‘Search me. He paid up like a gent and hopped it.’
‘Did he take a cab?’
Manny shook his head. ‘He hired one of the kids who bum around the wharf to carry his bag.’
‘Who was the kid?’
‘You can’t miss him. Hangs around the wharf all the time. Wears one of those American football jerseys some tourist gave him. Yellow thing with twenty-two in big letters on the back. Reaches to his knees.’
Manning turned enquiringly to Seth and he nodded. ‘I know the boy.’
Manning got to his feet. ‘Thanks Manny. At least you’ve given us something to go on.’
‘My pleasure,’ the old man said. ‘Now if you’ll kindly get to hell out of here, maybe I can get some sleep.’
They found the boy sitting on the wharf, a few yards away from Manny’s boat, with a fishing line, a small black dog curled up beside him. He was perhaps twelve years old and the yellow football jersey he wore contrasted vividly with his ebony skin.
Seth grinned down at him. ‘Doing any good?’
The boy shook his head. ‘They looking the other way. This ain’t my lucky day.’
‘Maybe it could be.’ Manning produced a pound note and folded it between his fingers.
The boy’s eyes went very round. ‘What you want, mister?’
‘You know Mr Johnson from Spanish Cay?’
The boy nodded. ‘That’s his boat down there.’
‘He brought in a passenger last night,’ Manning said. ‘He hired you to carry his bag. I want to know where he went.’
‘For a pound?’ Manning nodded and the boy grinned. ‘Mister, that’s easy.’
He handed his line and rod to another boy who sat on the edge of the wharf a few feet away. Then he got to his feet, nudged the dog with his toe and moved across Bay Street.
Manning and Seth had difficulty in keeping up with him as he trotted along the crowded pavement. He turned into a narrow alley and they followed him through a maze of back streets. Finally, he halted on the corner of a small square that was entirely surrounded by dilapitated clapboard houses.
He pointed to one in the far corner. ‘That’s it mister. That’s where he went. He paid me off in the back yard. I think he must have been a Cuban. When the lady opened the door, she called him Juan.’
Manning gave him the pound and the boy spat on it and grinned. ‘Anytime you want anything, just holler. I’m always down on the wharf there.’
He whistled to his dog and ran back the way they had come.
Manning turned to Seth. ‘I want you to stay here. Give me ten minutes and then come looking.’
Seth frowned. ‘Maybe it’s time we called in the police, Harry. Let them handle it.’
Manning ignored him and moved across the square. The front door was boarded up and he followed a side passage that brought him into a back yard littered with empty tins and refuse of every description. He mounted four stone steps to the door and knocked.
Footsteps approached and it opened a few inches. A woman’s voice said, ‘Who is it?’
‘I’m looking for Juan,’ Manning said. ‘Juan Garcia. I’m an old friend of his.’
There was the rattle of a chain and the door opened. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said and walked back along the corridor.
He closed the door and followed, wrinkling his nose at the stale smell compounded of cooking odours and urine. She opened the door, clicked on a light and led the way into a room. It was reasonably clean with a carpet on the floor and a double bed against the far wall.
She was a large, heavily built woman running dangerously to seed, the coffee-coloured skin and the thick lips an in dication of her mixed blood. She was still handsome in a bold, coarse sort of way and a sudden smile of interest appeared on her face.
‘I’m Juan’s girl – Hannah. Anything I can do?’
There was an unmistakable invitation in her voice and Manning grinned. ‘Not really.’
‘Is it business?’
‘You could call it that.’
‘Well that’s nice.’ She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled. ‘Give me a cigarette and tell me all about it.’
She patted the bed beside her and Manning obliged. The gaudy housecoat she was wearing fell open when she crossed her knees revealing black stockings, the flesh bulging over the tops.
‘I thought I knew most of Juan’s friends. How come you’ve never been here before?’
‘I move around a lot,’ Manning said. ‘Never in one place for long. Where did you say Juan has gone?’
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