Manny the Mark

“Manny the Mark?”

“Finn McMurphy once said the bilker’s God-given last name was actually Mannheim.” Kinsey’s schoolmarm demeanor joined the conversation. “You see, the surname Mannheim is - and correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am - of German descent, thus not commonly heard of in Melbourne.” Female hands began to take flight. “Although being a port city, the variety of its population ethnicity has certainly grown. However, Mannheim is a name that would be considered unusual and stick in one’s memory.”

“Finn McMurphy?” Scott’s squinted eyes struggled to squeeze out of his own brain any stuck past names which would shed light down his cousin’s impending rabbit hole.

“Finn. Remember my telling of the story? He’s the charming young man who taught me the fine art of distributing playing cards.”

“Ah yes. I now recollect you mentioning the gent… and it’s called stacking a deck.”

“Of course there was his lesson on the proper approach to a kiss.” Kinsey's raised eyebrow mimicked her older cousin’s customary one. “What would that be called?”

“Too much information.” Scott stood and offered his seat. “Sit down. I want to hear more about this Manny the Mark.” The remaining apple was served up as a fine gift to a good listener. “Here fella. At least one of us should be enjoying the rest of this discussion.” Buck concurred with a nicker.

“Honestly, Scott, I don’t see a connection.”

“Humor me.”

“Very well. If you insist.”

“I do.”

With a sigh, reminiscing commenced. “During my brief phase of a rather rebellious nature -”

“Hold up. Brief phase? Kinsey, when I said humor me, it didn’t mean tell a joke.”

“All right.” Eyes narrowed. “Much like the Boston gentlemen who leap from debutantes’ bedroom balconies, Finn McMurphy possessed an adventurous perspective on life which I found refreshing.” A smirk surfaced. “Too much information?”

“No.” Crossing arms, Scott leaned against a stall door. “Just the right amount. Please continue.”

“Finn fancied himself as one of those slick Mississippi gamblers he’d read about in silly dime novels.” Curiosity demanded a jesting query. “Are you familiar with the aforementioned genre of literature, sir?”

“I am. However, I preferred pirates and high seas over blacklegs and riverboats.”

“Ah, Captain Scott Lancer of the Enchantress. You certainly struck a dashing pose which caused quite a buzz among the pretty socialites at The Government House luncheon that day.”

Scott smiled. “And you, Miss Furlong of Melbourne, had all the handsome young men willing to leap from a balcony just for one of your smiles.” As soon as the words tumbled out of his mouth, Scott wanted to reel them back in. Thomas Yarra had been one of those men at the luncheon.

“I believe we’ve regressed off the path, sir.” A hint of jousting remained in the little cousin’s inflection. “So, the company Finn associated with included someone named Manny the Mark. He said the man could be found at the Melbourne stables extending credit to horse betters by using slips of paper. I think Finn called them markers. He said Manny would prey on the consistent losers by offering them these markers as money. Once the poor fools were in over their heads, demands were made to pay up their debt plus an additional fee for Manny’s generosity of extended credit.”

“Loan-sharking.”

“Pardon?”

“Backstairs, unregulated lending to high-risk borrowers. During the war, newspapers called the practice loan-sharking because the lenders when collecting their money employed the same ruthlessness as the great predators in the ocean.”

“Manny the Mark. Manny the Shark. No matter. Finn disliked the man and wouldn’t deal with the shyster. He said Mannheim gave gambling a bad name.”

“Little one, I’m not certain if gambling ever had a good name but I can appreciate McMurphy’s point of view.”

“Well, that’s all I know of Finn’s Mannheim and as I stated earlier, I simply don’t see a connection between him and this man who wishes to question me other than they share a surname. It’s more of a coincidence.”

“Maybe.” And then again, maybe not. The gamble seemed too great to rest comfortably with Scott. A decision, proving to be unpopular, was made. “A wise man once said -”

“Emerson I assume.”

“No. S. G. Lancer.” The wise man continued. “Life rarely bestows convenient coincidences. Loose translation: my cousin will not be a stone’s throw away from the hacienda until this current situation is resolved.”

“Excuse me?” Kinsey stood to take on her mountain goat stance. “Are you suggesting I become a prisoner of the ranch until you’re satisfied this Melbourne bloke is not a threat?”

“No. I’m ordering you to stay put on the ranch for a few days until we have a better handle on Godfrey Mannheim.” Squaring off with the little goat, the lieutenant leaned down. “And Private Furlong, if I hear, see or dream so much as an inkling of your insubordination I’ll hand you over to Murdoch for a court martial.” Scott’s raised brow questioned his cousin’s silence. “Too much information, young lady?”

“No, sir. Just the right amount.”

********

Patience. Scott could never decide if the attribute was naturally inherited from a man’s forefathers or subconsciously learned in boyhood - perhaps while waiting for an absent father. Either way, Scott considered himself a patient man.

To a point.

Each day passing and no word from Val slowly siphoned off Scott’s patience with questions going unanswered. When voicing his opinion on the lack of information and the need to take action, a repetitive tune continued to be called.

To the best of my knowledge, son, you haven’t been deputized… recently. Let Crawford do his job.

Right. In the meanwhile a family roll call of warning signs had taken shape:

Kinsey - flighty.

Johnny - edgy.

Teresa - fussy.

Jelly…

Being Jelly. Alone in the Great Room with his father, Scott sighed and rolled his eyes at the open novel he’d been staring at for the last half hour.

“Turn the page, speak your mind or retire. Pick one.”

The rumbled choices closed Scott’s book “I can’t say sleep has come easy, lately. I believe that leaves speak my mind.”

Murdoch set aside his own reading “Then by all means, do so.”

“Sir, we’ve been sitting on our thumbs long enough. I’m riding to Green River tomorrow to speak with Val.” Scott cleared his throat. “Who I’m certain is doing his job and will have some answers.”

“You sound rather determined and any attempt to change your mind would be a waste of time.”

“I’d say that was a fair assessment.”

“I assume you wish to go alone.”

“I think a lone rider draws less attention.” Scott studied the displayed weariness on Murdoch’s face. Sleep, likewise, had not come easy for this man since Mannheim’s arrival.

“Can I also assume a ride to town will then allow you to turn pages in a book and snore soundly at night?”

Scott blessed his father with a sheepish grin.

The patriarch’s reading returned to its owner. “Give Sheriff Crawford my regards while you’re letting him do his job.”

Standing, Scott turned to leave. “Good night, sir.”

“Son, is there a reason why your cousin is asking Cipriano and the other men how far they can throw a stone?”

“Well…” Kinsey, attempting to stack the deck. Finn McMurphy would be proud.

“If I told the little girl Murdoch Lancer throws the farthest stone on this ranch, would that satisfy her curiosity?”

“Most definitely.”

A page turned. “Good night, my son.”