I kept my hands firmly folded against the desk. “So what I’m hearing, and please tell me if I got any part of this wrong, comes down to two facts. First, your boss stole your girlfriend. Second, you are now accusing him of being some kind of blood drinking ghoul.”

The husky stevedor, who went by name of Mick, grabbed a handful of his knit cap and pulled it off his head without answering or even meeting my eyes. For a moment he held it cradled in both hands as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Then he buried his face into the thick black wool and began to bawl in a quite an unmanly manner.

All that interior pain he was feeling must have been incredible. Daily stresses of unloading hundred pound barrels at the San Francisco docks had not taken its toll on him, nor recovering from the inevitable wounds that came from his job, but this, this was more than he could handle. It was fascinating.

Once the whimpering had declined to the occasional sniffle, I offered a handkerchief and my help—for a modest fee.