Manhunt. Volume 8, Number 3, June 1960

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“But this one is different,” the big man reminded him. “This one is very different. The boss said only you could handle it.”

For a long time he had felt that this thing might happen, but in spite of the prevailing symptoms, he never considered what he would do when this bitter moment came. With his thumb and index finger clamped over his mouth, Judge leaned against the window, staring wistfully at the scattering snow. His eye would pick out a thick descending flake and would follow it down, until it became lost among the thousands of flakes that settled on the ground.

Behind him the big man shifted his weight and coughed. “Well?” the man asked, coughing again.

Judge squeezed his lips together thoughtfully. Then he turned to face the man. “What more is there? You’ve brought me the word — there’s nothing more. What else do you want?”

Small, probing eyes, that never seemed to blink, reflected the virulence in the giant’s heart. His lead-colored lips munched on a cigarette. “I got ta get an o.k.,” he said. “Are you going to hit him?”

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