We were a funny sight. All of us bunched up on the left side of the beach, tobacco-cheeked Conroy and Maneater owning the right. It didn’t seem the least bit fair, but what could we do about it? The inequity had become a fact of life.

Conroy was in perfect form, laughing and coughing, goading us with kissy noises and rude names. We tried to ignore him, but it was getting more intolerable by the minute.

“You guys are lily-livered pussies. Afraid of Maneater. Lookie here.”

He took a towel and whacked Maneater on the back. A gasp rose from our group.

“Here he goes again,” I said.

“Why does he do that?” Mrs. Bermuda said.

“Because he’s a sociopath,” said Dr. Haberson. “And that’s a professional diagnosis.”

“Lookie here,” Conroy teased. “You pussies couldn’t be afraid of a dog like this.”

Conroy kicked the pit bull in the stomach. The dog let out a high-pitched squeal, followed by an angry bark.

“Can’t we call the ASPCA?” Mrs. Nelson said.

“He’d just deny it,” Mrs. Bermuda said.

“Not if we could show marks on the animal,” Dr. Haberson said.

“And who could prove Bittune made the marks?” Mrs. Bermuda said.

“Do something, Liddy,” Mrs. Nelson said.

“I tried,” I said. “He won’t listen.” I yelled to Conroy, “He’s going to get you one day!”

“In a pig’s eye, Liddy.”

“Yes, he will.”

“ ‘Yes, he will,’ ” Conroy imitated me. “Just lookie at this, girl.”

He punched the dog in the snout. Did it again. The dog started circling him like a hawk around its prey.

I eyed Dr. Haberson. Dr. Haberson eyed Mrs. Bermuda. Conroy was making nervous wrecks out of all of us. The dog was getting more and more agitated-barking louder, baring his teeth.

“You’re a bleeping sadist, Bittune!” Mrs. Nelson shouted. “Any second now, that dog’s going to chew you up!”

With that, Conroy doubled over with big, deep guffaws, followed by his spasmodic cough. His face was flushed, beaded with sweat. “You pussies!” he screamed. “Lookie here!”

He grabbed the dog by the neck and yanked him down onto the sand. Then he picked him up by the front paws and swung him around, huffing and puffing from the effort. The dog was all snarls and barks during the ride.

“Watch it, Conroy,” I shouted. “Maneater’s starting to foam at the mouth.”

“Wimps!” Conroy shouted back, spraying bits of saliva and tobacco out of his mouth. “You weak, itty-bitty pussies!”

He put the dog down and doubled over. We expected to hear more derisive laughter, but none came.

We waited a couple of seconds, a half minute, a minute. The dog was still snarling. Suddenly, everyone became aware that no one was talking.

Finally, Mrs. Bermuda said, “What’s with Bittune?”

Good question. Even the dog looked puzzled. Conroy’s face had turned deep red, and he was jumping up and down.

“A rare Indian rain dance?” Mrs. Bermuda said.

“Figures,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Conroy would rain on our parade.”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s doing,” I said.

Conroy was still jumping, his face getting redder and redder. One hand went to his chest, the other to his neck. He seemed to be gasping for air.

I leaped up and shouted, “He’s having a heart attack!”

Applause broke out.

“We’ve got to help him,” I yelled.

No one said a word.

“Dr. Haberson,” I scolded, “we both know CPR. We’ve got to-”

“All right, all right,” Dr. Haberson said. He got up slowly, brushed the sand from his legs. Meanwhile, Conroy’s lips had turned blue.

I ran toward the old man but was immediately halted by Maneater’s growl.

“Nice dog,” I tried. “Make nice, nice dog.”

I took a step forward and so did he. I took a step backward and so did he.

“For God’s sake, Conroy,” I shouted in desperation. “Call Maneater off!”

Conroy pointed to his throat.

“You’re choking?” I said.

Conroy gave a vigorous nod.

His right cheek was empty.

“The tobacco! He’s choking on his tobacco,” I yelled out. “Give Maneater a hand signal.”

Conroy flailed his hands in the air. Maneater sat, acting as though the signals meant something. Yet when I tried to approach Conroy, the dog lunged at me.

We were hamstrung. The dog wouldn’t let us near Conroy, and Conroy couldn’t call Maneater off.

“Hit your chest, old man,” Dr. Haberson said. “Try to do a Heimlich maneuver on yourself. Hit your sternum hard! Right here!” The doctor demonstrated the procedure.

Conroy tried and tried again. Meanwhile, he was turning bluer and bluer.

“Give it another try, Conroy!” I said. “Or just hold the dog off physically.”

By then Conroy was the color of the sky. He fell onto the sand and blacked out, his body shaking as if he were having a seizure. It was awful. Maneater circled his master, licking his quivering arms and legs, nudging his face. But he snarled at anyone who attempted to come within helping range.

Mrs. Bermuda said, “First time I’ve ever seen a dog protect his master to death.”

We tried to tempt Maneater away with meat. We tried to poke him away. We even tried a decoy method, using me as bait. Nothing would lure him away from his master. By the time Animal Control came with the tranquilizing gun, it was too late.

The dog was well trained.

“The Back Page” comes from one of those urban legends that circulated when I was in dental school way back in the Pleistocene age. No doubt, the story is as apocryphal now as it was then. Then again, with all these UFO sightings, one never knows…

He was always the first one there. Mr. Johnny-on-the-Spot. Radar Robert Roadrunner. The Scoop. No matter how fast the other stringers moved, Biggy Hartley always managed to arrive before anyone else.

No one could figure it out.

Some of it made sense. Hartley worked for the Chronicle, and the paper had the largest circulation. Stood to reason that it would have the most sources and the best resources. But even among his fellow reporters at the Chronicle, Hartley proved to be the early bird, finishing up when the others began, waiting with the proverbial worm in his mouth.

At first it was annoying. Then it became irritating. Finally, it turned out to be downright frustrating. And Hartley played the part to the hilt. Chomping on a cigar like a catbird-seated character out of a forties play. Arching his fat eyebrows and spitting bits of tobacco into the waste can.

When his colleagues expressed their consternation at his seemingly extraterrestrial sense of timing, Hartley answered evasively.

“I just get this feeling.” Chomp. Spit. “Can’t explain it. Like a buzz in my head.”

“C’mon,” they’d insist. “Who are you bribing?”

“You wish it was that simple.” Hartley smoothed back thin, ash-colored hair and smiled widely with yellowed teeth. “It’d make you look better to the boss, wouldn’t it? Nah, you can’t rationalize away my success with money. Some people just got the knack. Can’t help it. Just got the knack.”

Hartley had grown up in San Diego. None of his coworkers could understand why he spoke with a mid-Atlantic accent.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the man had an ounce of humility. Instead, each success instilled into Hartley renewed arrogance. He boasted, bragged, and preened like a peacock, spending hours in front of the mirror practicing badass looks.

Narrow the eyes, wrinkle the nose… yeah, that’s right. Now the sneer, raising the upper lip at the corner. Perfect.

Comical, except that Hartley got results. Which meant frequent raises and invitations to important functions. He would often arrive at the dinners in a rumpled suit with an open-necked shirt and scuffed shoes. His manner was abrasive. He flirted shamelessly with other men’s wives. He had dirt underneath his fingernails.