“Call Swede out for me, Dolores.”
“He’s gone back down to Seattle.”
Jody almost gasped. Her support had deserted. Instead she demanded, “Where’s Rider?” Dolores indicated the closed door of an office. “Not your fault,” Jody muttered, and brushed past to throw open the door.
There sat Justin Rider. He half rose, startled, then said sourly, “You’re intruding, Mrs. Crawford. Kindly leave.”
A Japanese man was pacing by the window that overlooked the piers. He turned to look at her. He was tall, still young, with black hair that fell in laps over a high forehead. His trim dark suit looked out of place in a Kodiak fish plant.
“Cheap trick,” said Jody. “Playing one good man against another. It’ll catch up with you.”
“Get out, please. I’ve said it nicely.”
“You sit on your fat ass while real men do work and think you’ll jerk them around?”
Rider reached for the intercom. “Get security up here.”
“So you’re Hank Crawford’s wife?” asked the Japanese smoothly. “You don’t do a good job of controlling him, I’m afraid. Sorry to have to tell you. Your husband has embarrassed us greatly, and I fear that he’s broken a faith of friendship and hospitality. All such things come with consequence.”
“Who are you?” Jody demanded.
The security guard, whom Jody knew, came to the door. Rider told him to escort the lady out. The guard touched her elbow and said in a low voice, “It’s my job, Jody. Sorry.”
Jody brushed him off and advanced toward the Japanese. “Are you Tsurifune?” He acknowledged. “What have you done to poor Kodama? He wasn’t the one who cooked this up, was he? You were scheming all along when you took Hank over there and gave him parties.”
Shoji Tsurifune bowed with a polite smile. “Excuse me, but I don’t argue with wives.”
Jody’s explosion did her no good. Joe the security guard anxiously escorted her out while apologizing under his voice.
She explained to the children that they were moving to a new place for a while. Its location in town nearer their friends overrode any feelings they had over leaving home. But the accumulation of their possessions! With a heavy heart Jody found warehouse space to rent. Then came a new blow. When she went to the bank to draw out money for rentals on the house and storage space she learned that their main account—tied to Tsurifune’s bank in Seattle—had been frozen. Only a small personal savings account remained open. Thank heaven she had a job, she realized. But her pay simply covered existing bills and was no help in the sudden emergency, since Hank’s earnings had all been tied into the Tsurifune contract.
The Tsurifune people hired a substitute captain and crew for the Jody Dawn., former Bering Sea crabbers recruited at the Seattle Fishermen’s Terminal, who were glad to be back at sea and didn’t question the reason.
Hank’s misfortune soon became known throughout the fleet, without the details that might have gained him more sympathy. “What you get for signing in too cozy with the Japs,” said one radio voice to Gus Rosvic out in the Shelikof. Gus for once was worried rather than judgmental. “That boy Hank’s honest, whatever fool thing he’s done. Somebody’s gone out to get him and it ain’t good for any of us.”
Arne Larsen and Joe Eberhardt both secretly believed that Hank had made so many deals with the Japanese that his leaving was some kind of ploy. They continued to fish and deliver to the Tsurifune processor, and soon became again so immersed in setting trawl on tricky masses of pollack during dangerous weather that they forgot his absence. They even helped advise the new skipper of the Jody Dawn.
Tolly stoutly refused to take over the Puale Bay for all of two days. Then Justin Rider sat him down and outlined the consequences if he reneged on the contract he’d just signed. Within a week, government agents had relinquished hold on the longliner after failing to find evidence of log tampering, and the Puale Bay headed back to fish black cod in the Gulf of Alaska. It carried new captain Roland “Tolly” Smith, new processing master Hoshi Tamukai, and all the former crew except for Seth O’Malley and Thaddeus “Mo” Wheeler. The company had officially fired the latter two for “inadequate production” before they’d had a chance to quit.
Fishery agents with their subpoenas had also been unable to find incriminating documents in the offices of Pacific Future. After Rider flew to Washington and called on friends in the State and Commerce Departments to explain the actions that a disgruntled fisherman had taken to hide his own mediocre performance, the company was allowed to resume business. Suspicions still lingered over the Tsurifune alliances. The door that Hank opened would not close again that easily. He’d indeed damaged them—but the suspicions slipped back in a file alongside other ongoing investigations.
Hank, Terry, Ham, and Tom returned to Kodiak aboard a tender. They chose to huddle in their oilskins on open deck despite a raw, cold rain and a hospitable warm galley open to them. They brooded together as they watched the bare brown hills along the narrows that led back to town. Jody met them with the children and with Seth and Mo. They all drove over the potholed, frozen road to the house. Jody’s lawyer had at least gained her an extra week to vacate. Boxes and clothing lined the living room wall, ready for storage, but chairs were still arranged by the big picture window. Hank soon fired stoves to heat the place. Jody herded the children into their bedrooms to do homework, then plumped a bottle of scotch on the table by the chairs, and left them alone while she started to peel onions in the kitchen.
“I’ve got to weather this alone,” said Hank after they’d all taken a drink. “You guys—it makes me sick to say it—you don’t have a boat with me anymore.” He turned to Tom. “Bunk here with us wherever we light, until you decide what to do. You’ll eventually get paid, and enough to make your trip worthwhile, I think. The bastards have to settle with me whatever their tricks. We’ll find your airfare back to Baltimore, then send you your check when they settle.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” said Tom. “I ain’t leaving. Not yet.”
Seth cleared his throat. “I brought this on. I’ve got—”
“No you didn’t,” said Hank. “You found out things I should have seen.”
“Let me finish, will you? I’ve got savings since I didn’t throw anything in with the Japs. Don’t nobody here need to worry about ready money, and that includes you and Jody.”
“Hell, Boss, we’ve all got savings,” said Terry. “Just say it if you need anything.”
“Yeah, Boss,” chimed Mo and Ham together.
They sat in the gathering twilight and stared through the window at trees and gray mist. Occasionally the mist scattered to reveal lights along the town’s cannery piers miles away over the water. Tom remarked that it was sure beautiful, just like everything else in Alaska.
And it’s being taken from me, thought Hank in despair. He’d asked Jody about Swede, the one person who might provide some guidance. Even Swede had peeled away from the loser and escaped to Seattle.
Someone knocked on the door. It was John Gains. He wore no hat, and his thick black hair was matted against his forehead by the rain. When Jody opened the door he stood there until she urged him in. His expression was both wary and troubled. The men by the window fell silent.
“Thought you were in Japan,” said Jody. “Give me your coat.”
“I didn’t come to stay. I just . . .” He turned his back to Hank and the men, and held out an envelope. “Just take this,” he muttered. “No questions. It’s terrible what’s happened.” He left quickly, even though Jody called after him to come back and dry off.
Jody slipped the envelope behind cans of flour and rice on the kitchen shelf. Worry about it later, she decided.
She fixed hamburgers rather than the steaks she’d normally have served for a homecoming from the sea. After that they drank some more, all together put the children to bed—the bachelors Terry and Tom with wistful hugs that lingered—and drank further. Everyone became cheerful, occ
asionally boisterous. At last Hank dragged out mattresses and futons, and those without beds curled by the fireplace for the night.
The envelope that John Gains had slipped to Jody contained thirteen crisp hundred-dollar bills. She and Hank both regarded the bills, even, it seemed, caressed them.
“That’s his guilt for sliding all the incriminating documents off to Japan before the Feds arrived,” said Hank. Jody resealed the envelope and next day returned it to the office with no comment.
The following days took sorting out. Seth, Terry, Mo, and Ham conferred and pooled resources, then ceremoniously offered Hank and Jody enough money to pay off the home mortgage. Jody was moved, and might have accepted, with Hank remaining silent, had not the lawyer advising them said that the three properties of the contract—house, Jody Dawn, and Puale Bay—were tied together as a unit. Only after all had been redeemed could they be separated, except with the consent of both parties. Hank could barely speak in front of Jody for his carelessness in signing such a document, but she did nothing to rub it in.
Her acceptance of the situation became pragmatic: how best to survive it. She dressed well, went to the fishery office, and this time waited outside the gated rail along with two plant workers until the lawyer Rider consented to see her. He had now taken over a back office with new private phone lines. When she made a personal appeal that the contract be modified to separate the properties, Rider merely said, “It doesn’t work that way. You’ve put the Tsurifune reputation on the line; they’re doing what’s needed to survive it, and I can’t help you.”
When she left, John Gains in the adjacent office rose from his desk. His expression was as troubled as when he’d offered the envelope. Jody paused long enough to say, “It’s out of your control, isn’t it?” He nodded, and she hurried away.
Nipping at them like an ill-tempered terrier was the lawsuit of Jason Shub. Hank’s insurance would cover the medical portion without question, but the $250,000 portion for willful negligence and brutality would be Hank’s alone if proven. It meant hiring the services of yet another lawyer. Hank became furious whenever he thought of it. “If I’m blamed, sorry I didn’t boot his gut into his spine the way he deserved!” The lawyer told him not to worry, since there were witnesses to prove it was a mere frivolous charge, and presented Hank with his first bill for five hundred dollars’ advance.
The Tsurifune push for retribution and self-justification continued a relentless course. When Hank applied for a modest loan at the bank where his accounts were frozen they told him he was now listed as a credit risk. They added that this information was available to other banks that might inquire.
After the two weeks’ grace, Hank and Jody were forced to move from their house. An agent for the company at least waited discreetly until Hank and his former crewmen had trucked out the last piece of furniture. Jody, although Hank told her bitterly not to, swept each room before leaving.
“I’d have pissed on each fuckin’ floor,” muttered Seth.
Jody took a final look at the house, standing in rain beside the station wagon. She’d told Hank and his guys to go on ahead with the final truckload to spare him. He’d kept feverishly busy so not to think, she knew. Inside the wagon Dawn wailed dramatically, now that she understood the situation, while she squeezed the dog Rusty’s neck. Henny, wide-eyed and silent, pressed his face against the window toward the house. Young Pete held one of the cats lightly and leafed through a picture book, unconcerned. Well, house, she thought. I didn’t like moving this far from town so at times I almost hated you. But my children learned to run safely here. Hank helped build you; I see his hand in you everywhere, and now I’m sorry to go.
The new quarters were depressing. Hank was right. The houses had been constructed expediently during World War II, and now decades later they needed patching and repair. A narrow porch looking over other tract houses was a poor substitute for Hank’s beloved picture window facing water. At least the kids could walk to school and didn’t need to be chauffered everywhere. The two cats settled in at once to roam and sniff things new. Only the dog and Hank could not adjust. Rusty, used to roaming without a leash, now mourned in a corner. Hank mourned almost in the same manner, and seldom left the dark living room except to confer with lawyers. Downtown he skirted the waterfront that had been his turf.
Hank might have swallowed pride and looked to crew on somebody else’s boat, but he needed to stay close to handle legal problems. His men remained faithful in spirit, but one by one they found berths. Even Tom was hired, to his unconcealed wonder at the way opportunity opened.
“Come on, Boss. Down to Solly’s for a brew,” urged any of his old crew when they came to town. Hank found excuses each time not to go. He brooded. Even Swede had deserted the sinking ship and stayed in Seattle.
Jody would have worried less about him if he’d turned testy and vented his anger. But, although Hank continued to walk straight, his voice lost its energy. He was gentle but distant with the children rather than giving them his usual warmth and vigor. Each new expense depressed him further. “What about your father?” she suggested cautiously when another lawyer’s bill arrived. “Just a temporary loan.”
Hank thought of the way he’d defended his career against his dad’s admonitions a few months before. “Out of the question.”
Then one evening he hurried in late for dinner but purposefully. “Just keep eating without me,” he said, and kissed her, then dressed in some of his oldest clothes. “Don’t wait up,” he called as he left. “I’ve got a night job.”
“Doing what? Where?”
“See you in the morning.”
He reported to a new fish plant opened by the native corporation, punched the time clock, and checked in with the foreman. Soon he stood waist-deep in fish and frigid water, encased in heavy rubber waders, in the hold of a boat that had delivered groundfish. Oddmund, whom he’d suddenly pulled himself together to approach that afternoon, had reluctantly seen to it that he was hired while saying gravely, “Boss, you needn’t ought to have to do this. It’s crummy work nobody else wants. But you’re not native. My people couldn’t hire you to a better job even if we had one.”
“Just work with overtime pay for night shift is fine.”
He shared the hold with a taciturn native teenager who found excuses to rest against a bulkhead every few minutes. Dead fish swirled around them in water encrusted with odorous icy brown sludge. Other brown ice fell over their heads from above. It dribbled under the collar of his canneryissue oilskin jacket. The job required wading back and forth through the hold pushing wide wooden paddles, to corral the fish toward a thick suction hose. It was clammy, cold work until his body heat took over.
When portions of the hold had been sucked clear, Hank gave up waiting for the teenager to help and gripped the thick slimy hose against his chest with both arms to haul it to another spot. If the kid had been a crewman under me, he thought without heat, I’d have barked him into shape or dumped his ass back on the pier in minutes.
After two hours the hold was clear enough for him to scoop up fish with a shovel and dump them in front of the suction hose. At last the big hose could be raised. For the next hour, with smaller hoses, they scrubbed slime from the bulkheads, then scrubbed again with nostril-burning disinfectant, then tackled the deck boards, and finally, the steel deck itself. At last the foreman in clean coveralls climbed down, shone a flashlight into every corner, and passed on the job.
The time came to wash themselves off outside the hold, when usually partners directed the hose on each other, but the kid just wandered off dripping gurry. Hank went for a coffee break and doughnuts, then suggested diplomatically to the foreman that he could handle cleaning holds by himself. The foreman understood. “Son of one of our directors,” he shrugged. When Hank entered the hold of the next boat the kid was slowly pushing a broom through an area not particularly dirty.
Hank shivered afresh in the frigid slurry before exertion warmed him. But he began to sing t
o himself, and he developed a rhythm.
Ten hours later in pale morning light he punched out and walked slowly up the hill to the house. He ached and stank. He also felt at peace. He was a man again, working.
Next night he punched in, and continued.
26
DAYLIGHT
KODIAK, MARCH-APRIL 1984
Hank, during his first youthful batting-around days in Kodiak, had sometimes been short enough of money to miss a meal. Back then he’d come from the East Coast for adventure, all experiences qualified, and being broke had been almost fun. Now his empire had crumbled while his responsibilities remained. Lawyers’ bills mounted, but he saw no way out of the Tsurifune mess without defending himself. He remained in a tense limbo, unable to do more than survive from day to day.
Adding to the darkness for Hank was the desertion of Swede Scorden. Swede had conveniently disappeared to Seattle just as Justin Rider had arrived to cut and slash. When Swede returned at last to resume running the plant, Hank waited to hear from him but was reluctant to call. No call came. When once Hank encountered him in the square, Swede was gruffly distant and eased away before anything could be said.
Hank also chafed over the lawyer, Henry Sollers, whom Swede had recommended to Jody before his defection, to examine the faulty second contract. Sollers was lean and focused, but Hank suspected him of being more interested in sport fishing than commercial. Based in Anchorage, he came weekly to his Kodiak suboffice and had a partner in Seattle. At a fee of one hundred dollars an hour for each portion of time spent at any of the offices, Sollers continued to try breaking into the original Tsurifune contract in order to separate the house and Jody Dawn from the cripplingly priced Puale Bay, or to find some other compromise. “That Justin Rider’s a hard ticket,” he declared with a professional appreciation that Hank resented. “He, or his clients, aren’t budging an inch.”
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