Breakers

by William B. McCIoskey Jr.

  The news of Tolly jolted Hank, first with concern and sadness, then with fright for himself. After inquiries, he found his friend working in a machine shop down at Fishermen’s Terminal, bent over a valve grinder. Goggles beneath a cloth mechanic’s cap hid all of his face but a pursed mouth. Ponytail gone. Even his coveralls sagged—lightweight things compared to the padded ones worn on a cold deck that could stand by themselves. No gold earring. He looked so ordinary Hank’s voice softened. “Tolly?”

  “Minute.” Tolly finished and glanced up. “Hey man!” Suddenly the old gleam for a moment. But, after a handshake, Tolly jerked his head toward a glassed-in office. “Time dockers. Gotta keep busy.”

  They met for dinner. Tolly’s face was less lean and tuned, was turning fleshy in fact, or was it the close-cropped haircut? But “Well,” he said, breezy enough that Hank’s worry eased. “You stole the march on me this time, you fucker. Snuck in the horsepower, and now you’ve still got it all by the balls.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Close enough. Henry Crawford and the Jody Dawn are still one and the same. How’s my boy Henny? And little Dawn, that honey?” Hank vouched for their health, and added that they spoke often of Uncle Tolly although in fact they did not. “Sure they miss me. Jody’s so organized she probably keeps ‘em in line like a concentration camp. No offense, I just meant she’s organized. Which is what I ain’t. Know what? Jennifer from two years ago when I’d blow five hundred on a single night? She’s stayed with me. We’re getting married. The woman I’d call my squeeze, and now nobody better say that about her.”

  Hank congratulated him enthusiastically and started to call for another round, then realized he might have to pay for dinner. His thin wallet depressed him at once. Why wouldn’t Jody let them get a credit card?

  “And your little guy that was bom just when we brought our new boats up from here—jeez, that’s hardly more than three years ago—what’s his name? He’s gotten all better?”

  “Pete. Still can’t talk. Or won’t. But he’s bright enough. He’d be the one now to play with Uncle Tolly’s—” Hank caught himself.

  “It’s okay. Still got my gold earring. Just it’s in a drawer now. That was good times. Remember the boxing between my Ham and your Mo that Fourth of July? All the rest of the gold’s sold and gone, along with my Star Wars. Had to keep something.”

  “You’ll get it all back . . .”

  “Like how? Banks run scared now of fishermen. Forget it, how they kissed all over us a few years ago. Start back on Swede’s slime line or as somebody’s deck ape? But you know what? Repossession meant no more payments. I don’t worry so much anymore. I sleep nights.” Tolly glanced toward a window across the room, then took a gulp of his drink. “Don’t miss it so much. I stay dry unless I want to take a shower. There’s worse.”

  Hank nodded while his unease deepened.

  “I thought at first like, my life’s over man, when the bank said they was going to auction my boat. I’d scratched in the Bering, even pushed down off Kodiak, until my eyes was so shut I couldn’t see that my guys on deck’s eyes was shut, that’s how hard we tried to find them fuckin’ crabs. Then all of a sudden, call from Seattle, seven payments behind and nothing to make ‘em with, ‘we got to talk to you sir’. I shut the door to my cabin and beat on the bedcovers for a while. When I come out I knew from the guys’ long faces they’d figured without my saying.”

  A finger of diluted Scotch surrounded melting ice in Hank’s glass. He wished for another.

  Tolly pointed toward the window. “She’s tied up here now at the Terminal, my Star Wars. Walk over and look out and you can see her. That’s why I said let’s sit over here. Mainly I take a route to work so I don’t have to see. Maybe now and then I go by in the dark.” He glanced away. “Sort of apologize to her if you know what I mean. I just wish whoever buys her won’t still call her Star Wars. That’s my name, not theirs.”

  Hank considered the horror of losing his boat. Work in a machine shop and find reasons to like it? Do anything, he told himself. Anything to keep his boat.

  “One thing does bug me, Hank. My guys? We really all worked together, you know? Well, Walt, my deck boss, he’s from Alaska anyhow and he’s gone up to work on the Pipeline. And Rufus, he’s gone on back home to Alabama and shrimp boats down there where he started, writes it’s not as much fun but a lot warmer. It’s Ham can’t find himself another berth. The big guy’s right for up here, knows the work, never complains, always good humor. A lot like your Mo that he boxed. Last I saw Ham he looked like a kid who’d lost his mom. Couldn’t find a berth these times, no machinery skills like mine, not even canneries hiring. You wouldn’t have a place on Jody Dawn?”

  Hank told Tolly the truth. He was hurting, and without some break would soon be desperate with all his own crew in danger of finding themselves on the beach.

  “Oh, man,” Tolly sighed. He reached absently for the earring that wasn’t there. “I guess I’m lucky I’m through it and out the other side with part of my ass left. Solvent even, each payday like today. Hey, I’m thirsty!” He ordered second drinks. At the end of dinner, when the waiter presented the combined bar-restaurant bill, he slapped his hand on it, allowed Hank to protest, and paid it himself.

  “At least let me pay the tip,” said Hank, hiding his relief.

  “Sure, sure, buddy. If you insist.”

  After he and Tolly parted—Tolly bunked in a room near the Terminal—Hank walked by the boats to find the Star Wars. He passed four other Bering Sea crabbers the size of his own, all of them posted “For Sale” and ghostly dark. It was like being among tombstones. He slept badly. Stared at a basketball poster illuminated by a streetlight, in the bedroom of a friend’s teenager where he stayed.

  Since the king crab season was ended and the season for the smaller tanner crabs had not begun, Swede had returned from Dutch Harbor to Seattle headquarters. Instead of an office, Hank found him in an open cubicle enclosed by frosted glass. No bottle came from a drawer. A suit replaced his usual open shirt. A tie fell like loose string over the jacket bunched at the shoulders. Swede’s gaze remained the appraisal Hank had known for twenty years, but the eyes—not red-veined like a month ago although turning a permanent yellow—now shifted after a moment. His proffered hand moved from a grip on the desk to a quick trembling return.

  Hank glanced over the low glass wall at other cubicles in front of the executive doors behind which his friend belonged. “Fresh air for a change. Wise choice.” Like joshing a hospital patient.

  “The rugged privacy of Dutch will be my pleasure again in three weeks. You’re down here to consolidate your wealth, I take it.”

  “How to squander. That’s my great problem.”

  “Have a drink. Coke? Sarsaparilla? Root beer? The office ice box has it all.”

  “Root, eh?”

  “Don’t doubt it.”

  At least they’ve forced him off daytime booze, thought Hank dispassionately as he drew up a chair. “By the way, you’ve endangered your reputation. What if word got out that you staked six worn-out kids to a ride home on the strength of my note? People might begin to think you’re okay.” Swede shrugged, not picking up on it as he would have once. To business: “You planning to buy tanners for what they’re worth, next month?”

  “We’ll pay the least we can.” No smile to ease it.

  “What’s your word from the biologists?”

  “No better than for kings. We see crabs nowhere.” Swede automatically reached into his bottle drawer, banged it shut again with a grimace. “Last fall we scheduled double shifts in Dutch. Flew in the bodies, fed ‘em while we waited, then had to ship ‘em back home, all at our expense and no profit to cover it. Don’t mention the supplies bought, rotting and rusting up there. Cost more to bring ‘em back. The good corporate news is that our Japanese lords have other fish plants around the world to absorb losses. Bad news is who they blame for what happens here.”

  “I’d thought of bringi
ng Jody Dawn down here to gear for browns, for rockfish. They were abundant last I heard.”

  “When? Two years ago? We’re all in the wrong business.”

  Hank’s mouth went dry. He focused on the nubbled glass wall. “I might have to give up the Jody Dawn” Saying it sickened him.

  Swede’s voice softened. “Good luck selling your elephant, Hank. I doubt we can help.”

  “Any work I could find here in Seattle? Might send Seth to scratch for the tanners, still get my boat share.” A pause. “I mean any work.”

  “I can tell you nobody’s hiring at the plants or boatyards, either office or line. A while back my sister in Spokane reported logging camps hiring for the winter. I told that to a kid last week stranded here when his boat went bust. He thumbed out there and they hired him setting chokers. Broke his leg the second day. You’re too old to set chokers anyhow. Got a license for heavy equipment? Thought not.”

  “I’m not too old for anything! If it pays.”

  “Grow up. Drag heavy chain through brush all day? I did it out there when I was stupid seventeen. By twenty I’d have first robbed a bank.”

  “You always were delicate.”

  The door guarding the executive offices opened, and a brisk young man hurried to one of the desks. “My secretary’s sick today. Would you confirm these Tokyo-Kushiro reservations? Thank you.” A moment later the man stopped at Swede’s cubicle. “Crawford. That’s a coincidence. We just mentioned you in conference.” It was John Gains. “Let’s see you in, say, twenty minutes.” He left without waiting for a reply.

  Swede’s grin was tired, even mean. “You’re heading up.”

  “Fuck that. I don’t jump. He’ll wait all day.”

  “Crawford, my boy. Hank.” Swede leaned forward with hands tight. His fingers fidgeted like folded wings. “If you’re desperate enough to consider—even consider—winter forest camp at grunt level, synchronize the watch for twenty minutes. You ought to see now that I don’t have clout to help you.”“Wait here,” said a pleasant secretary outside the wall that guarded the executive doors. She touched a phone signal and spoke his name. “He’ll see you. Follow please.”

  Gains wore a dark suit that looked freshly pressed. His face had lost the leanness that helped him bloody Hank in the July Fourth ring so long ago. (Only three years. And a half.) Gold-patterned tie. Black hair trimmed close. “Yes Crawford . . . uh, Hank . . .” The hand was soft. (Could take him in the ring now.) “Coffee? Tea?” A smiling Japanese woman offered his choice of regular or decaf. “My usual ocha, Miho.” Gains settled into a heavy swivel chair behind his desk, and brushed a flake of dust off the polished surface. Suddenly he seemed uncomfortable. “Well. Hank. I hope your little, uh—was it boy or girl?—is back running around after that scare?”

  “Pete’s doing fine, thanks.”

  “I. . . enjoyed your little girl, back during that Bristol Bay summer. I guess she wouldn’t remember how she crawled on my lap. Some day I’ll hope to have my own children, of course, once I’m established. Family all well?” All well, Hank assured him. “And your man, uh, our man, Seth?” Attempted smile that came out thin. “Stopped shooting at Japanese trawlers? No more grief from the State Department?”

  Hank kept his voice agreeable. “You seem to have taken care of it, John. Seth was grateful.” He checked the urge for feet on the shiny desk.

  “My pleasure.” The superior edge returned. “Folks here were very upset at first. You can’t plan ahead too carefully for the Japanese. The unexpected throws them.” He straightened a single sheet in a pile of straight papers. “We’re in luck this morning. Mr. Moritaka Shintami can give us a few minutes, shortly. He’s glad to meet you. I’ve made it clear that you’re one of our best producers. So . . . how’s life on the old boat?”

  “New boat. Life’s fine.” The padded chair sank low, so that Gains looked down at him. Arrogant twit. “Had you wanted to see me about something particular, John?”

  “Yes. I thought you might enjoy a trip to Japan. A reward for your good work—and an inspiration for the rest. Never been, have you?”

  Hank hoped that his face didn’t display a flush of interest. “Most who made it to Vietnam had a look at Japan.”

  “Oh. Vietnam. Oh. That’s . . . interesting. It shouldn’t make a difference, but I ought to tell Mr. Shintami. No surprises, as I’ve said.” Another lame smile and heartiness. “I’m sure you behaved yourself in Japan, no arrests for raucous shore leave?” Hank kept his expression neutral. “So. We’ve discussed sending one or two top producers over to Japan. Your name came up. I brought it up myself.”

  “That’s nice of you, John.” But hell, won’t work, need to make money somehow, he thought, and decided to kiss ass no further. He rose. “I’m so tied to the fishing grounds these days that I couldn’t afford the time.”

  “Well you know—sit please, Hank, your coffee’s coming—if Mr. Shintami approves, we’d be prepared to compensate for lost fishing. We don’t always count pennies, you know. Because you’d give us full attention while you’re there, wouldn’t you? You might even want to meet one or two of our lawyers . . . if you’re not happy with your lawyer here.” He readjusted papers to make room for separate trays with tea and coffee. “Thanks so much, Miho. For instance, Hank. An easy loan to help cover that conversion to groundfish, say. With commitment, possible other things that might interest a highline captain. But here.” He pushed over the tray with pot, cups, and biscuits. “No use talking until we see Mr. Shintami. It is lucky he has time today.”

  Hank settled back. Unreal. As he poured coffee into an uncomfortably delicate china cup he calculated the most he might essay for lost fishing. Not committing, of course.

  Mr. Shintami looked to Hank like the quintessential balding Japanese. He bowed, offered his card, and waited to receive a card in return. Hank prepared for the usual Japanese dead fish handshake as he said affably, keeping his voice deep: “Sorry, I don’t carry cards.”

  “We should order you some,” said John Gains. “Don’t you think so, sir?”

  Suddenly the Japanese laughed, slapped Hank’s arm, and offered his hand for a firm shake. “Thank you for drop in, Mr. Crawford. Please come, sir, sit here. John calls you good fisherman. Very bad season for king crab, but you produce more than other fishermen. Very very good!”

  “I see you’ve been watching.”

  Another laugh. “Oh, we watch, we watch. Isn’t it, John?”

  “Yes we do, sir.”

  Shintami went to a display case and drew a bottle and glasses from a drawer beneath. “Japanese make Scotch whiskey, Mr. Crawford. Did you know?”

  “Pretty impressive. Just a little one, please.”

  As if on cue the serving woman brought in a tray with ice bucket and tongs, glasses, napkins, and green cakes. The host carefully filled two shot glasses, and handed one to Hank. “To cheering the good health, Mr. Crawford. John . . . ?”

  Hank noted that John barely covered the bottom of his shot glass, and cupped his hand to hide its emptiness. Shintami, on the other hand, clicked his glass against Hank’s and drank half, then put the full bottle on the tray. Getting me drunk? thought Hank, amused. Am I really worth something to them? He sipped. Ersatz Scotch to a serious drinker, but not bad. “Nice.” But watch out, he decided as he began to enjoy himself.

  Shintami moved back to the display case. It held an assortment of elaborate cups, letter openers, and Japanese dolls. “My friends, Mr. Crawford, they give gifts that I please to place for all to enjoy. This carved tusk from walrus, to tell the truth, is gift of your very former Secretary of Commerce, Mr. Elliot L. Richardson. Such very friendly meetings! But your government changes, doesn’t it. No longer President Ford, no longer President Carter. President Ronald Wilson Reagan, the famous actor, who is very good man but difficult to understand.” Raised brows. “Possibly you know new Secretary of Commerce, Mr. Malcolm Baldridge? Or possibly new Secretary of State Mr. Alexander M. Haig Junior who is famously aggress
ive?”

  The ersatz Scotch began to buzz pleasantly. Play games? Why not? He grinned. “Ronnie hasn’t found time yet to introduce me.”

  “Oh?”

  John Gains watched him, expressionless.

  “Let me be frank, Mr. Crawford. We wish goodwill of some American top fishermen. Therefore it is our agreeable—how to say?—gamble, to invite you.”

  That night he phoned Jody. “You’re what?” she exclaimed.

  “That’s right. Three weeks in Japan, all expenses, plus three thousand bucks a week, nine thousand no strings for my trouble. Donation, not income, not reportable as tax. I was thinking, honey, on the way back, if I broke the trip in Honolulu you could—”

  “Am I hearing this?”

  He’d anticipated her reaction. “Listen. What harm to see the enemy’s eyeballs? One thing I made clear, that I spend time on their fishing boats. Meet fishermen. Of course I didn’t spell it out, but let’s see how these guys think on the grounds. As Seth would say, ‘fuckin’ strategy, Boss’”. She didn’t laugh. “Look, Seth can skipper Jody Dawn for the last weeks of the tanner season. There’s no way around dealing with the Japs, uh, Japanese. They’ve got the markets.”

  “Sounds like you’ll be having a good time.” In the background a child began to cry.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Then you’ll meet me in Honolulu.”

  “Be serious. Kids have to get to school every day, money as tight as we’ve ever seen it.” A pause. “I wonder if Jones and Adele will ever speak to us again.”

  “It’s time Jones caught up with the rest of the world.”

  John Gains briefed him with all the admonition that Hank would tolerate, from “Even in the most expensive hotel expect the room to be small. You’re not being cheated; Mr. Shintami goes first class,” to “Pass name cards to everyone, of course, even at a meeting with twenty people.” A bow not deep upon greeting, but necessary. When drinking sake at a banquet wait for the host to refill your drink, although feel free to refill his as a reminder. “Whatever you do, don’t confront. Japanese hate confrontation, they really work to avoid it.”