The man was standing with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. There was something equine about him. He had small eyes, delicate-seeming in his strong face, and black wavy hair that, despite his age—somewhere north of forty-five—failed to show more than scattered threads of gray. Calm, reliable Rand. He had never spoken of a wife or girlfriend; he never visited Dunk’s whores. Michael had never pressed, the matter being one of supreme unimportance.

“It could be someplace in the charger,” Rand suggested. “Tight fit, though.”

Michael looked up at the catwalk and yelled, to whomever might hear him, “Where’s Patch?”

Patch’s real name was Byron Szumanski. The nickname came from the anomalous square of white in his otherwise coal-black stubble. Like many of Michael’s men, he had been raised in the orphanage; he’d done a stint in the military, learning a thing or two about engines along the way, then worked for the civilian authority as a mechanic. He had no relatives, had never married and professed no desire to do so, possessed no bad habits Michael knew of, didn’t mind the isolation, wasn’t a talker, took orders without complaint, and liked to work—perfect, in other words, for Michael’s purposes. A wiry five foot three, he spent whole days in pockets of the ship so cramped that another man wouldn’t have been able to draw a breath. Michael paid him accordingly, though nobody could complain about the wages. Every cent Michael made from the stills went straight to the Bergensfjord.

A face appeared above: Weir’s. He drew his welder’s mask up to his forehead. “I think he’s on the bridge.”

“Send somebody to get him.”

As Michael bent for his tool bag, Rand rapped him on the arm. “We’ve got company.”

Michael looked up; Dunk was coming down the stairs. Michael needed the man, just as Dunk needed him, but their relationship was not an easy one. Needless to say, Dunk knew nothing of Michael’s true purpose; he regarded the Bergensfjord as an eccentric distraction, an elaborate pastime on which Michael wasted his time—time better spent putting more money in Dunk’s pockets. That the man had never bothered to wonder just why Michael needed to refloat a six-hundred-foot freighter was just more evidence of his limited intelligence.

“Great,” Michael said.

“You want me to get some guys together? He looks pissed.”

“How can you tell?”

Rand moved away. At the base of the stairs Dunk halted, propped his hands on his hips, and surveyed the room with an expression of weary irritation. The tattoos on his face ended abruptly at his former hairline. A lifetime of hard living had done him few favors in the aging department, but he was still built like a tank. For entertainment, he liked to lift a truck by its bumper.

“What can I do for you, Dunk?”

He had a way of smiling that made Michael think of a cork in a bottle. “I really should get down here more often. I don’t know what half this stuff is. Take those things over there.” He wagged a meaty finger, thick as a sausage.

“Water jacket pumps.”

“What do they do?”

The day was getting away without much to show for it; now he had to deal with this. “It’s kind of technical. Not really your thing.”

“Why am I here, Michael?”

Guessing games, as if they were five years old. “A sudden interest in marine repair?”

Dunk’s eyes hardened on Michael’s face. “I’m here, Michael, because you’re not meeting your obligation to me. Mystic’s open for settlement. That means demand. I need the new boiler up and running. Not later. Today.”

Michael aimed his voice at the catwalk. “Has anybody found Patch yet?”

“We’re looking!”

He turned toward Dunk again. What an ox the man was. He should’ve been strapped to a plow. “I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

“Allow me to remind you of the terms. You do your magic with the stills, I give you ten percent of the profits. It’s not hard to remember.”

Michael yelled up to the catwalk again. “Sometime today would be nice!”

The next thing Michael knew, he was rammed up against the bulkhead, Dunk’s forearm pressing against his throat.

“Do I have your attention now?”

The man’s broad, pitted nose was inches from Michael’s; his breath was sour as old wine.

“Easy, amigo. We don’t have to do this in front of the kids.”

“You work for me, goddamnit.”

“If I could point something out. Breaking my neck might feel good in the moment, but it won’t get you any more lick.”