Rock the Dock

The first morning Nick was in Port Arthur he headed down to the waterfront. He arrived at six and there was already a lineup for work on the dock. Some of the men clutched brown bag lunches. Some chatted jovially, while others stood quiet and pensive. Half a dozen men gathered around a table playing cards. A cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke hung over the table. Seagulls whirled and screeched.

“So’s there been a lot of work, lately?” Nick asked the man next to him, who was short and chewing sunflower seeds. The man shrugged.

“Depends,” he spat out sunflower shells that fluttered to the ground. After a few minutes the game broke up. Dutch Hopkins, the owner of Ruby Shipping Co. called out names from a list on a clipboard. His face was clean-shaven and ruddy. His posture was straight as a totem pole. The men he called out formed a group to the side of the table. When Dutch finished calling out the names, there remained two or three dozen men who weren’t selected for work. A din arose as the unchosen men closed in around the table. Nick edged his way into the fray.

“I’m Ernesto!” One man shouted, “don’t cha remember me? My wife does your laundry sometimes.” Dutch looked down at Ernesto’s short and narrow-shouldered stature.

“Sorry pal, not today.” Dutch scanned the remaining men, raised on to his toes and waved over three tall, brawny men at the back. They moved into rank with the others.

“Alright, that’s it for today fellows, thanks for coming down.” Dutch slipped his clipboard under his arm and turned. The gang of men chosen to work then marched towards the freighter sitting next to the dock.

Nick slept in a rooming house and the next morning headed down to the waterfront. Men milled about smoking and cavorting. Poker games were going on at some tables. After all the names were called, the superintendents chose a few men out of the crowd and turned the rest away. With the fifteen dollars he had brought with him to Port Arthur, Nick figured he could last two weeks without work. When Nick arrived on the third day he noticed an open seat at one of the card games. Dutch Hopkins sat at the table dealing cards. His teeth gripped a cigar. He dealt out a hand to five other players. Nick eyed the table once, then smoothly slipped into the seat. The men nattered as they played. Six of the men wore overalls and open collars, while Dutch wore a white shirt with black sleeve garters. At this point, all but two of the men had folded.

“So, what’ll it be, Ernesto?” Dutch demanded. “You in or out?” Ernesto stared at his cards, furrowed his brow, then laid the cards face down on the table. Dutch gathered up the pile of money, chuckling.

“Luck’s really with you today, hey Dutch?” Ernesto sprang up and the chair screeched on the floor. He strode off in a huff. Dutch guffawed, shuffled the deck and dealt the next hand.

The first few rounds Nick had nothing better than a pair and folded early each time. Eventually, Nick received three kings. He lasted through five rounds of betting. One by one the rest of the men folded, one man gruffly slamming his cards down. There must have been fifteen or twenty dollars in the kitty, enough to last Nick two weeks at the boarding house. He looked at the pile of folded and crushed bills at Dutch’s elbow. The smoke hung heavy, the air was close. Dutch leaned forward.

“It’s another dollar. Are you in or out?”

Nick looked at his three kings. His eyes darted to the cash raked together at the center of the table.

“What’ll it be?” Dutch elbows smacked the table.

“I’m out.” Nick tossed his cards on the table.

Later, when Dutch choose the men to work for the day, his eyes fixed on Nick. Dutch’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned and waved Nick over. Nick felt lousy about caving into such crass graft, but work had dried up lately and he was feeling desperate. He fell into rank with the other chosen ones and tried to look eager.

A gang master named Jeffrey led the men towards a ship. The dock creaked and swayed under their shoes. Along the dock was a long warehouse.

“Gentlemen!” Jeffrey hollered, “take one of those!” he pointed to several rows of trollies, carts, and wheel barrels lined up in the shadow of an eave.

“We have four thousand barrels to move today. It’s going to be a busy day so hop to it!”

Nick grabbed the thick cast iron handles of a trolley, spun it around and headed towards the ship. At the lunch break most of the stevedores sat around on benches, or on barrels. The sun shone. A crowd had formed.

A lanky young man seemed to be giving some kind of informal speech, or telling a story. Nick edged in closer. The man’s tousled bangs hung down in twists on his forehead just to the eyebrows, giving him a mysterious air. His gaze was intense. As he spoke he looked straight into the eyes of those gathered around. He spoke about what he called a beautiful idea, a new order, where working men and women controlled the businesses. There would be no invisible shareholders, and all workers would reap the benefits of success.

“Yes, a beautiful idea, and one that won’t happen unless the people push for it, fight for it!” He strutted in front of the men like a seasoned preacher, even though he couldn’t have been much more than twenty-two or three. After a few minutes Dutch Hopkins stepped forward.

“A beautiful idea indeed, Victor. But how realistic?” his gaze swept the crowd. Dutch wore a bowler hat and denim coveralls.

“The modern world isn’t built on pie-in the sky notions, my young friend.” Dutch smiled at Victor.

“Do you think this policy you’re expounding could ever have produced the progress and glorious wonders of the modern age?” Dutch offered the notion for all to contemplate. “Let’s not get carried away with half-baked theories.” He edged closer to Victor. He was half a head taller. “We’re in a difficult time right now, but this too shall pass.” Dutch’s voice took on a solemn tone. Three burly men who had been lurking on the fringe of the crowd muscled their way in. They too looked solemn, and none too friendly. Dutch eyed his wristwatch.

“Well boys, lunch break is almost over. Best conclude this little meeting and prepare for your next shift.”

******

That evening Nick headed to the café Italia. He heard tell that some kind of political rally was happening there. Nick ordered a strong coffee and sat at a table with a checkered table cloth. A mandolin and accordion whined. After a few numbers, the band stopped playing, and Victor addressed the audience. He spoke for a half hour or so, explaining his beautiful idea and reporting on the activities of the Anarcho-Syndicalist movement. After the lecture Nick bellied up to the bar. He caught Victor’s eye.

“Hey Vic, what’re you drinking, pal?” Victor’s eyes focused; it took him a few seconds to recognize Nick. They had only spoken a few times on the job.

“Wine.”

Nick gestured to the bartender.

“Two glasses of wine…put it on my tab.”

“Thanks. Nick, is it?” Nick nodded.

“I like where you’re coming from,” Nick said. “With this economy in such a lousy state…something’s gotta change, don’t it?” Victor nodded. Nick Continued.

“Didn’t seem like Mr. Hopkins was so keen on the idea though. Although he was a gentleman about it, I suppose.”

“Sure, he’s a real gentleman.” Victor smirked, and clinked his glass against Nick’s. “Thanks for the wine.”

The musicians began to play a tarantella. Nick took a swig and then danced into the fray. The musicians’ feet stomped on the wood planks of the floor. The women held their skirts and kicked their feet as the men danced and hopped about. The air was filled with the smell of strong liquor and cigars. They danced for an hour or so.

From the corner of his eye Nick noticed Luigi, the café owner, peering out the window. Luigi gestured to the musicians to stop playing and then scuttled behind the bar. The musicians consulted sheets of music and debated whether or not to go on. The crowd harangued for more music. Luigi chewed on his thumb nail.

Suddenly, there was a rapping on the window. A few police officers, tough-looking and aloof, sauntered into the café. Patrons subtly exchanged annoyed looks. The police chief scanned the room.

“Evening folks.” He doffed his hat. “Just wanted to remind you all about the curfew.” He pointed to the clock with his night stick. “By Judge Meyers order, you all have to clear out of here by eleven o’clock?” The chief scanned the room and then he and his men shuffled out the door.

“Okay!” Luigi shouted, “finish your drinks, and then…I’m sorry…but I’ll have to close up the bar.”

Victor came over to the table Nick was sitting at. Sweat glistened on his brow. The two young ladies he was dancing with also came over. Nick recognized them from the silk factory he passed on his way to work. The girls dropped into the chairs.

“My feet!” One cried, “…so good to sit down.” She laughed and then looked at everything around her with vivacious eyes. Nick looked at her and raised his glass.

“Cheers.”

She raised her glass.

“Cheers.”

“You’re a good dancer,” Nick said. She smiled and then her glance roamed the room. Nick picked up the bottle of wine and mindlessly gazed at the claret liquid. His eyes strayed to her face; the supple tan skin seemed to radiate a mellow self-possession. Victor introduced Nick to the ladies, Amelia and Wendy. They chatted casually for a few minutes.

“Well,” Amelia said, “It’s too bad about the curfew.” She looked at Wendy. “Guess we’ll call it a night, then.” As she stood up Nick shook his head. She looked down at him, forehead crinkled.

“What?”

“Curfews are for children.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, wheeled and strode across the floor.

“Don’t forget to have your mother tuck you in!”

She whipped around, her mouth agape. She strode back to the table, stood with her hands on her hips, then she grabbed the bottle.

“C’mon,” She grabbed her friend’s hand and they rushed across the room. Nick and Victor grabbed their hats and raced after them.

“Bona sera Luig!” They called out as they left. Nick and Victor walked as quickly as they could without making a spectacle. In a minute or two they caught up with the girls. Nick glanced at Amelia.

“That’s my wine.”

“Yours?” She considered for a moment. “Well, I don’t believe in property rights,” she continued striding down the road.

“Ok.” Nick hustled to catch up with her. “Then, care to redistribute resources?”

They walked along the streets in the washed-out glow of the street lamps, chatting. Victor announced he would walk Wendy home, and they headed off in a different direction. Nick and Amelia strolled down the street. They chatted about Victor’s speech. Amelia mentioned that Wendy was Dutch Hopkins’ niece.

“Isn’t that funny, her and Victor hitting it off?”

“Yeah, strange.” Then a lull fell over them and neither one seemed to think of anything to say. A car puttered down the road. They walked on, Amelia seemed interested in the passersby and the items in the shop windows. Nick realized that they would soon be coming to his street. He cleared his throat then began speaking; his voice sounded loud in his ears. He glanced at the building in front of him.

“Well, my place is down this way,” he gestured towards a dimly lit street. A smile slowly appeared on his face. He reached for the bottle. She pulled it away from him and spun around, grinning.

“That’s mine!” he said, laughing a little and struggling to get a grip. They play wrestled. Nick tickled her. She cackled but wouldn’t loosen her grip on the bottle. After a minute or two of tussling they backed into the wall, laughing and panting.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said holding the bottle snuggly in her arms, “I’ll share it with you.”

They went to the building where Nick rented a room.

“Wait here,” Nick said as they reached the door to his room. He went inside and got a glass, a corkscrew and a candle. He cleaned the glass in the sink and met Amelia in the hall.

“Let’s go up to the roof,” he suggested. Holding the candle steadily Nick went to the end of the hall, opened a door that lead to a staircase. As they entered the little-used stairwell they heard scurrying feet. Nick winced with embarrassment as he climbed the creaking stairs. Up on the roof the air was cool. A breeze blew over the roof tops and ruffled their hair. They sat down on some lawn chairs and she opened the bottle of wine.

“I don’t know Victor that well,” Nick said. “But I have to admit his ideas resonate with me.”

“He’s a good speaker.”

“It looks like he’s been trying to organize the stevedores into a union,” Nick shook his head, partially impressed partially unsure about the venture.

“Well good for him. We went through that at the silk factory a few years ago.”

“Really?”

“Yep, boy I sure grew up fast.”

“Was it worth it?”

“It was a tough fight, but we had some experienced union people with us.” She patted down her skirt. “They knew how to boost up morale and negotiate…yeah things are better now. It was a lot of work, but I’d say it was worth it.” She sipped from the glass, and then looked at it quizzically.

“Don’t you have another glass?”

Nick chuckled.

“Actually no.”

She looked at him as if by studying his features some thoughts and impressions she had been forming about him all night began to crystallize.

“Real Spartan, huh?”

******

Next Tuesday a storm hit Port Arthur. Rains swept across the open hull of the ship, lashing down on the men as they worked. The floors became slippery and muddy. At the breaks the men huddled under the eaves of the office and tried to warm themselves with coffee. They would grumble about the weather and allude resentfully to the fact that the bosses were nowhere to be found. It rained steadily for the next couple of days. Some of the workers stayed home with colds. Friday morning Nick noticed a new man on the shift, it was Ernesto. He asked a lot of questions, he didn’t have much stevedore experience. After lunch the sky darkened and a storm broke out. Needles of rain pelted down. Nick and Ernesto unloaded the top level of some stacked barrels. Each barrel must have weighed almost a hundred pounds. They heaved them onto trollies and wheeled them off the hold, down the gangplank and into the storehouse. There remained about twenty or so barrels and Jeffrey insisted they finish the job before taking a break. One of the barrels slipped out of Nick’s grip. Ernesto grunted. The barrel dropped to the floor with a clangor.

“Ah!” Ernesto screamed. The barrel knocked him down and fell on its side and rolled against the wall. Nick chased the barrel for a second, then flashed his gaze at Ernesto.

“Are you all right!” he scooted to Ernesto’s side. Ernesto writhed on the ground. Then he looked up at Nick.

“Ah! Geez! It hurts like hell.”

Nick bent down on one knee.

“Come on.”

He put Ernesto’s arm around his shoulder and helped him stand up. Ernesto danced gingerly, unable to put his left foot down. Slowly he lowered it to the ground and placed a little weight on it. He winced. A few others had stopped working and watched. Nick glanced at them.

“Give us a hand wouldya?” A man ushered in and took Ernesto’s other arm around his shoulders. They helped Ernesto hobble to the office. They went inside the office and Nick explained what happened. Jeffrey inspected Ernesto for a second.

“You’re the new guy, aren’t you?” Jeffrey said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Maybe there was a good reason Dutch kept turning you away.” Ernesto wiped the rain water from his face and shook his wet hair.

“Excuse me?” Nick said. “He’s just been seriously injured, you know.” Jeffrey indulged in his mirth for a moment longer, then eyed Nick.

“Why yes, of course you’re right Nick.” Jeffrey took some money from a drawer, counted some bills and handed them to Ernesto. “Sorry, for sounding so cruel…but well, it is a bloody cruel world, as Mr. Spencer has explained so well.” He seemed lost in rumination for a moment. “Why don’t you fellows put him over there” Jeffrey flicked a finger towards a chair in the reception area, near a coffee table. Nick helped ease Ernesto onto the chair. Ernesto moaned. Nick watched over him.

“I think his leg is broken.”

Jeffrey clucked his tongue.

“Too bad, it’s a damn shame. I hope you get well soon, my good man.” Jeffrey patted Ernesto on the shoulder, picked up his coffee cup, headed into his office and shut the door. Two hours later Ernesto’s wife came by with a man in a horse-drawn cart. They loaded Ernesto into the back and pulled him away. Nick caught a glimpse of Ernesto as he left the premises. His eyes were cast down and his leg bounced and flopped as the cart rolled up the road.

Two weeks later Nick, Amelia, and Victor met at the Café Italia. They sat at a table and ordered wine and bread sticks. Nick mentioned that he had visited Ernesto on the way over.

“Oh yeah, so how is he doing?” Victor asked.

“Well his leg is broken, and he’s been in bed since the accident. He’s trying to take care of the kids as best he can. His wife is taking in extra laundry, they had it hanging in every room in the apartment.” Nick shook his head in amazement.

“Doesn’t sound very good,” Amelia said. They clucked their tongues. A lull came over them. A thought struck Nick, and he peered at Victor.

“You want to unionize the dock, right?”

“Sure.”

“So maybe now’s a good time for some kind of action. I mean, if the word spreads about the plight of Ernesto and his family, it might drum up more interest.”

“Sure, I was thinking the same thing. Actually, support for the union has been growing recently. With the current state of the economy there is a lot of suffering, and the wages Dutch offers are almost insulting.”

“So how about a strike?” Nick said.

“Yeah, I was thinking about a strike, maybe a one-day strike. A shot across the bow to get the ball rolling.”

Nick grinned.

“I like it.”

“I support a shot across the bow,” Amelia said. “Let’s drink on it.”

They raised their glasses.

******

Nick arrived at the docks the following Wednesday at eight o’clock. The sky was bright and clear, and a crowd had already gathered. A pile of placards leaned against a building. Nick became acutely aware of the bank in front of him and the police station just down the street. Trepidation zipped through him. He glanced around. Faces scowled with determination. They emboldened him. He raised a bullhorn to his mouth.

“Long live the revolution!”

A cheer rose up from the crowd.

He outlined the route they had planned out. A hat was passed around for Ernesto’s family.

They began marching along the docks. Some of the strikers called out to the few workers who remained in the warehouses and offices. One man stared out the window of an office, peered at the throng, then waved his hand and closed the shutters.

“Coward!” Victor yelled. He was backed up by a chorus of jeers and boos. As the crowd ambled onto the last section of the dock, they noticed some stevedores still at work on a mid-sized ship. The strikers called out to them and waved. The stevedores stopped their work and glanced at one another un-certainly. Then one man peeled off his gloves, tugged on his cap and jogged over to the throng. Several others followed. The strikers cheered them on.

The crowd moved off the docks. Nick looked at the faces all around him, some he recognized and knew well, some he knew only from passing in the streets or in the markets on weekends, and others he didn’t know at all. As they made their way along the streets of the industrial section they raised their voices in song. With proud and rousing voices they sang the Internationale and the music bloomed into the street. People peered from apartment buildings, children stopped their play and watched from the sidewalk; a few of them wandered into the fray. As the throng rounded the corner, it slowed down, and there was a collective gasp. Two dozen mounted police filled the far side of the town square. The horses shuffled, their hooves clip-clopping on the pavement. Hands on her hips, Amelia peered at the police.

“We can’t turn back now.”

She nodded and strode forward, ahead of everyone, her hair streaming across her shoulders. The crowd fell in behind her, flowed across the street and onto the grassy park. Pigeons flew up, wheeled and landed on the far side of the park.

Where was Victor, Nick thought; his eyes casting around at faces. A moment later Nick spotted Victor sitting on the low branch of an elm tree, his face still, hawk-like and dappled in leaf-shadow. He gripped the trunk and glowering at the scene below. The horses shuffled. The police strapped on gas masks.

A grenade-like canister flew overhead. It hit the ground and skidded. Smoke emitted from the canister in ball-like clouds. Another smoking canister skipped along the ground. The police moved into the crowd.

Nick exhorted the protesters to retreat. He and Amelia flushed the protestors back towards the entrance of Mulberry street. Nick’s foot snagged on something. He looked down. A boy lay on the ground coughing into a baseball mitt. Nick hauled him up by his arm and looked at his squinting, puckered face. Nick gripped one arm and Amelia clutched the other and together they carried the boy over the grass, hollering at the others to keep moving. The boy kept coughing. Behind, somewhere in the billows of smoke, they heard a skirmish; a cacophony of yelling and thumping. Most of the crowd now had retreated and had reached the safety of Mulberry street. Some of the protesters where using the placards to fan away the tear the gas. Nick and Amelia reached the sidewalk and put the boy down. He tottered and sat down on the curb. Scarves of smoke wisped through the park, around the trees and benches, and what could be seen of the line of police who had advanced to the edge of the park.

A shot fired. A horse whinnied and then trotted away from the tight line of police. Victor perched atop horse. A few shots fired from various directions. Victor turned the horse and galloped out of the cloud of smoke. The horse’s hooves thundered on the cobblestones of the street. Two mounted police officers chased after him. Nick stared at the scene, mouth agape.

Some of the dock workers were rounded up and hauled off to the police station. Nick and Amelia mingled with the demonstrators, thanking them for their support and courage. By nightfall there was still no news about Victor.

******

The next day most of the workers returned to their jobs. After holding out for a day Nick decided it would be best to return to the docks even though his ribs and jaw were still sore. The seagulls screeched.

Nick had no idea how the supervisors would react to his presence and he didn’t really care. With his cap pulled down, shading his eyes, he ambled to the back of the crowd of men, nodding subtly to a few of the men he was friendly with. He was greeted with a few looks of astonishment. When Jeffrey came out of the office and began the call-on he didn’t notice Nick and he didn’t even acknowledge the strike. After twenty or so men were picked Jeffrey noticed Nick in the back, held his gaze for a second and then waved him on.

Nick worked his usual job for the rest of the week. That Friday afternoon Jeffrey assigned Nick to place barrels in the warehouse storeroom. There were two or three dozen barrels and Nick figured it would take all afternoon. He was glad, as the August humidity was thick and stifling in the open ship’s hold. The warehouse on the other hand was dark and cool.

The wheels of the trolley squeaked as Nick pushed the barrels down the corridor. He loaded the barrels gingerly, he had developed a fine technique, using his body weight to shift the barrels and then roll them into place. About an hour after lunch, Nick heard running footsteps. He turned quickly…then…a punch. He ducked a second punch, but was shoved from the side, and his shoulder slammed the wall. Nick threw the man to the ground and kicked him. As Nick turned around a metal pipe ripped into his hamstring and he fell to his knees. His attackers shoved Nick to the ground. They pummeled his sides and smacked his head into the ground. He felt his skin burn against the ground. One of them grabbed Nick’s hair and held up his head.

“No more god-damned strikes.” He gave Nick’s hair a yank. “Got it!?” The man released Nick’s head suddenly. A hush came over the men. Nick looked up to see Victor holding the man’s head in the crook of his arm, with a blade held to his throat.

“Drop your weapons!” Victor commanded. A metal pipe and several clubs clanged as they dropped to the floor. The ruckus drew a few workers to the door of the storehouse. They peered through the door for a few seconds, then they entered. Nick got up slowly, anger pulsing through his veins. He reached for one of the weapons, and he saw fear in the eyes of his attackers. Nick swung a club and hit a man squarely on the crown of his head as he was running off. Victor swiped the blade across the man’s cheek and released him.

“Get outta here!”

The men ran off. Nick threw the wooden club, it spun end over heal and cracked a man’s head as he escaped through a side door.

The next morning as Nick tried to rise out of bed, a stab of pain radiated from his torso, and he slumped back onto the bed. He called for the women who ran the house and asked if she would mind picking him up a bottle of whiskey. He gave her a few dollars. She returned in the afternoon and placed the bottle on his dresser. Nick got out of bed, hobbled to the dresser and held the bottle in his hand. The odor of whisky felt odd at this time of day, but he tipped back the bottle anyway. He drank half the bottle and felt better, slouched back on the bed and dozed. Sometime later a knocking sound oozed into his stupefied state of mind. He shuffled in the bed, the springs squeaking like mice under him. Footsteps slid on the floor.

“Oh Nick.” Amelia’s hand gently caressed his bruised face. She left and then came back a while later with a plate of spaghetti, a crust of bread, and a bottle of water. As Nick ate the warm pasta seemed to revive him. A little later Victor and Wendy showed up. They drank the whiskey and gradually their moral improved.

******

Nick stayed home and rested for the next two days, and Victor hadn’t been back to work since the strike last Wednesday. On Friday a letter came for Nick.

Dear Nick,

I am writing to you personally as I feel that the relationship between the Ruby Shipping company and its employees has reached an impasse, and I would like to rectify the situation as soon as possible. I regret the altercation that took place last Friday between yourself and Ruby security agents. I assure you that they were not acting under my orders. There was a regrettable miscommunication, and I fear the security officers acted with too great enthusiasm for their job. Mr. Gaberdine, who led those agents, has become too worked up with an anti-socialist fervor, I’m afraid. I would like you to know that Mr. Gaberdine is currently suspended from his duties. In closing, I would like to offer my apologies and I would also like to extend my offer of re-employment, effective immediately.

Sincerely,

Dutch Hopkins

Nick slouched back on his bed. Later that evening Victor and Amelia came by, and they went together to the Café Italia. They took a table in the corner, and Nick read the letter to them in a low voice, looking up from time to time. Victor grunted.

“Wow,” Amelia said, “that’s a tricky fish you got there.”

“Tell me about it,” Nick said. Victor’s fingers drummed on the table.

“It’s a trap,” he said.

“So you think he’s lying? I don’t know, Dutch can be tough and even cruel, but is he this deceptive?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Nick stared at the paper. He had thought about pulling up stakes and just moving on to another city, leaving this whole mess behind. But then there was Amelia, he didn’t want to let her go. And this whole trouble with Ruby Shipping was common everywhere, the depression was on, and there was no signs of it getting better anytime soon. Sometimes he thought he might just end up hoboing it, riding the rails like so many other young guys out there but this filled him with trepidation and anxiety. At least here he had Amelia and Victor, but their back was against the wall.

Nick suggested they put off the meeting for a day, to think up a strategy. He was worried Dutch might pull some kind of trick. They arranged to meet Dutch the following Monday at five o’clock. They figured daylight, and end of shift, with lots of people around, would be safer.

Nick stood at the steps for a moment, looking up to the office. He climbed the stairs, walked through the front door, past the reception area, to a big oak door with Dutch Hopkin’s name on a copper placard. He rapped on the door; the oak felt brutally solid against his knuckles.

“Come in, come in!” Nick entered the office, removed his hat and held it in his hands and milled by the door for a moment. Dutch sat behind his desk, smoking a cigar. He gestured to a leather clad seat. There was a large cabinet next to the window, through which one could see a clear view of the dock. The room smelt musky, with a hint of gun powder. Dutch clutched the cigar between his teeth and took the measure of Nick.

“Well, I’m here,” Nick said. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, for now. but you should know that I’ve got protection this time.”

He sidled over to the window and casually leaned his head out and whistled sharply three times. Nick pointed with his eyes out the window, downwards towards the dock. Dutch stood up slowly and glanced through the window. Below Victor pulled out a pistol and twirled it once round his finger, the sun gleamed off it for a second, then secured it in his belt and covered it with his shirt tail. Several of the other men revealed rifles and clubs. Nick nodded.

“You got me one time, but I won’t be so naïve anymore.”

Dutch frowned. Nick examined the large cabinet. He slapped the side of it, knocked on it, suspiciously. Then he pulled the cabinet door open and pulled a pistol out of his belt and pointed it inside.

“Excuse me, but I thought you were giving me the benefit of the doubt…” Dutch said, then he trailed off, and chortled, as if coming to a realization. “You’re feisty, Nick. You and your compatriots out there. You keep things interesting for me” Dutch said with an avuncular air. Nick turned slowly to face Dutch, his brows lowered.

“I’ve been here five minutes already and you haven’t inquired about my health. Now I’m starting to doubt the sincerity of your letter.”

Dutch blinked several times.

“Yes, well I was getting to that…you caught me a little off guard.” Nick slipped his pistol into his belt and dropped into the seat. He looked at Dutch expectantly.

“Well, as I said in my letter, I didn’t order those men to commit those acts,” Dutch cleared his throat. He took out an envelope from a drawer and slid it across his desk.

“Here, for your trouble.” Nick eyed Dutch, then slipped the envelope off the table. He peaked inside and saw cash, maybe a hundred dollars.

“Well, now…anyhow, how are you feeling?”

“My ribs are still sore, and my jaw hurts.” Nick grimaced and rubbed his jaw.

“Well, why don’t you take a few more days off work. Take a trip to the country.” Nick folded the envelope and put it in his pocket.

“Might just do that. So Gaberdine, that’s his name, right. You fired him?”

“He’s suspended.” Nick clucked in a disapproving way.

“So you really didn’t order the attack?”

“No, Nick I didn’t. Listen, the reality is that this beautiful idea you are trying so passionately to spread is gaining ground throughout the country these days. Of course, with the economy in as bad shape as it is and as people are getting more and more desperate, the idea seems more and more appealing. But it appeals to the heart, not the mind. At the end of the day we have to balance the books, Nick. And anyhow, do you think the heads of business like your beautiful idea? Do you think they’ll stand idly by while you young rascals go around starting strikes. Do you think they won’t take action to stop it?”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying watch yourself. Be aware of the risks you’re taking.”

Nick looked Dutch square in the eye.

“So you didn’t order the attack, Dutch?”

“No, I didn’t…Nick, I’m a Christian. I wouldn’t resort to that. What I’m saying is these are dangerous times. Violent men can gain a lot under these conditions. I think Gaberdine went too far, he thought I would protect him…but I didn’t.”

“But you hired them to spy on us?”

“I hired them for security reasons…but as I said I’ve cut ties with Gaberdine.” Dutch fingered his cigar. “Gaberdine went away, but he’ll resurface somewhere else.”

Nick shuffled in his chair.

“Ok, Dutch. I appreciate that you fired the bastard. I think that’s enough for today.” Nick got up and headed toward the door. He opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief. As the door closed Dutch loosened the grip he had on the trigger of a shotgun that hung under his desk.

— The end —

******