The Last Run by Todd Lewan Page B

lines, fuel tanks, condenser, fuel filters, injectors, air intakes and batteries. In the meantime Mork showed Bob Doyle the gear in the bait shed, the totes in the holds and the grungy, snarled line in buckets on the roof of the pilothouse. They were going to have to clean and sharpen all of the big hooks and splice line and check all of the leaders and swivels.
    He started off in the bait shed, rearranging the blocks of iced herring and chum bait and tidying up gear. Then he heard the skipper and Mork talking out on the dock.
    “This better be a good trip,” Morley said.
    “It will be.”
    “If it wasn’t for that bastard I’d be a lot calmer about everything. Every ten minutes that cell phone of mine rings. What the hell does he do that for?”
    “You know owners.”
    “But that goddamned phone rings all the time. Swear to God I’m going to toss the fucker overboard.”
    “Take it easy,” Mork said.
    “You believe he wouldn’t buy us any more bait? Who does he think I am? The fucking bank of Sitka? Christ. I had to use my own credit card at the cold storage for the last of it.”
    “We’ll use the chums.”
    “How’s that old gear?”
    “We’ll get it into working shape on the way out.”
    “Good.”
    Later, while Bob Doyle was carrying line out on the foredeck, Morley called to him.
    “Hey, Bob,” he said. “I want you to meet somebody. This here is David Hanlon. He’ll be fishing with us. David, this is Bob Doyle, my newest deckhand.”
    Bob Doyle lifted a hand and the stranger took it, softly. A breeze hit the man’s face high up, lifting his fine, black hair around his ears. “Nice to meet you,” Bob Doyle said.
    The man only nodded.
    “You’ll be sharing the stateroom with Giggy. It’s a big old room,” Morley said. “Bob, take David here inside and show him around. Get him a coffee or something. You want some coffee?”
    “All right.”
    “Here, let me get your bag,” Bob Doyle said, bending over and grabbing the straps. “I got a pot on inside. Come on.”
    Bob Doyle had known some Natives. He’d met them in the bars, along the waterfront. The younger ones drank a lot and tended to jabber. The older ones were more cryptic, gloomy. They’d look through you, not at you, and speak in the deep, somber tones of the vanquished. This Hanlon guy wasn’t like that, exactly. He was quiet as a tall glass of water, and when he did speak his voice was soft and dry, like the rustle of well-worn leather. The glasses make him look like some graduate student, Bob Doyle thought.
    His eyes were deep-set eyes, black as a sparrow’s, untouchable. He had thick lips, a broad nose. He wore a tight, faded fleece jacket and Bob Doyle had seen the muscles of his shoulders twitch under it when he climbed over the gunwale. He’s strong, Bob Doyle thought. Don’t let that shy, timid stuff fool you. The man is a bull.
    He showed Hanlon to his bunk, then took him to the galley and poured two cups of coffee. Mork, then DeCapua, came in. Mork had a half frown on his face. They all shook hands and then Morley called Hanlon down to the engine room.
    When they had left Mork said, “That guy is a spy.”
    “How’s that?” DeCapua said.
    “A spy. The owner’s hired gun. He’s here to watch us and give the owner an earful.”
    “Why?” Bob Doyle asked.
    “He ain’t gonna sit on his ass and give orders, is he?” DeCapua asked.
    “No,” Mork said. “He’ll be working all right.” He poured himself a coffee and gulped it. “I’ll find him plenty to do.”
    “Is he any good?”
    “Skipper says he knows how to fish and can put on a bait right quick. But that ain’t what bothers me.”
    “What then?”
    Mork lit another cigarette and went out and climbed up the steel ladder to the pilothouse. They could hear his boots going back and forth through the ceiling. Bob Doyle looked at DeCapua and shrugged his shoulders.
    Morley waved at Mork to toss the stern line on board and then kicked the starter. The