Raiders

by William B. McCloskey

  “Saying my prayers. Elevator cable’s going to break with all this squarehead weight.”

  “Hank here’s with the Japs on this one, Stanley,” said Nels easily. “But I don’t care if he hears us. Just as soon he hears us.”

  “Good enough,” said the rep, and continued. “So I’m not sure about the Scientific Committee people tomorrow afternoon. You never know about Dr. Kronman until he votes. Two others told me flat out they didn’t think we could take full quota, so I think they’re in the Japan corner. So we’ve got to talk up every voting member we can find. The guys from Vansee and Grant are supposed to be flying in soon; they’ll help.”

  The elevator took them all to the top floor. The restaurant had large windows along two sides. In daylight they offered a view of the snowy Chugach Mountains that Hank always enjoyed. In the early winter dark the windows merely reflected tables in the wide room and rails of the raised bar in back. A waiter passed with platters of thick steaks still sizzling. The sight and aroma made Hank’s mouth water. That’s for me, he decided.

  “You alone, Hank?” asked Odds. “Come eat with us and maybe you can give us some advice.”

  Hank thanked him but said he’d committed with others. Then he glanced at a far table. There sat Mike Tsurifune, in from Tokyo indeed, talking coolly to two other men whose faces Hank could not see. John Gains, sitting alongside Rider the lawyer, motioned him over. Hank looked away. He wasn’t yet ready to tackle what he had in mind with Tsurifune, and he realized he’d been hoping that it would be the old man he’d have to face. “Well, Odds, I might just join you for a quick beer.”

  “Oh, Hank. You should know by now. We don’t like booze around. It’s against the Bible.”

  Just then Nels Tormulsen slapped him on the back in passing and said, “Buy you a brew, man, before we start our secret plans without you.” Hank told Odds he’d connect with him later (Odds now seemed relieved), and followed Nels to the bar, glad for the excuse. But go easy on the drinks, he reminded himself, since the Japanese would probably do toasts.

  At the bar Hank began to banter with the guys from Nels’s crew when two men wheeled on their high stools and hailed him. Suddenly the greetings turned noisy. There was big Joe Eberhardt, Hank’s one-time skipper nearly a dozen years ago, aboard the old Nestor that eventually had become Hank’s first temporary command as an anxious young relief skipper. And Arne! Arne Larsen, the hard and robust Karmoy Norwegian, some gray now in his hair, who had offered Hank advice during that early skipperhood, then later fished crab near him, boat to boat as a competing equal.

  “Haven’t seen you since crab went bust!” Hank exclaimed. After slapped backs, he asked, “What are you up to?”, hoping that they’d survived the crash.

  The two skippers had been fishing for what remained of red king crab off the Aleutians, sometimes in sight of Hank’s own Jody Dawn under Seth. Their boats were now tied in Kodiak for the holiday weeks. “Doing good, good,” said Joe easily. “In town between planes. Council time’s good for a look at things, since I’m headed below for Christmas anyhow.”

  “Oregon, right? Susan. How’s Susan?”

  “Divorced, Hank. That’s history. Still Oregon. But it’s Sherrie now.”

  Arne was also headed south, to Ballard, where his wife’s mother and one of his own brothers would be visiting from Norway for the season. “Den maybe I come put on trawl gear for roe pollack in Shelikof. What the hell, everybody says big money. Hank! You know some Jap buyer?”

  “Looking myself, maybe. Not sure yet.” Hank’s glance slipped to Mike Tsurifune’s table. Only John Gains looked his way and tried to signal.

  Over drinks the talk turned to crab-pot reminiscence. “Ja, you Hank,” boomed Arne. “On de crabs vunce in Bering and I come to have a look. Your old lady vas on dot trip, right Hank? They just got married, I think. And they smile and smile while dey pull empty pots they’d just put over, think I don’t see how fresh was the baits, har har.” The volume of his old-country guffaw had not diminished. “Till I say vot de hell, green young skipper and his Jody, so I go off a few miles. But I got better binoculars than you think, Hank. You think I’m gone you go back to pots with couple hundred crabs each one.”

  “I’d forgotten how slippery I was,” laughed Hank. “Sorry.”

  “Nei nei, Hank. I do the same, so vas no problem.”

  Indeed, Hank had felt guilty at the time, since Arne the season before had been a mentor, but this was not the place for an apology. “Hell, I mean sorry I was shithead dumb enough to leave fresh hang-bait in sight. Sure, I was hiding my good pots.”

  Everybody laughed and laughed. In retrospect it all seemed the best of his good times, the lighthearted days of early marriage to Jody before the kids, when she rode as cook, and Japs were as much the unquestioned usurping enemy on the grounds as Koreans and Russians.

  The talk drifted to fishing and boats in general. “Anybody’s got a long-liner and dragger both,” called Jeff Mathews of the Sleepthief Two from another bar stool, looking at Hank significantly, “this year he can grab the big ring. For longline he’s got black cod in the gulf. Zoom. And then for the dragger, Fish and Game says the pollack spawners is going to hit the Shelikof smokin’ next month. I mean in smoke. If I had the right boat for that, say, a crabber I’d converted to go drag . . .” Another glance at Hank that included Arne and Joe, “I’d start gearing the day I sobered from New Year’s, then steam my ass to down off Karluk and wait my chance.”

  Several of them turned to Hank. He realized suddenly that it was with interest, even respect. “Nobody can do it all,” he muttered, and sipped his beer.

  “Guess you know that when Terry called you ‘Splash Gordon’ over the sideband out there earlier this month, and people heard,” continued Jeff, “some of us started calling you Splash, Hank-o. That’s what it looks like you’re headed to make, a big splash. Didn’t go bust when king crab went tits-up. Found a way to save your crabber instead, and now she’s ready to drag anywhere you want. Then got yourself a longliner in the gulf under a deal with the Japs. Even got your old lady seining salmon, summers, on what used to be Jones Henry’s boat. How’d you do it all, Hank?”

  Hank started to set them straight with an outline of his enslavement to the Tsurifunes and his unease for Jody’s safety, then thought better of it. Instead, he turned to the bartender and ordered a round for the group.

  A half hour later, John Gains tightened a hand on Hank’s shoulder and said, “We’re eating.” Hank followed. On the way to the table John added drily, “I don’t imagine you need any further alcohol, but you knew you’d be expected to drink some toasts. We’ve already drunk the preliminaries. Whether you apologize to Shoji or not for being late is up to you, but I have to say he was watching the company you kept.”

  “Nice of you to tell me, John.” Hank felt only a mild buzz from the drinks he had guarded. He glanced at the table. Four others including Mike, the lawyer, and the two in shadow with backs turned. Ready now to take them on. He kept his tone indifferent. “Swede’s coming later?”

  “Why should he? He’s good for taking hold in a cannery situation, but you should understand by now that Scorden doesn’t count at this level. He merely runs the Kodiak plant.”

  Hank realized that he’d wanted Swede for moral support. He consciously straightened himself. At the table the fat lawyer turned an expected sour face toward him, but Mike Tsurifune, groomed impeccably, rose smiling and extended a firm hand. “Looking fit, Hank!” His voice bore no dark overtone, as he complained cheerfully that he’d found no tennis club Anchorage and thus his game would suffer.

  “Ha!” There, springing to his feet from the shadows was Director Kiyoshi Tsurifune himself.

  “Hey!” cried Hank. He forgot his anger for the moment. Such was the immediate warmth he felt between them that if the old man had been American he’d have bear-hugged him.

  The director gripped Hank’s arm and pounded his back. “Good looking, good looking, Mr. Crawford
! So. You are well. And father. Is also father well?”

  Hank grinned down at the shiny bald head and wrinkled face all smiles, and patted the frail-seeming back in return. “Great to see you, sir! My dad’s fine, thanks. I’d heard you were sick. But good looking yourself, now. I’m really glad to see it!” He started toward a vacant chair that John Gains indicated.

  “Ha!” The director took Hank’s arm again, and snapped something in Japanese to the man beside him. The man left his chair at once taking only his sake cup. “Here, Mr. Crawford. Here. Sit!” He rattled the chair. “I must tell you of new acquisition.” After Hank sat, he gestured, and Mike handed over the sake cup from the vacant place. The director filled it from a heated carafe. “New acquisition! Yesterday! Jasper Johns number four for Tokyo collection! Impressive, you are impressed I can see.”

  Hank relaxed. “Very impressed, sir.” He filled the older man’s cup in return and everyone toasted. The warm sake spread a comfortable top over the effect from Hank’s other drinks. The director gestured to his son again, received from him a box wrapped in gold paper, and with a bow and smile presented it to Hank for Jody. Then he continued enthusiastically to describe his new painting. The others listened with polite but disinterested attention, except for John Gains, whose interjections showed he had done homework on the artist. The director, however, barely acknowledged. His lively eyes remained on Hank.

  Hank bowed appropriately for the gift. Find something at the hotel gift shop in return, he decided, and leaned back to enjoy himself before getting serious.

  The waitress placed a sizzling steak in front of each man except Hank and John Gains. “I’d assumed,” said Gains, “that you’d want the halibut with me to show your commitment, whatever the others ordered.”

  Hank regarded the white chunk of fish before him, often delicious but here lost in the sort of cream sauce he never chose, while the meat wafted inviting odors. He ate nevertheless in good humor. When Mike joked about the dearth of tennis courts in Anchorage, he laughed in sympathy. Rider explained how it was only a wildest dream that American fishermen thought they could catch all the sablefish in the Gulf of Alaska, and Hank nodded with suitable gravity.

  When the meal ended, Tsurifune spoke something in Japanese to his son, and Mike looked at his watch. “Come, Hank, show me the hot places in Anchorage.”

  “I know a few, Shoji,” began John Gains.

  Mike either didn’t hear or ignored Gains as he moved around the table and threw out his arm for Hank to follow.

  Hank shook his head. “We need to discuss some things tonight. With your dad. In private. Then, first thing tomorrow, I’m off down to Kodiak.”

  Mike spoke in Japanese to his father while maintaining his bright expression. The director’s answer came in syllables drawn from deep in his throat like a Kabuki actor.

  “Too bad, Hank,” said Mike. “You must stay tomorrow and sit with us at Scientific Committee to show solidarity. Thus to keep the committee convinced that it’s impossible for American vessels to capture all the sablefish quota, a fact they know. American fishermen will recommend that they deprive Japan of our historic quota. We must keep them convinced with our strong presence.”

  Time to start, Hank decided. “Nope. Sorry. I haven’t seen my family in over two months.”

  Mike’s face lost its ease. “Father says it is not good among friends to be stubborn, Hank. And we have nothing important to discuss further tonight.”

  Hank made his voice firm although he kept it low for privacy. “You’ve counted on my American presence out there. But you shipped in a Japanese captain when I left my trusted man Terry in charge. I’m ready to hear why.”

  “Most unbusinesslike discussion tonight.”

  Hank continued staring into Mike’s smooth Asian face, and said nothing, although he began to tense. Finally, Mike spoke to his father in Japanese. The director grunted, and waved his hand in assent.

  “In twenty minutes then, Hank. Father will receive you in his room. Let me give you the number.”

  “Good.” Hank nodded to the others at the table and left. The fishermen at the bar called to urge him over. By now they had absorbed more drinks and become boisterous. Hank gave them a grin and a wave but kept going. The native corporation people were just leaving, and he crowded with them into the elevator but passed only pleasantries when Odds started to converse. In his room he quickly brewed coffee and drank it black while he scribbled notes to remember all that he needed to say.

  At the director’s door Hank raised his hand to rap and Mike opened it. The old man was ensconced like an icon behind a table laden with papers in neat piles. The lawyer sat beside him. Mike gestured to a chair facing them, and took a seat by his father. No one smiled.

  Hank remained standing. Keep cool, he reminded himself. “I’ll start with this. I’m pissed as hell that you sent over a skipper to replace my man.”

  “You don’t seem to get it,” said the lawyer bluntly. “You own that boat in name only. The money’s here at this table. The Tsurifunes have to look out for their interests, and you deserted the boat they’d entrusted to you. Maybe you don’t realize that at any time they want, they could decide you’re a poor producer and be rid of you. I can tell you it’s been discussed, after you left ship the way you did. They could—”

  “What?”

  “—could call in their loans, including the one on your other boat and your house.”

  Hank felt himself explode and did nothing to contain it. “Call me a poor producer? Don’t ever try it!” He advanced, planted stiff arms knuckles down on the table, and spoke in their faces. “Ever see my bills of lading? They prove what I deliver.” Both Japanese pressed back in their chairs, and even the lawyer looked startled. “Try dumping me for that and the word’ll be all over the fucking waterfront, and clear to the fucking State Department, what doing business is like with the Tsurifunes.” He stepped back but maintained his glare as he wondered if the threat were possible. His reputation at stake!

  Mike recovered first. He adjusted his cuffs and rose. “You heard mistake, Hank. No intention to do this.” His voice regained its smoothness. “We understand why you needed to leave. But this fellow Bricks—Terry, is it?—that you left in charge. We are told he is too easygoing. Thus we had reason to decide he would not be productive.”

  “Who said? You didn’t even give him a chance.”

  “Never mind. Let’s forget it. Go to your ship and continue to produce, and we’ll recall Captain Fukuhara at once.”

  Hank retained his tone. “You can pay your Captain Fukuhara yourself, but not from the funds of my boat. When you examine the books, you’ll see that the fishing vessel Puale Bay has paid captain’s share to Terry Bricks for the time I was away.”

  After a pause, Mike said, “That’s up to you, Hank.”

  The director had been silent. Suddenly he pointed his finger at Hank. His voice had none of the cheerful bounce of an hour before, and his eyes had turned calm and steely. “You are good producer, Mr. Crawford. Go back to ship and produce. Work hard and make money. Now you go, please.”

  Hank only shifted his feet. “That brings me to the next thing.”

  “You’re pushing it, mister,” growled Rider.

  Hank ignored him. He held his ground and his expression.

  The director pointed to the vacant chair. “Then you sit, please.” He added lightly, “You are very big, Mr. Crawford. But very more big when you stand.”

  The remark broke the tension. They all chuckled and Hank apologized. He sat but leaned forward. “This next is about money. You’re paying Seattle and Canada more for their sablefish than you pay me. Same product. And my quality’s at least as good as any other, probably better.”

  Rider cleared his throat. His voice stayed level and dry. “You’re paid the going Kodiak rate. If somebody else wants to pay more, sell to ’em and watch ’em go broke. Examine your contract. All my client has is right of first refusal. If we’re not willing to meet
a competitor’s price, you’re free to sell to them.”

  “Except that, since the Japanese constitute the entire sablefish market, you’ve all agreed on price.”

  “What a notion, Hank!” exclaimed Mike.

  “You’re keeping it low in Kodiak to discourage Americans, make it seem a poor-paying fishery so that we won’t kick you off the sable grounds like the Canadians did.”

  The director said something in Japanese. His son shrugged, and began to scribble figures. John Gains had it wrong, Hank realized. The old man still called the shots.

  The lines around the director’s eyes crinkled agreeably again. “Mr. Crawford. You are our friend. Friends protect each other. Therefore, we shall pay you four cents U.S. more for each pound of quality sablefish.” Hank smiled back, relieved. “I appreciate that, sir.” He struggled with the urge to accept partial victory, then steeled himself. “However, sir . . .”

  “Therefore it is settled.”

  “Generous,” muttered the lawyer. “Know when you’re well off, Crawford.”

  Hank took a breath and maintained good humor. “But you see, sir, the price you pay in Vancouver is six cents higher.”

  “Ah, but in Canadian money, worth less.”

  “No, as translated into U.S. money. Also six cents more in Seattle.”

  “Ah.” The old man’s lips thinned and parted to expose gold teeth. “Seattle, however, closer to banks, Mr. Crawford. And to vessels, closer.”

  Hank saw that it was becoming a game. “But Kodiak is closer to Japan, sir.” He felt calm at last, and had begun to enjoy himself. “At least a thousand miles closer,” he guessed.

  Long silence. Hank retained it without changing expression. His gaze now remained on the director alone.

  At last: “Five cents, Mr. Crawford. But not to speak of it to others.”

  “Thank your greedy stars Mr. Tsurifune tolerates you for some reason,” said Rider.

  Hank held himself together. He allowed more time to pass before saying, “Six, sir.”

  Six became the figure. After grave handshakes, Mike said with resumed lightness, “Don’t know whether I can afford it anymore, Hank. But time to see the town, eh?”