The edge of the crate came onto the platform. The wheels of the platform moved just a little and the crate slipped off. Kerrigan’s hands were under the crate and he pulled them away just in time.
“I told you,” the little man yelled. “You see?”
One of the stevedores looked at the little man. Then he looked at Kerrigan and said, “All right, Bill. Let’s try it again.”
The other stevedore was arching his back and rubbing his spine and saying, “We need more room here.”
The little man shouted, “You need more brains, that’s what you need.”
Kerrigan wiped sweat from his face. He took his position at the side of the crate, pushed a smaller box against the platform to keep it from rolling, and said to the stevedores, “Ready now?”
“All set.”
“Heave,” Kerrigan grunted, and the men braced their backs under the weight of the crate, while Kerrigan strained to work it onto the platform. Again he managed to lift it over the edge, but just then a sliver of rusty metal went stabbing into his fingernail and he lost his hold on the crate. “Goddamnit,” he muttered as the crate fell off the platform and slammed onto the planks of the pier. He stood up and put the injured finger in his mouth and sucked at the blood.
“Go in deep?” one of the stevedores said.
“It’s all right.” Kerrigan winced and took his finger out of his mouth and looked at the torn cuticle. He said, “I guess it’s all right.”