“It don’t look good, Bill. You better have it bandaged.”
“The hell with it,” Kerrigan said.
The little man was hopping up and down and shouting, “What are you standing around for? What about the pineapples? Look at the pineapples. They’re rotting away in the sun.” He beckoned to a dock foreman on the other side of the pier. “Hey, Ruttman. Come here, I want you to see this.”
The dock foreman made his way through a gap in the pile-up of pineapple crates. He was a very big man in his late thirties. His head was partially bald and he had a flattened nose and thick scarred lips and a lot of chin and jaw. His arms were tattooed from wrist to shoulder and the hair on his chest was like a screen of foliage in front of the large tattoo, the purple-brown-black head of an African water buffalo.
As Ruttman approached, the little man continued to hop up and down, yelling, “What kind of men you got working here? Take a look at this situation.”
“Easy, Johnny, easy.” Ruttman had a deep, furry voice. He came up to the crate, glanced at the wheeled platform, and then looked at the three stevedores. He said, “What goes on here?”
“We just can’t handle it,” one of them said. “We ain’t got enough space to work in.”
“You’re a liar,” the little man shrieked. “There’s plenty of space. You’re just goofing, that’s all, you’re trying to kill time.”
Ruttman told the little man to go away. The little man started to yelp, claiming that he had a lot of money invested in these pineapples and he’d be damned if he was going to let them get spoiled. Ruttman said the pineapples wouldn’t get spoiled and it would help matters if the little man went away. The little man folded his arms and shouted he was going to stay right here. Ruttman sighed wearily and took a slow step toward the little man. The little man scampered away.
The three stevedores moved toward the crate and Ruttman shook his head, waving them back and saying, “This ain’t no good. We gotta do it another way.” He looked at Kerrigan. “Bring me a chain and a crowbar.”