Again he reached for the glove compartment. Loretta sat there quietly, making no move to stop him as his finger found the chromium button. He pressed the button, the panel swung open, and he groped for the camera. His hand closed on it and he pulled it out and at that moment he felt the iron pressure coming down on his arm, gripping him above the elbow and causing him to blink.
He turned his head and saw the face of Ruttman.
“Easy, bud,” the dock foreman murmured. “Easy now.”
“Let go.” He tried to jerk his arm away, but Ruttman held him there.
The pier owner, still hatless, had come forward and was saying to Ruttman, “Throw this man off the dock. Give him his pay and get him out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” Ruttman said. He took a deep breath that was like a sigh. “All right, bud. Let’s go.”
Kerrigan didn’t move. He was looking at the faces of the men with the Panama hats. They were smiling at him; they felt safe now. They saw him taken in charge by a larger man, a stronger man, a man who was obviously capable of handling him.
“I said let’s go.” Ruttman’s tone was louder.
But he didn’t hear it. He was staring at the other faces, the faces of the stevedores who’d left the crates and were moving in to see what would happen. Ruttman was the undisputed boss of Pier 17 and there were scores of dock-wallopers who’d tried their best to disprove it, only to get their teeth knocked out, their noses caved in, their jaws broken. All along the docks of Wharf Street the opinion was unanimous: It never paid to trifle with Ruttman.
Kerrigan looked at the face of Ruttman and saw the strength, the quiet confidence, saw the warning that was almost friendly. Ruttman’s eyes seemed to be saying, Don’t force me into it, I really don’t want to hurt you.