“Me, too,” said the heavy seaman.
“Shake hands,” said an older man with grizzled hair and an intense, strained face.
“It was my fault,” said Martin.
“Naw, it was mine,” objected the squat fellow sheepishly as they shook hands.
“You don’t need to kiss,” said Rio sharply. Then he held up his hand. “Get this straight,” he continued. “It ain’t no joke we’re playin’. Maybe this’ll help.” He took a bottle from his pocket and passed it around, each man taking a shot of the liquor. Rio finished it and tossed the bottle under the dunnage. “It’s about time for the rats to come out if they’re goin’ ashore,” he went on. “Keep an eye to the pier.” He turned suddenly to one of the younger seamen. “You ain’t got no club.”
“My brother was killed in Detroit that way, Rio. Lemme use my fists.”
Rio turned his face aside for a moment. When he looked at the boy again it was like metal.
“Get yourself a club, buddy.”
Hesitatingly, the seaman took up a knotty piece of wood. He held it in his hands one way and then another, his face white.
One of the men came up to Rio and took him to one side. He said something in a low voice and Rio nodded. The man returned his nod and left hurriedly.