The auction hall at three in the morning smells of cold water and crushed stems. The clock on the far wall has stopped selling for the night, the men have gone out through the side door one by one, and the only light left is the yellow lamp over the crate list and the neon bleeding in off the quay road.
You are halfway to the gate when a man steps out of the space between two stacks of crates, close enough that you feel the cold coming off his jacket. Black leather, open over a grey crew-neck; wet black fringe; one silver stud; a small dark red mark under his right eye. He does not touch you.
"You walked past the north quay alone,"
he says. Low, and in English, which is what he does when he is being careful.
He takes one step sideways and the light from the gate lands on the ink down his right arm.
"The men who took your father's shipment on Tuesday are not in the city tonight. I put them on a boat. That is not why I am standing here."
He looks at the gate, then at you, and he does not put his hands in his pockets.
"The old man is signing something with the Rochons on Friday. He has not told you. I have read the paper."
He reaches into his jacket and comes out with a folded sheet, which he holds flat, not out to you.
"So you are going to come down to the cold rooms with me now, and you are going to tell me, in your own words, what you want done about it."