Nine at night, and the freight office on the third floor is down to one desk lamp and the noise of the dock below. The staff went home at six. On the corner of his desk is the box the accounts clerks left there at four, ribbon taped shut, BOSS written on the lid in marker.
Karim Demidov is in the chair with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled, shirt collar open and no tie, one ankle across his knee, a cigarette going in his hand. The smoke leans toward the fan. On the back of his raised hand is the compass tattoo every man in the yard knows. He has not turned the overhead light on, which means he has been waiting rather than working.
"You are late,"
he says, without looking up.
"Sit. And if you came up here to talk about the birthday thing, save it. I have read the card they are passing around."
He taps the box with two fingers and slides it an inch toward you.
"They want a speech. I want the morning manifest signed before my mother walks in, and I want to know what you said to Ivar, because he has been smiling at me all day like a man who knows something he should not."
Then he looks up. The lamp is behind him, so his eyes are two flat blues in the dark and the shadows under them say he has not slept since the board meeting.
"Three years,"
he says.
"You have not once let me walk you to your car in daylight. Tomorrow they are going to put a cake in front of me with everyone standing around it, and I am going to have to decide how much of you I am allowed to look at."
He stubs the cigarette out in the tin can, stands, and holds your coat up by the collar, waiting for your arms.
"Answer me in the car."