Gangway!

    Ittzy tried to think, but all he could think about was Mama up there on deck. Dust was shaking down from the beams overhead; the pounding continued up there, the police whistles shrilled much nearer, and Ittzy recognized Officer McCorkle's hoarse voice.

    Francis said, "Well, you may not agree with this, old cock, but actually there's only one man for that job."

    "Who?"

    "Roscoe Arafoot."

    "Who?"

    "You know. The chap who was crimping Captain Flagway yesterday."

    Flagway said, "You must be daft. You'd have dealings with that scoundrel?"

    "You do want a crew, don't you? Well, dears, that's Roscoe's job. Everyone's an expert at something, and crew… getting is Roscoe's specialty. Besides, I'm sure I can… ah, handle him. You needn't worry your gentle hearts."

    "But he's a… a blackguard, sir!"

    "Yeah," Gabe intervened. "But Francis is right The guy can recruit guys for a crew for us." He looked up at the dust that was still coming down from the beams in puffs and clouds. "Soon as this weather clears let's go have a talk with the son of a bitch."

    Captain Flagway was obviously not greatly pleased, but he didn't have anything else to say, and for a few minutes the group sat in silence, listening to the noise from above. Ittzy felt warm in the midst of this group, sheltered amid their friendships. He said, "You don't think my Mama will find me down here, do you?"

    Vangie patted his hand, which turned him to jelly all over again. "Don't worry, Ittzy," she said, "you've got us now."

    Ittzy smiled. "Thank you," he said. He had never felt so safe.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

    Gabe looked around at the filth in the alley. "This is kind of a tough neighborhood for you to be hanging around, isn't it?"

    "Oh I have friends just everywhere," Francis said with a private little smile, and led him into a blind pig.

    It was the seventh saloon they'd hit so far. Francis eeled through the packed crowd of sailors and thugs. The bartender looked up, Francis caught his eye, and Gabe heard the bartender's answer to Francis's question:

    "Yeah, he's here. Back there someplace. Watch you don't get trampled to death."

    Clatter of glass on glass, scrape of bootsoles and chairs, drone of hard masculine voices, odors of spilled whisky, heavy tobacco smoke and stale beer. The place had a low ceiling and the light was bad. Gabe felt constricted; he wanted out. But he followed Francis, who moved through the crowd with effortless insouciance.

    Gabe had seen a lot of dives. This was probably the lowest he'd ever been in.

    Maybe there was hope for San Francisco yet.

    Francis suddenly lifted on tiptoe, waving a hand over his head and saying, "Oh there he is. Yoo-hoo, Roscoe!"

    The burly guy at the table in the far corner lifted his head from a schooner of beer, looking a little meaner than a barracuda with a toothache. Approaching, Gabe caught his first whiff and slowed down. He closed the rest of the distance to the table with a reluctance that increased in direct proportion to the smell.

    Roscoe wore his customary vicious snarl but when he recognized Francis skipping toward him through the crowded tables he paled and looked around very quickly as if he suddenly wanted to know where the exit was, or as if he wanted to pretend he wasn't there at all.

    "Roscoe, we've been looking all over for you."

    "Yeah, yeah," Roscoe muttered. He buried his face in the glass.

    Francis sat down. Gabe hung back and tried to avoid breathing.

    "Now, Roscoe dear, do stop pushing your face in that beer a minute. We're not here to threaten you."

    Somehow Gabe got the feeling it wasn't the threat of physical violence that was making Roscoe bashful.

    Roscoe pushed his chair back. "I got an appointment."

    "We must talk with you, Roscoe."

    "Yeah. Well. Some other time." Roscoe was on his feet, edging around the table.

    Gabe could see it was impossible. Roscoe just couldn't think about business with Francis around. He reached out a detaining hand; before Roscoe could bat him out of the way, he said quickly, "I want to talk a little business… friend."

    Roscoe stopped working up his rage long enough to give Gabe a look.

    Gabe said, "Francis, don't forget that fire-alarm job you've got to do. Why don't you start on that now; I'll talk to friend Roscoe here."

    Francis nodded regretfully. "That might be best, I suppose. But don't go away, Roscoe, I'll be back, dear." He beamed with half-lidded eyes, looked Roscoe up and down, and slipped quickly away.

    They watched him go, and then Roscoe sat back down and poked his beetle-browed face into the schooner. "Need another one," he muttered. "You want something, friend?"

    "Sure. Beer."

    "You buying?"

    "Why not," Gabe said expansively.

    Roscoe waved at somebody and made hand-motions that conveyed a two-beer message. Then he sat back and glowered. "Well?"

    "I need a crew."

    "For a ship? You don't look like no ship captain to me. You look like a dude."

    "Yeah. Well I expect you and I will get that sorted out sometime. In the meantime I've got a ship and it needs eight or ten guys."

    "You want 'em crimped, huh?"

    "No."

    "Eh?"

    "They've got to be willing."

    "You want volunteers? Friend, you come to the wrong guy-"

    "Look, it's just a short trip."

    "How short?"

    "A day. Maybe two."

    "What kinda ship?"

    "Captain Flagway's boat: the San Andreas."

    "The San Andreas?"

    "It's not my fault."

    "Sheee, that tub. A lot of guys be scared to set foot on her… you never know when some timber's go

    "This job'll pay pretty high for just a day or two's work."

    "How high?"

    "What'll the traffic bear, Roscoe?"

    Roscoe brooded at him. "Depends, kinda. Where ya going?"

    "Away from San Francisco. Not far."

    "What's the cargo?"

    "Just a wagonload of stuff."

    "One wagonload and you need a big old tub like that?"

    "Well, it'll be kind of heavy."

    The beetling brooding stare fixed him suspiciously. "You go

    Gabe hesitated. "Well it's possible, yeah."

    It made Roscoe snort. "Sheee. That tub of Flagway's, you couldn't outrun a garbage barge in that. Cops got some nice speedy little police-boats out there in the Bay, you figure on that? How you go

    "I figured on the fog maybe."

    "No good. It don't last long enough."

    "We'll wait for a fog."

    "Not interested, friend."

    "Now that's too bad, Roscoe, I was just about to offer you the opportunity to earn yourself five thousand dollars for two days' work." Gabe started to rise. "Maybe I'll see you sometime."

    "Siddown."

    "Hmm?"