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night.”
    “Sorry, Jeff. I just got to thinking and it slowed me down. You don't need to stick around. I'll finish up here. You get home to Wendy; she's probably craving something.”
    “Don't ya know, that is for sure. Her and that baby have me going everywhere for food. The only thing she doesn't crave is tuna. At least I could bring that home with me. Last night I had to go into Charlottetown for Taco Bell. I wasn't in bed until one.” He sighed and looked around at the mess on the boat. “Make sure to lock her up when you're done, city boy.”
    “Tell Wendy I said hey.”
    “Tell her yourself at dinner. After you're done here.”
    The rest of his goodbyes trailed off as he walked away from the boat. I watched him go, making sure to stand straight up on the side of the boat so I could be seen from the parking lot. I watched Jeff pass Pointy Shoes; they nodded a greeting to one another as Jeff walked over to his car. Pointy Shoes pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. I guessed it was the newspaper photo. He glanced at the paper, then turned to look at Jeff again. While his back was to me, I took off my hat. When his head turned back, I made an elaborate production of stretching and wiping my forehead. I didn't look in the direction of Pointy Shoes, but I was sure he was looking at me. I walked to the ladder on the side of the boat while, in my peripheral vision, I watched my audience consult his piece of paper once again. He was comparing me to the paper. I made my way down the ladder to the dock. Once I had two feet on the wood planks, I kneeled at the ropes holding the boat to the dock. I untied one of the knots and began retying it slowly. With my right hand, I unsheathed the knife I kept at the small of my back. The knife was a worn fishing knife that I used everyday; it was battered, but razor sharp. Jeff always made fun of the way I carried my knife, but I could never force myself to wear it out in the open or leave it in a pocket where it was hard to pull free. A concealed weapon always felt more natural.
    I put the knife on the dock beside my foot, so that it was hidden from anyone approaching. I flipped one loose end of the rope over one side of the knot then the other, pretending to be unsure about the right way to finish. I didn't have to pretend long before I heard the squeak of old worn wood planks groaning under human weight. Pointy Shoes was walking towards me. Being on my knees made me an obvious target. Every schoolyard bully loved to shove a kid when he was down on a knee tying his shoe. Pointy Shoes was just a bigger schoolyard bully — one with a paycheque.
    I looked in his direction as he approached, smiled, and said, “Evening.” Looking at him to say hello let me see that his hands were empty. A fact that made me happy.
    He didn't smile back; he just stopped eight feet away and spread his feet apart. I didn't want to act first because there was still a small chance that this guy was a tourist or maybe just a reporter doing a follow-up story. “You want to book a charter, you'll have to talk to the boss. I can give you his number if you want, or you can come back tomorrow.”
    I got no response at first from the man with the pointy shoes. I looked into his eyes and I knew there was no way he was a tourist or even a reporter. His greeting relieved all lingering doubts about what he really was.
    “Hey, Wilson.”
    I remained on my knees as our eyes locked. My face didn't register surprise, instead it pulled into an expression I thought I had forgotten. My face made an ugly grin, my uncle's grin. It was a look that I learned the hard way. Whenever I thought I knew the score, I would see the look on my uncle's face and know I was wrong. The look tormented me, but I was lucky — everyone else who saw it usually wound up dead. I spent years learning my uncle's craft, years surviving his tutelage, until the same grin became my property. Pointy Shoes saw it and it told him