The violet streetlamps buzzed like an angry transformer box.
Two hundred morning stevedores backed away from the chain-link gates of Slip 14. They shoved against one another in the purple mist, their heavy rubber boots splashing through cold rainwater.
The dock gates hadn’t unlocked. The port authority time-clocks had died at seven sharp, freezing the electronic turnstiles shut under the 120 Hz magnetic ballast hum.
Beneath the dockworkers’ feet, the black puddles didn’t reflect the sky.
Every shadow on the wet asphalt had peeled free from the heels of its owner’s rubber boots. The dark shapes lay flat under the surface film, and their heads had turned around. Two hundred featureless dark faces stared straight up at the men standing above them.
“Get off the wet asphalt!” Julian shouted.
He vaulted the gangplank rail, his boots landing squarely on the dry granite curbing of Pier 14. His insulated lineman’s satchel thumped against his hip. Inside the bag, the heavy brass jaws of the 380 degrees F Master Heat-Lamination Seal clinked against his spare tape rolls.
Marcus “Mac” Cole hit the dry stone curb right beside him. Mac’s cable-actuated steel left forearm caught the iron gatepost with a dull ring. In his right hand, Mac gripped a six-foot steel boat-hook pulled from the tugboat’s rack.
