The Red Stitches Led Me To A Locked Freight Shed

I called Oscar from the empty shelf.

"Your main net was sent somewhere Tuesday. I'm tracking it."

"Is it sold?"

"The slip says storage. That's all I know."

He paused. I could hear a pump running behind him.

"Then call when you know more. Don't use good repair time making guesses for me."

Ruth sent the freight slip to Mr. Greer. His reply came twenty minutes later. Maris said she had cleared floor space for the frame sale. The net was at a freight shed, still bundled.

She had not listed it in the information she gave her lawyer before the hearing.

"We'll address that," Ruth said. "First, find the net."

The shed stood behind a low block building where rain had left black stripes under the roof. A woman named June met us at the gate with a clipboard.

"Ms. Bell ordered storage and handling," she said. "The invoice is seven hundred twenty dollars."

"For my customer's property," I said. "May we see it?"

Oscar had come in his truck. He handed June the boat's gear inventory, including the net's old repair tag number.

I had the court order, a copy of his work order, and photographs from the shop.

June compared the freight slip to her intake sheet.

"She signed in the name of Harbor Stitch," she said. "I'll bill the company that hired us. I'm not holding his gear over her bill."

She opened the shed.

The bundle sat on a pallet between two wrapped desks. Its paper freight tag had torn loose. I crouched beside it and found the cloth sleeve.

Three red stitches. My job number, written under the seam. Oscar's old brass tag inside the fold.

I let out a breath I had been saving since four o'clock.

We checked the bundle before loading it. I photographed its condition and signed only for what we received. June gave me a copy. Oscar counted the lashings twice.

On the drive back, he said, "You could've told me she lost it."

"She moved it. I didn't know whether she'd lost it."

"That's why I asked you to fix it."

At the shop, we spread the main trawl across the floor. I checked the wings, belly, and codend against my first measurements. The damage was still the damage I had priced. Maris had wasted five days, but she had not changed the mesh.

That was enough to work with.

I called Ada Pruitt and Len Shaw, two net menders I had hired during busy weeks before. Both could read a repair card. Both asked the same question.

"Who's running the shop?"

"I am. In writing."

Ada arrived Saturday with her own mesh gauge. Len brought a thermos and a folding stool. Their agreed labor budget was $1,200. I paid $1,260 for twine, replacement mesh, and line from our regular supplier.

Before either of them lifted a needle, we counted all six jobs.

I marked the floor with chalk. Each boat got its own square, sleeve, and work card. Nothing moved between squares without the card moving too.

"Like kindergarten," Len said.

"Kindergarten gets things to the right people," I said.

We worked with the doors open. Biloxi heat rolled in, along with the sound of trucks heading toward the docks. At lunch, I sat on the step where Maris had shut me out.

My new key lay beside a boiled egg and two crackers.

I had wanted to wave it at somebody. Once it was mine, I only wanted it to open the door.

On Sunday, Celia brought a short report. It traced the deposits to the new account and the $4,200 payment to Maris's old debt. It also matched all thirty-four weekly payments to her.

"Keep a line for anything you still owe her," Celia said. "You want clean books, even when you're angry."

We entered her final earned pay for review. Ruth would handle that amount separately from the claim against her. I would not invent a debt or erase one to make the page look better.

By Monday evening, two jobs were ready. The captains inspected them, approved release of their deposit shares from trust, and paid their balances. Ruth arranged the required paperwork before the money moved.

The shop began to breathe again.

I checked Oscar's wing seams while Ada fitted the new codend. Red thread sat in a cup by my elbow. I saved it for the sleeves, away from the working knots.

At seven, my phone rang.

It was the captain whose deposit had been $900.

"Nneka," he said, "why did I just get a bill saying I have to pay my deposit again?"