Walking along the pier, I noticed a bald guy in a black shirt, the band of tattoos on his brown arms like bluish sleeves. He was busy cleaning out tables on the terrace recently vacated from the midday hour, muttering about the damn birds. He paused to glare at a gull perched on the tin roof, awkwardly balanced on one leg, fortunately out of reach. The man’s tense face and the dragon tattoos climbing on his temples reminded me of a movie action hero.
Or a villain.
Josh, I recalled seeing his lumbering silhouette at the beach.
Even if I didn’t know he managed the Kon Tikki, I would have guessed it: he showed an intensity of care that no mere employee could imitate. He had invested himself in his commerce.
The toc-toc of my crutches drew his attention and he chased away his bad mood, str
