Weyerhauser’s giant yards stretched away to the east, with some scrap yards alongside them. Directly beneath me were the scruffy trees that grew at the water’s edge. They shielded most of the nearby rooftops from my view, but two down on the left I could make out an A and an ND. It didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to deduce that they might be from the word “Diamond.”

If I had a boat, I could sail right up to its doors. The trick was getting to it from land. I walked back down the bridge and followed a narrow sidewalk past a row of bungalows built along the road. The houses seemed much older than the bridge, which rose above their tiny dormer windows, blocking their light.

The walk dead-ended at a cyclone fence bordering the canal. I followed the fence, trying to avoid the worst of the refuse that was dropped along it, but tripped a few times on cans hidden in the high prairie grasses. After twenty feet or so of dirty hiking I came to a concrete apron. Right next to it was a loading dock. Trucks were backed into the docks, looking like horses tied up at a giant stable getting their oats.

I squinted up at the lettering that ran around the roof. Gammidge Wire. I followed the apron around the building and finally came to Diamond Head.

Only one truck stood in the open bays at the engine plant. I was afraid that my exploration of the South Side had made me too late to find anyone, but I went over to the truck to inquire.

A man in a coverall stood at the bottom of the loading platform, his back against the truck. He was a huge guy, his head topping my five-eight by a good nine inches. The diesel was running, vibrating the body of the truck and making such a racket that I had a hard time getting his attention. I finally touched his arm. He jumped and swore.

“Who are you and what in hell do you want?” I couldn’t hear him over the engine racket, but he mouthed the words pretty distinctly.

He had a big, square face with a scar running down his left jaw. His nose had been broken more than once, judging by the number of twists it took before settling on the right side of his face. I took a step back.

“Anyone inside I can talk to?” I bellowed.

He put his face down close to mine. “I asked who you was, girlie, and what in hell you want here.”

The backs of my knees prickled, but I eyeballed him coldly. “I’m V. I. Warshawski. I want the shop steward. That help you any?”