that it would make him look like an ex-Marine. It only succeeded in drawing attention to the plump pink curves of his babycakes cheeks, giving him all the authority of a cherub. He spread whipped butter over his French toast in a painfully even layer. "Give me a break, Shugak. I haven't even got the escapement numbers yet, let alone the cannery pack."

"Yeah, but I saw you coming down Calhoun Creek late yesterday afternoon. You must have some idea how many fish got up the river."

Loud voices sounded from the counter, followed by a crash of crockery. "It's Craig off the Rose," Lamar said, rising up to peer over the back of the booth. "And Les off the Deliah."

"I thought Les broke it off with Craig," Kate said, leaning to look around him, just in time to see Joe Anahonak grab both men by the scruffs of their necks, shake them like dogs and assist them ungently out the door, to the accompaniment of general applause.

"He did," Lamar said, settling back in his seat. "Looks like he started up again."

"Or not," Kate said, leaning back to look out the window. Craig and Les picked themselves up and marched off in opposite directions, one with a rapidly swelling eye and the other checking to see that he still had all his teeth. "I saw Les cork Craig's line yesterday about two minutes after the official opening."

"Ah." Lamar nodded his appreciation of the difference.

Ruthie arrived with Kate's breakfast. The eggs were perfect, the bacon crisp, the spuds done and the biscuit hot. Conversation, at their table at least, suffered a momentary lapse.

It went on nonstop around them. One table over, a burly man in a checked wool shirt and a gimme cap with a Gulf logo on it said, "I didn't do squat in herring this spring. Those goddam Japs are getting pickier about what they'll take every year."

"You're lucky you caught anything to show them," the man next to him said. His eyes were bright blue in a tanned face, lines fanning out from the corners, the result of squinting at the same horizon for thirty-five years. He was the only one at the table without a hat, which probably meant he was the only one at the table with any hair left. It was pure white and thick and combed carefully back from a broad brow. "We had five boats and a spotter plane and we barely caught enough to pay for fuel."

There was a grunt of agreement from the table next door. "There hasn't been a decent run of herring since the spill."

"It's not just the herring," someone else said. "It's the salmon. If it weren't for the hatcheries, we'd be up the creek our own selfs."

"Yeah, but because of the hatcheries we've got humpies coming out our ears and no place to sell them."

"Why don't sport fishermen have to apply for limited-entry permits?" someone else demanded. "Tell me sport guides aren't commercial fishermen, and I'll call you a liar."