The trawler sliced down the Chieftan, Etienne hanging on the whistle cord as he came up to the railroad bridge, the boat’s electric trumpets asking for an opening. Once through, the boat heeled to starboard down the main channel. Etienne watched the bank to judge the water level, and, seeing that he had an extra foot, he turned down Bayou Courage and headed toward old Lirette Pass, a narrow ditch cut through the woods a hundred years earlier. Later that morning, as the boat floated out of the mouth of the pass, escaping the saw grass and lily pads, the seamless expanse of the Gulf opened before it like the biggest dance floor in the world. Etienne watched the shore behind him until he knew where he was in the openness and shouted for the men to drop the net. After they finished paying over the trawl boards, he headed straight out, pulling hard. Paul heard the engine straining and headed for the wheelhouse.

“How long we gonna pull?” he asked.

Etienne turned to look at him, an eyebrow cocked high. “You been griping about how much money you and Miss America got to make. You want to bring in shrimp, you got to pull like hell.”

Paul looked back at the straining ropes, then up at the smoky exhaust. “That old Cummings don’t have real good bearings.”

The wheelman waved a hand in the air as if to brush away a fly. “I just got her a few rpms over the usual. Don’t be a old lady. Just get back and be ready to pull up the net and count your money.” He looked back. “Go on. I got too much of a hangover to mess with dogmeat.”

Paul went out onto the stern and listened to the exhaust. If the engine burned out, repairs would cost several thousand dollars, and they might as well sink the trawler where she stopped and paddle back to town in the skiff. Colette would be so depressed, she would want to move to the moon.