He had known me too long to mistake certainty for solvency.
“I can call my brother,” he said. “His company account—”
“No.”
“Reid.”
“No personal favors. No one risks their credit for the yard.”
“He wouldn’t mind.”
“I would.”
Owen picked up his tools.
“I told Marisol you would call. I didn’t commit us.”
“Good.”
“I also told the supplier it was probably an administrative error.”
“Also good.”
“Because that sounds better than saying the owner has been moving money between accounts like a street magician.”
I stared at him.
He gave me a bland look and walked away.
In my office, the bank balance had not improved through neglect.
I transferred enough from the equipment reserve to clear the supplier payment. That left the account intended for the new haul-out winch almost empty.
The winch could wait.
Payroll could not.
Neither could the Harbor Transit contract.
I called the wholesaler, listened to eleven minutes of hold music, apologized for the failed payment, and secured the shipment by agreeing to an earlier payment on the next order.
Then I called Marisol.
She had managed the ferry fleet for twelve years and possessed the unnerving ability to sound friendly while removing every possible avenue of negotiation.
“I heard about Noah,” she said after we exchanged greetings. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“How is he?”
“Improving.”
“I’m glad. He always handled our launch systems.”
“He will again.”
“I hope so.”
