Special
Sep 24, 2026 · 30 min · 11 segments
- Show signals
- SuitabilityLimitedBiasNot political
Sep 24, 2026 · 30 min · 11 segments
It was 7.30 by the time I got back to the Queen.
I checked the mooring lines, went into my cabin, poured myself two quick, stiff drinks, and started to clean a .45 automatic I'd gotten out of the habit of wearing.
If Constantino's machine had gone into operation, I figured it might be a healthy habit to get back into.
I had it stripped and spread out on my desk.
And that's when I met Gallagher.
Big Red Gallagher.
Hello, Skipper.
Who the devil are you and
how'd you get aboard?
I wanted to talk to you.
I'm Red Gallagher.
Where's my gangway watch? He's got orders.
Nobody aboard.
We
tried, Skipper.
Don't blame him.
But you know how it is.
I wanted to talk to you.
He didn't have to explain.
He held up a hand about the size of a fielder's glove and rubbed the knuckles as if they were bruised.
He didn't have to say any more.
He was about my size, wearing a shapeless, stained, white duck officer's cap, faded dungarees, and a jumper with the sleeves rolled up.
His face was heavy-featured but not flat, his eyes gray and set off by crow's feet wrinkles and squinting into the sun.
And they were laughing at me.
But no harm done, Skipper.
It was 7.30 by the time I got back to the Queen.
I checked the mooring lines, went into my cabin, poured myself two quick, stiff drinks, and started to clean a .45 automatic I'd gotten out of the habit of wearing.
If Constantino's machine had gone into operation, I figured it might be a healthy habit to get back into.
I had it stripped and spread out on my desk.
And that's when I met Gallagher.
Big Red Gallagher.
Hello, Skipper.
Who the devil are you and
how'd you get aboard?
I wanted to talk to you.
I'm Red Gallagher.
Where's my gangway watch? He's got orders.
Nobody aboard.
We
tried, Skipper.
Don't blame him.
But you know how it is.
I wanted to talk to you.
He didn't have to explain.
He held up a hand about the size of a fielder's glove and rubbed the knuckles as if they were bruised.
He didn't have to say any more.
He was about my size, wearing a shapeless, stained, white duck officer's cap, faded dungarees, and a jumper with the sleeves rolled up.
His face was heavy-featured but not flat, his eyes gray and set off by crow's feet wrinkles and squinting into the sun.
And they were laughing at me.
But no harm done, Skipper.
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