. "Ma'am," he said as if I tried his patience, "this shipyard is a civilian contractor-operated facility, and therefore not naval property. But we have an obvious interest because it appears someone was diving unauthorized around our vessels.

"Do you have a theory as to why someone might have done that?" I looked around.

"Some treasure hunters think they're going to find cannonballs, old ship bells and whatnot in waters around here."

We were standing between the cargo ship El Paso and the submarine Exploiter, both of them lusterless and rigid in the river. The water looked like cappuccino, and I realized that visibility was going to be even worse than I had feared. Near the submarine, there was a dive platform. But I saw no sign of the victim or the rescuers and police supposedly working his death. I asked Green about this as wind blowing off the water numbed my face, and his reply was to give me his back again.

"Look, I can't be here all day waiting for Stu," he said to a man in coveralls and a filthy ski jacket.

"We could haul Bo's butt in here, Cap'n," was the reply.

"No way Jose," Green said, and he seemed quite familiar with these shipyard men. "No point in calling that boy."

Hell," said another man with a long tangled beard.

We all know he ain't gonna be sober this late in the morning."

"Well, now if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black," Green said, and all of them laughed.

The bearded man had a complexion like raw hamburger.

He slyly eyed me as he lit a cigarette, shielding it from the wind in rough bare hands.

"I hadn't had a drink since yesterday. Not even water," he swore as his mates laughed some more. "Damn, it's cold as a witch's titty." He hugged himself. "I should'a wore a better coat."

"I tell you what's cold is that one over yonder." Another worker spoke, dentures clicking as he talked about what I realized was the dead diver. "Now that boy's cold."