Book 14 in the Kate Shugak series, 2004

“I’ll get it,” Kate said, and fetched the Crisco forthwith.

Auntie Vi eyed her. “Your auntie not that old, Katya.” “I know, Auntie,” Kate said. “But I was closer.” She had, in fact, been in the next room at the time, but Auntie Vi, exercising monumental, not to mention unnatural, restraint, forbore to comment.

“I can do that,” Kate said, taking the scraper out of Old Sam’s hand. The Freya was in dry dock, where her hull had been drying out above the high-tide line in preparation for a new coat of copper paint.

Old Sam took the scraper back. “I can do it myself.” “I know, but I can help,” Kate said, reaching for the scraper again.

Old Sam warded her off. “Yeah, and the next thing I’ll be listening to you whine about getting the goddamn copper paint outta your hair. Now you get outta mine, girl.”

“I can do that,” Kate told Bernie, and took the bar rag out of his hand.

“You know that’s what I do,” Bernie said, watching her with a wary eye.

“I know, but I’m here,” Kate said, chasing an elusive drop of beer.

“You certainly are,” Bernie said, and went to pour himself a beer, an event almost unheard of in the annals of the Roadhouse, then sat down at a table, an event unparalleled in memory of man.

“Oh, shut up,” she told Harvey Meganack at the July board meeting. “You know Billy’s right. Any moron knows there’s no way the shareholders are going to vote to open up Iqaluk to drilling anyway.”

Harvey ’s face turned a dark and unbecoming red.

There was a collective suck of indrawn air around the conference table in the Niniltna Native Association’s boardroom, followed by a thud as the forelegs of Billy Mike’s chair hit the floor. “You know, Kate,” he said, “I really appreciate you dropping by.”