By The Sea, Book Two: Amanda by Antoinette Stockenberg Page A

himself to do. Sometimes that worked;
sometimes it didn't. This time it did, partly because he was
distracted by a road sign for New London in Connecticut. On a whim,
he detoured off Route 1 at the New London exit and got directions
to the Fain Ironworks.
    It would never have occurred to Geoff to
open up an index card on Amanda Fain, but he was curious about the
"family holdings" nonetheless: the lure of a shipyard for some men
was strong.
    He arrived at the gate and found himself
face to face with a scruffy band of sign-carrying protesters. There
were a dozen of them—not enough to make an impact, just enough to
make a nuisance. The pacifists among them carried placards saying,
"The War Is Over—No More Ships" and "Stop the Killing—Stop the
Navy." The more practical ones bore signs saying, "More Wages for
More Work" and "Shipyard Workers Unite." Something about them set
his nerves humming. When the tallest one turned around and marched
toward his car, he knew why: it was Lajos, from the Café Budapest.
In broad daylight he looked less threatening, more surly, as if
he'd been dragged back home by his mother from a softball game to
practice the violin.
    Geoff had no idea what proper protocol was
in such a case but was spared the awkwardness of making small talk
through the car window when Lajos turned abruptly on his heel and
marched north with his placard. In a moment Geoff was cleared for a
visit to Jim Fain and shortly after was having a box of Cuban
cigars nudged into his ribs by Amanda's harried, angry father.
    "Have a smoke. Good to see you, by God. I
don't suppose you know anything about mob control?" he demanded,
obviously alluding to the protesters.
    "You could always try firing over their
heads," answered Geoff with a droll smile.
    "Ha. In a shipyard doing government work?
But I'll tell you what: I'd like to pack all those little Bolshies
into a leaky freighter and send 'em back where they came from. By
God." He bit off the tip of a cigar and torpedoed it through his
teeth into a metal waste can. "But never mind. The Courier hasn't paid them no mind for the last three weeks; I don't see why
we should. Sooner or later they'll find a bigger fish to
picket."
    "You don't do much for the military here,
then?" asked Geoff.
    "A few destroyers is all. The Bethlehem and
Bath yards between them will have built fifty destroyers by the end
of the year, and twenty-three subs—never mind the contract they've
got for a battle cruiser. But who gets picketed? The yard that's
closest to the Bolshies' New York den, that's who. It makes
absolutely no difference that most of our contracts are for
building merchant ships. It's a matter of geography. But never
mind. What can I do for you?"
    "To be honest, I'm heading back to New York
and you're right on the way," Geoff answered, aware that he was
thinking not unlike a Bolshevik. "My uncle has a boatyard in the
Isle of Wight; I used to work there during summer recess. No matter
what country I visit, I seem to end up on its coast and in its
yards."
    "Ever thought of getting a job in one?"
    "As I said, I used to work summers—"
    "I don't mean that dilettante stuff. I mean
eight-thirty to five, six days a week."
    "I don't think my uncle—"
    "I don't mean your uncle. Come with
me."
    Over Geoff's protests that he was taking up
Fain's time, Jim Fain hauled him from building to building on a
whirlwind tour of the shipyard's facilities.
    Over the clang of steel and the hiss of the
welder's rod, Fain gave Geoff the lowdown on U.S. shipbuilding.
"Two years ago American flag-vessels carried only about a fifth of
our foreign trade," he shouted over the din. "This year the figure
ought to be closer to fifty percent. It's about time. We're the
richest country in the world, and we need a merchant fleet worthy
of its name. But then, I don't have to tell you that. You're a
Brit, and 'Britannia rules the waves.' Ain't that how the song
goes?"
    Geoff smiled modestly, awed by the furious
activity around