At nine-fifteen the owner's rep, L. Kemble, came through the main gate in a camel-colored overcoat with the collar turned up and a phone held flat in front of his face like a slice of toast he was about to bite, talking to the phone, and Silvino said, "Good morning, sir," and pressed the button that opened the gate before Kemble had to break stride, which was what the card in his pocket said to do. Kemble did not look at him. That was all right. Most of them did not look at him. The ones who looked at him were the ones who had been crew once, and you could tell them, because they looked at the gatehouse first and the gate second and the cupola never.
At eleven, Tiago came by with a bag of malassadas from the bakery on Thames Street and stood in the doorway eating one and getting sugar on his fleece.
"They sailing today?" he said, and tipped his head toward C pier.
"Don't know."
"The captain asked you about the cameras again?"
"No."
"If he asks, it's the same answer." Tiago wiped his fingers on a napkin. "It's not ours to give. You understand? Boston was very clear. Anything recorded on the property goes through Boston, and Boston only releases to law enforcement or with a subpoena. We give footage to one boat, the other boat's insurance company sues us for giving it out, the lawyers eat us alive. That's what they said. The lawyers eat us alive."
"Nobody asked me," Silvino said.
"Good." Tiago looked at him. "You look like you didn't sleep."
"Front came through."