Gunner arrived. Gunner was a yellow, a surly little yellow who could pass if he tried. Today he had a deep welt under his right eye.

"Something sour, Steven, and put salt on it."

"Right away sir."

Gunner shook his head. "Pass them peanuts, Jar."

Jordan passed the peanuts.

"Boss beat you today, Jar?"

"Nope." Jordan sipped the last of his Loephraig. "Another one, Steven."

"Of course." The bartender handed Gunner his drink.

"Well, he beat me today, beat me good. Look at my eye." Gunner winked at his drink, and sipped it, wincing.

"That's because you're a sassy nigger."

"Look at my face! There's no call to mark up a man's face!

"You shouldn't sass so much. Thanks Steven."

"So I sass. Boss says, 'Gunner, nobody's going to pay one thin dime for you in Virginia. You're wasting my time on this boat here. Going to throw you over when that typhoon comes.' And I say, 'Why don't you turn around and take my black ass back where you found me instead. Avoid that typhoon, too.' And then he beats me with that whip."

Jordan sipped his drink.

"Now, should I get a beating, just for that?"

Jordan shrugged.

"Steven. What do you think. Should I get a beating for that?"

"I wouldn't know sir. I just make the drinks."

"Yeah, well, make me another one, then."

"Yes sir."

Gunner looked at Jordan for a while. "He hasn't ever beat you once, has he Jar."

Jordan stuck out his bottom lip, as if thinking about it. "Nope."

"That's because you're a pretty nigger. Mr. Newton will probably get twenty-five dollars for you in Virginia."

"Probably." Jordan smiled to himself and spun his glass on the bar.

"Hey, Leroy, Boss ever beat you?"

Leroy sat staring out a porthole, not drinking a beer.

"You leave Leroy alone, Gun, he doesn't need your sass."

"Why not? Hey, Leroy."

"Leave him be, Gun."

"Why? What happened to him?" Gunner took his drink from Steven. "What happened to Leroy?"

Steven pulled out a clipboard and wrote up the order for the return trip to Africa. "Mister Leroy's son died today."

"Which one? Little Jimmy?"

"You dumb yellow nigger. Jimmy died last week."

"Shut up, house negro. Which one was it?"

"I believe it was Frances, Mister Gunner."

"Damn." Gunner shook his head. "Hey, Leroy, sorry about your boy."

Leroy looked up, nodded his thanks.

"Did Boss do it? Did he beat him?"

Leroy stood up, carrying his beer, and at last took a swallow. He was only a little older than the others, but looked even older, with shoots of gray in his beard. "Nah, I've never known Boss to be mean to children. You know how it is down there. Everybody cramped up, side by side, nothing to eat, and if there is, nowhere to go to the bathroom. He just couldn't take it. He was only 8 months old."

"Damn. You see! That's what I'm talking about. Boss knows the rules. He wouldn't be able to sell a whole family. And he sure as hell wouldn't ever sell a baby."

"You're so stupid, Gun." Jordan continued to gaze straight in front of him. "Don't you know anything? They eat the ones they can't sell."

"Who told you that?"

"Boss told me."

"You ever hear that, Leroy?"

Leroy shrugged. "Who cares. Jenny's sick anyway. If she's lucky, she'll die too, before they throw her over the side."

"Steven, hey. You white people really eat the slaves that don't get sold?"

"I just eat what they give me, sir. Chicken, mostly. And potatoes."

"But how are you sure it's chicken?"

"It tastes like chicken."

"Everything tastes like chicken." Gunner swallowed his drink, whole. "Boss ever beat you, Steven?"

"No sir. Another beer, Mister Leroy?"

Leroy looked at his half-empty glass in his had. "No, thanks. I have a ping-pong game at three. Boss wants me to practice my topspin."

"Oh, I doubt there'll be any ping-pong today sir. That typhoon should keep everybody occupied."

Leroy shrugged. "Sure. Another one."

"That's right, occupied." Gunner made a face bitter face. "Occupied throwing folks over the side. Now why does Boss have to do that, I'm asking you."

Jordan crunched some peanuts. "Insurance."

Leroy nodded. Steven cleaned some glasses.

"What," Gunner said.

Jordan finally looked at him. His coffee bean skin shone deep and warm in the bar light. "They don't get any insurance money for the ones who died from beatings, or starvation. Just the ones lost at sea."

"And Boss told you that too, Jar?"

Jordan stood up to leave. "I hate Boss just as much as you do, Gun, maybe more. But he hasn't ever lied to me." Jordan smiled, and then laughed, his big white teeth flashing in the room, his soft eyes winking. "You know, maybe that's why I hate him so much."