Bill left to the fish yards where he'd spent most of his youth, where the smell of offal and fish both fresh and off was an assault to the senses. The air had a bite to it. The wind having a bite with teeth. It gave Bill a chill even under his heavy coat and peaky hat.
Much of his work was pinning the fish by its gills and chopping its head off with a cleaver. For his first three months he'd be yelled at by the supervisor for not doing it in one swing. After those three months he got the strength and method. He'd grown up around addicts forcefully getting over drug habits and trauma. He never asked what those traumas were, he was always told by others that had foreknowledge.
The afflicted never bothered him, and he liked it that way. Some had some inhuman strength in his eyes. That was until he knew they'd been back on the drugs. Bill never asked, nor pried.
Passing through the sales area of the fishyard brought happy memories of his adolescents selling fish for prices a lot higher than they were worth. It was the way it was there. His foreman at the time put it down to labour costs. Funny part there was the foreman never paid the labourers extra for each sale. Some rumoured he'd been pocketing the extra profit. Wouldn't have put it past him. He didn't mind personally. He'd end up in channel's waters in pieces if he did. It was as some would say "how the cogs turn here". Another fancy way by the impractically intelligent folk to say that's how it works here.
Getting to the offal disposal area a lot of oriental workers in grubby attire and face masks made from ripped clothing sprawl in unorganised fashion moving wheelbarrow loads of fish guts and scales and skin. He'd remembered working here too. Never smelt anything worse in his life outside of a corpse farming. It'd been found floating down the river channel. Someone craned it up onto land. When it landed its gas released and Bill was closest to it. He lost his breakfast immediately.
He always wondered who the poor sod was. Not that he'd find out. In the loading area the foreman was a short five foot three jockey sized man with a large personality and attitude. Wouldn't take lip or violence from anyone below his work status. Got him in trouble a few times. Thomas Bar was his name. Everyone who knew him called him Tommy, or by his friends Tommy Little. He was in his overalls, boots, and big peaky hat. A naturally grubby face with a three day shade. His nose always looked oversized. Even for his age it looked like he'd have to grow into his nose size.
Bill waited to be shown to Tommy. When the bouncer let him approach he sat next to Tommy on a crate.
"Morning Little. Heard you have Cantonese human resource issue. Or six."
Tommy looked up from his clipboard, "yeah I bloody do. These slight eyes don't understand hierarchy. My bouncer has had to throw a few in the mincer to shut some down. Some just don't appreciate employment."
Bill noticed a few of the workers giving Tommy, himself and the bouncer the passing evil eye. "I can see that. Care to point a few out? Or am I playing Chinese whispers?"
Tommy laughed. "It's all Chinese whispers here. You should now that."
Bill knew he'd be hard to get information from. "So what do I owe you for it? Port? Dinner? Moonlight walk home?"
Tommy obliged the humour. "Only if you wear that dress I like"
Both Bill and Tommy break out laughing. The bouncer can't stop laughing, sometimes Tommy forgets he can hear everything.
Bill gets to the point. "Just point them out. Mr Kipper wants this issue out of mind."
Tommy concedes wiping the tears of laughter off his face. "I'll get you the list. It includes descriptions and names. Where they work, etcetera."
Bill leaves Tommy to his clipboard and bad humour. Shakes the hand with the bouncer. Notices a look in the bouncer's eyes he doesn't like. A look of subtle mischief and immoral violence. Its there and then he'd decided if this guy makes a wrong move he'd shoot him dead without pause.
Bill wanted to know who he'd be shooting. "What's your name door stopper?"
The bouncer laughed slightly with a smug look. Likely out of the belief this little man was either brave or stupid. "Nathan Kirby. Most call me stump."
Bill had a lot of jokes already from that information he'd keep to himself. "I'll be seeing you."
Bill departed to the office for the list of trouble makers. It was tucked into a desk draw under old ledger papers. Tommy was not the cleanest but knew how to hide important information. Likely from growing up with a father who was a smuggler and a drunk. Bill and Thomas grew up as good friends in the fishyards. They'd backed each other up on many occasions. No questions were asked on why, it was unconditional. Less they knew of each other's issues back then the better. Turned them into real men. Because real men spearheaded the solutions to their own problems.