He says he needs twenty-five boxes of bibles. "Bibles?" I ask. "Why'd ya need so many?"
He grumbles something, it sounds like, "Overseas."
"Missionary work?" I ask. He don't look like no missionary to me. But he nods and I leave it at that. The smell off his clothes is stale, like he's been bottled up for a while. And they're dirty. There's something brownish on his pants that could be dirt, or old blood. Definitely a working man by the size of him, but he's no local. I'd know him if he was from around here.
He seems unimpressed by the way I'm sizing him up, in a way that says if I keep staring there'll be trouble.
I look away and start heading out. Something off about that fella, I can tell...
"Hey!" he calls and I look back. His eyes get all narrow and he says to me, "Remember to keep your lip buttoned..." he growls. I remember all right, and besides, I ain't got nobody to tell. I'm nothing but one dock worker, looking to make a few extra bucks where I can. As far as I know, there ain't nothing specifically dangerous about getting the Good Book out there. But the look on that guy's mug might mean different.