Westside Lights by W.M. Akers

Author:W.M. Akers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-03-08T00:00:00+00:00

Eleven

“Your attention, please! The New York Police Department is offering a thousand dollars for information leading to the capture of the fugitive Gilda Carr. When last seen, she wore a yellow dress and short black curls, but her disguise may change. She is ruthless, cunning, and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend her. Notify the nearest policeman and this most generous reward will be yours.”

The policeman stood on a barrel at the north end of the Boardwalk, where the District’s pleasure palaces gave way to shanties and open pits of sin. His chest was broad and his belly strained his uniform. After a deep breath, he began his message again. His voice was loud enough to carry all the way to Long Island, but he would be hoarse by morning—assuming I were still alive then.

“Are you all right?” I said.

Cherub didn’t answer, and I didn’t blame him. It was a stupid question. We were leaning on the rail where the Boardwalk died, watching people in various states of intoxication stagger from saloon to saloon. No one paid any attention to us here. Cherub chewed on his split lip. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen him be quiet for so long.

“This is a nightmare, yes, but we will not survive it without each other,” I said.

“You’re right.”

“So tell me what you need.”

“Water. To drink, to clean off the blood. And I’m so hungry, Gilda, my god—”

“Say no more.”

Just down the Boardwalk, a thick-chested man with a bulbous nose and a cartoonish moustache was selling sausages. The smell was intoxicating, and I’d noticed Cherub darting his eyes toward it even before he mentioned that he was hungry. I had no money, of course, but such a thing was no object for a daughter of the Lower West. I simply waited until the vendor turned to deal with a pair of customers who were both drunk and indecisive, and snatched as many sausages as I could carry. Cherub looked at me like I was a god.

“For water,” I said, “right this way.”

At the Boardwalk’s end, a flight of untrustworthy steps led to the riverbank. Cherub and I sat in the mud, water lapping at our ankles, watching the moon shimmer on the Hudson. We drank from the river and ate until our stomachs hurt, and then I washed the blood off his face. By the time I was done, he looked nearly at peace. And so, naturally, it was time to spoil his fun.

“You said you stole that boat,” I said. “Why did you lie?”

“Take a guess.”

He said it like it was funny. I tried not to let my anger show, but I didn’t try that hard.

“Let me see. You spent a week marching up and down the waterfront looking for likely candidates. You saw a sloop, fell in love, tried to steal it, bungled it terribly. You were out of practice, afraid to get caught. You were too proud to admit that you failed.”

His skin burned red. I’d hit the mark.

“When

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