Westside by W.M. Akers

Author:W.M. Akers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-05-06T16:00:00+00:00

“When all else fails,” my father said more than once, “return to the scene of the crime.”

All else had failed. In ten hours, Barbie’s war machine rumbled north, with Cherub Stevens and the One-Eyed Cats on the front line. I had done nothing to save them.

I crossed back into the Lower West and passed my house without going inside. I still didn’t know what to tell Hellida, and I could not bear to be tempted by my bed. I was not just hungry for sleep, I lusted after it, as desperately as I had ever lusted after any Westside tough. Trouble was, I needed hours of sleep, and I could not afford a minute.

The charred remains of the pier stank like wet charcoal. One dock south, where the rusted trawler had sunk a few inches deeper into the mud, Copeland’s yacht bobbed softly in the river. The deck was blackened on one side, whitewashed on the other, and peeling salt-stained gray in the middle. Wielding a paintbrush like a conductor’s baton, Juliette Copeland attempted to reverse the damage. Her hair was pulled back in a sweaty bun, and she had somehow managed to keep from splattering any paint on her starched black dress. The sun was bright, but she did not squint.

“Oh god,” she moaned, as tenderly as one might greet an open sore. “You.”

“A few days ago,” I said, “you didn’t know this boat existed. Now you’re painting it?”

“The coast guard delivered me a stern telegram, saying that if I didn’t take ownership of the yacht, she would be impounded. I’m a Copeland. That means I will never let the government take that which is mine by right. I came aboard this morning, intending to sail her to the East River, and found her infested with rats, her lines a tangle, her deck peeling and scorched. I’ll be on my way as soon as she is presentable enough to sail.”

“You’re not uneasy, working on the Westside?”

“I’ve never understood the superstitious attitude people have toward the Westside. An empty street is just that—empty. Nothing to harm you. Nothing to fear. Don’t you agree?”

“I did, until last night.”

She flicked her fingers across her paintbrush and found the bristles had gone stiff. With an irritated little “hmph,” she tossed it onto the deck.

“I’d like to talk to you about your father,” I said. “Our fathers.”

“There’s blood on your cheek, Miss Carr.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She looked away, scanning the horizon to make sure no one respectable could see what she was about to do.

“I may have some peroxide belowdecks. Come aboard and I’ll clean that wound.”

She lowered the gangway, and I made my way unsteadily across a yard of murky water. She sat me in the cockpit, my back to the wheel, and disappeared below. I felt the first tightness of sunburn creeping up the side of my face.

Juliette returned with a tidy first aid kit. She swabbed my cheek, ignored my whining, and bandaged the cut. Beside the peroxide was a flat pint of brandy.

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