Prevailing Wind

A white motor yacht lay alongside the landing pier, a trickle of steam still rising from her funnel. The glow from her oil lamps was mirrored in the slack water, showing her to be eighty, maybe ninety feet at the waterline. Even docked as she was now, her sleek lines gave a powerful impression of speed.

He mouthed the name emblazoned on the motor yacht's stern: Nemesis. She was the most luxurious vessel he’d ever seen. Her low afterdeck encircled a wide cockpit and canopy, with bench seats and plump silk A white motor yacht lay alongside the landing pier, a trickle of steam still rising from her funnel. The glow from her oil lamps was mirrored in the slack water, showing her to be eighty, maybe ninety feet at the waterline. Even docked as she was now, her sleek lines gave a powerful impression of speed.

He mouthed the name emblazoned on the motor yacht's stern: Nemesis. She was the most luxurious vessel he’d ever seen. Her low afterdeck encircled a wide cockpit and canopy, with bench seats and plump silk cushions. The mahogany wheelhouse had a spinning observation window in its windscreen, and some sort of radio antenna mounted above. From the crosstrees of her mast, lit by the anchor light, hung a single ensign monogrammed with the letters N.Y.Y.C.

The fog seemed to close in, deadening all sound. A flounder’s tail flopped in the bilges. He was about to speak, but Jacob shushed him with a finger to his lips.

They glided through the oily water with their oars dripping. No one was on deck, but the yacht's interior shone with light. The angle blocked their view into the engine room, but he could make out several crewmen in their undershirts, playing cards around a table, smoking and laughing. They let the sloop’s momentum carry them on past the galley, where a dark-skinned man in a chef’s hat was scrubbing pots; and beneath the picture windows of the brightly lit saloon. Scratchy music was playing from a gramophone record. The curtains were tied back, and the beveled glass was steamed up, giving off an electric glow like the movie screen at the Gaumont.

Davey brushed the hair out of his eyes and stepped up onto the sloop's thwart. Balancing on tiptoes with a hand on the mast, he was just able to see in to the saloon, where a curious scenario was unfolding. Dinner was over, and a servant girl was scraping crumbs off the tablecloth. She cut a slender figure in her uniform, lace apron and cap. She poured two cups of coffee from a silver pot, and brought the tray to the gentlemen at the far end of the table.

He could see the two men’s lips moving, but it was hard to make out their words. Were they quarreling? The older one had coiffed black hair and a Kaiser mustache that turned up at the tips, and his necktie was undone. He leaned heavily on the arm of his chair, swilling brandy in a crystal glass; with his free hand he made wild shapes in the air. His companion wore a quilted smoking jacket. In his mid to late twenties, he gave off a noble, well-bred air. He clutched a wooden pipe to his lips. Davey caught the faint aroma of his tobacco.

They drifted past the second window. Behind the gentlemen, on a stool facing the bar, a woman in a shimmering evening dress was touching up her lipstick in the mirror of her compact. The maid offered her coffee, but she waved it away. A jeweled necklace glinted green in the gaslight.

Mustache seemed upset. He stood up, red in the face, gesticulating as if to drive home a point. Pipe sat across the table from him, listening intently, occasionally shaking his head. He blew smoke and gave a curt response, which only seemed to make Mustache more flustered.

Lipstick swiveled on her bar stool. Her voice was shrill, and Davey was able to make out a few words: “Oh, do shut up, Cochran. Both of you! You’re such a bore.”

Davey turned to his brother in the stern of the sloop to see if he was getting this too. Jacob just tossed his head back, and pouted his lips, pretending to fiddle with a precious necklace.

Mustache slumped back down like a spoiled child. He took a sip of brandy, wrinkling his nose. Lipstick reached into a cigarette box, fixed one in her holder and lit it. She flashed Mustache a superior look. Then she slinked off the bar stool and across the saloon. There was a curious electrical apparatus on the bulkhead. She lifted its receiver to her ear, wound the handle a few times, and shouted into the horn.

“Hello? Hello?” After a few seconds, she wedged the earpiece back on its hook. “Still nothing! Damn and bother.” She had a trace of a foreign accent that Davey couldn’t place.

The servant girl had her back to the gentlemen, stacking dishes on a tray. Mustache, flushed with drink, was eyeing her hindquarters. Glancing back to make sure Lipstick wouldn’t see, he reached a hairy hand up inside the hem of the maid’s apron to the fleshy part between stocking top and buttock. The girl recoiled at first, but checked herself, then turned and shuffled off towards the double doors with her tray.

There was a crawling sensation under Davey's skin. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the poor girl’s face as she passed close to the window. Her eyes had misted over, and her bottom lip was quivering. She couldn't have been more than eighteen—only a year or two older than him. With her blonde hair tucked up into the lace cap, and her milky complexion, she was simply the most angelic creature he’d ever laid eyes on. He imagined her profile framed in a vignette, the kind they sold on the boardwalk in Camden; he could almost smell the candy apples.

His chest tightened. He longed to rescue her, like they did in the movies; but he was helpless. He turned to see if his brother felt the same way. Jacob only stuck out his tongue, panting like a dog.

Just then a heavy wheelhouse door clanged open twenty feet above them, snapping Davey out of his rêverie. He flopped down and pretended to busy himself with his nets. A bearded figure in a peaked cap staggered to the rail and leaned over. Swaying precariously, the man spat a glob of tobacco juice into the harbor, reached in his coat for a slim flask, and fumbled it open. When he caught sight of the boys in their fishing boat, he stiffened and cleared his throat.

Jacob touched his knuckle to his forehead. “'Evenin‘, Skippah.”

The big man grunted.

“Whose barky is this, then?” Jacob asked, eyeing the elegant sweep of the yacht.

The big man spat again, narrowly missing their sloop. “That’s nae concern o’ yours, laddie. Not ‘til tomorrow morning, anyroad.” The light of the oil lamps etched deep suspicious lines on his face. He leaned farther over the railing, locking eyes with Jacob’s. Then his glare shifted to Davey.

“Would you lads happen to be Haskells, at all?” the Scot barked. Davey froze.

Jacob’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”

The Scot flashed Jacob a knowing look. “Aye. That figures. Haskells, eh. I heard about your old dad--Ernie, isn’t it? You two’re the spit image. How is he bearin’ up?”

“That’s no concern o’ yours, neither,” Jacob said with a sneer.

Davey whispered through the side of his mouth, “Tell him to fuck off, Jake.”