Dead Water Zone - Kenneth Oppel [12]
He knew Sam hated playing games outside, but he wanted to go to the park, get his body into the sun, stretch his muscles.
“No thanks,” said his brother in a tight voice.
“All you want to do is sit on your ass reading books or playing these games.”
“The doctor said I shouldn’t overexert myself.”
Sam’s doctors—the names changed every few months or so, as his parents became dissatisfied with the treatment. His brother would come back from his appointments with more pills, more instructions. And the fact was, he hadn’t put on a single pound in months. Paul knew he was supposed to be understanding, but he spent enough time playing bodyguard at school. Was he really expected to stay indoors on weekends and let Sam pulverize him with his war games?
“Maybe if you got more exercise—” he began testily.
“Playing football with your half-wit friends is not the solution.”
“Don’t be such a wimp!”
“Look, you always want to stop in the middle of the games. Grow up. If you put in more of an effort, there’s a small chance you’d make fewer moronic mistakes!”
Paul swiped his hand across the playing board, knocking all the counters onto the carpet.
“That was stupid!” shouted Sam.
“This game is stupid.”
“There’s more to life than track meets and bodybuilding, Paul.”
Before Paul could stop himself, he shoved Sam sprawling against the sofa. He’d never hit him before.
“Don’t call me stupid,” he muttered halfheartedly, startled by the rage in his brother’s face.
“Don’t ever do that again!” Sam’s voice crackled. “You can’t treat me like that! You’re nothing without me!”
Paul only stared numbly, knowing that Sam was right.
5
SHE WAS WORKING in the engine hatch of the cabin cruiser, so Paul could see only her hunched head and shoulders above the deck. Occasionally, a grease-smudged hand darted out for the tools arranged nearby. He listened to the efficient sounds of metal on metal and felt inadequate.
“Can I help?”
She glanced up, wisps of dark hair hanging untidily around her face. She pushed them away, leaving a streak of soot across her cheekbone.
“I don’t know. Can you?”
Her ferocity startled him. He jammed his hands into his pockets. “No.” He didn’t know anything about boats or motors.
“Why’d you ask then?”
She disappeared beneath the hatch.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to start a fight between you and Armitage.”
“Forget it,” came her muffled voice. “Happens all the time. Armitage doesn’t like it when you criticize his little empire.”
“Empire?”
She lifted her face to him. “Come on, Paul, haven’t you got us pigeonholed by now?”
His eyes roved across the neat stacks of cardboard boxes against the walls. He couldn’t help his automatic reaction. It was wrong to steal.
“Armitage is a businessman,” she said from below. “It’s the truth, more or less. Everyone on our pier works for him—including me, I suppose. Whatever we take in, Armitage sinks into merchandise. He buys it right off the freighters, cheap. The freight handlers adjust their inventories. Armitage files off serial numbers and resells the goods in the City for big profits. He’s doing well.” She laughed softly. “He’s even got his own bank account in the City—under a fake name, of course. He’s a good old-fashioned entrepreneur. Pass me the vise grips.”
He was pleased to have been given a job. He looked at the tools and took a guess.
“Paul, these are needlenose pliers.” She reappeared from the engine hatch. “Tell me, do you have any skills, besides being a bodyguard?”
She said it jokingly, but he was taken aback. He felt an absurd urge to launch into a list of the track ribbons he’d won, how much he could curl, his lap times in the pool. And maybe his school marks, too—they weren’t so bad.
Monica grunted and grabbed the vise grips. “Armitage wants to rebuild this place. He hates it that everyone in the City thinks Watertown’s a slum. So he wants to make a lot of money and change things here.” She added dubiously,