Chapter Seven
September 1987, Saturday
Back in the sun on the corner of West Fourteenth, Nomi ditches Simon Noone outside the New York Savings Bank building, saying she needs to run some errands.
It’s the truth; it’s just after five, so if she legs it, she might be able to get a message through to Irma before tomorrow. But it’s also a lie by omission. She needs some headspace, some time to process. She’s still getting flashes of Noone’s disturbingly fascinated expression as he examined Ricki Cevolatti’s finger stumps.
She crosses Eighth Avenue, passes the art deco Bankers Trust building, the shamrock-decorated facade of an Irish bar, and a stately Italianate mansion. Finally, the baroque iron grille of Our Lady of Guadalupe looms up, and Nomi pulls open the heavy door and slips inside.
There are two racks of votive candles, one just inside the door on the left and another, smaller rack beside the confessional booth. Nomi crosses herself at the holy water font, goes to the small rack and drops a couple quarters into the donation slot to pay for a candle. Using the small roll from her pocket, she wraps a belt of blue electrical tape around the candle’s waxed waist and sets it—unlit—into position on the bottom left-hand corner of the rack.
When Irma comes in later to attend mass, she should see it. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s safer than calling, and they already have a standing arrangement for where and what time to meet.
A hassock for the devout rests in front of the candle racks. For a moment, Nomi longs for faith; if she could simply kneel and pray and have all her various problems solved by a higher power, life would be a hell of a lot simpler. But this is not her religion and not her church—and if the last few years have taught her anything, it’s that she’s constitutionally incapable of kneeling down.
She leaves the blue-banded candle in place, walks for the outside air.
Her feet are tired—all of her is tired, and a little hungover from the medication she took last night. She’s ready to get home and shed her shoulder holster. But it’s only a quick walk along West Fourteenth and down Seventh Avenue to HE Travel. A guy called Beko, who she knows as a leatherman at the clubs, is staffing the agency desk, in front of a giant wall poster for RSVP male-only cruises; as he finishes closing the shop, Beko answers her questions about the possibility of tracking a missing American tourist in Mexico or Guatemala in 1982.
When she gets back to Gansevoort, the day is cooling, and there are long shadows on the cobblestones. It’s coming up on six in the evening, and there’s one more task to complete.
She takes the central staircase up to her apartment, then keeps going to the third floor. From behind Noone’s door, the faint strains of some classical music track she doesn’t know. She knocks briskly.
Simon answers in his usual fashion: shoeless, white cotton shirt pulled out of his jeans. A glass of red wine lolls in his hand. He has long fingers, slender, with prominent joints—but Nomi doesn’t want to think about fingers now, after seeing Cevolatti.
Dusk light filters through the thin curtains on the other side of Noone’s living space. His eyebrows are raised. “You’re back.”
“I’m back.” The air from his apartment is warmer than the air in the hallway. Nomi notices the medical text open again on his breakfasttable. She studiously avoids staring at his bare feet. “Errands are run. Have you got that stuff you wanted to give me?”
He blinks for a moment. “Oh, right, the stuff—I’ll get it now. Come on in, if you like.” He leaves the door open, walks off toward the dresser in the far corner, where a small Sanyo tape deck is playing the music at a low volume. “You want a glass of wine? I needed one, after today.”
“Thanks, but no.” Nomi feels a sudden urge to walk inside and sit down at his tiny table. She takes a single step over the threshold, makes herself stop. Now is not the time to let down her guard. “You drink a lot of wine in Guatemala?”
“None at all. People across the border make wine punch for special occasions, but if you want a drink in Piedras Negras, it’s mainly just corn moonshine.” He snorts, glances over his shoulder. “I’m getting a taste for wine, though. This is only a cheap merlot, but it’s not bad. I wanted to buy a nice Sangiovese, but I’d have to sublet my apartment to afford it.”
Nomi doesn’t think he’s realized that knowing the differences in flavor between expensive wines is a learned skill. If you’ve never encountered wine before, you don’t typically talk like a sommelier in seven weeks.
He returns, carrying an orange cigar box and a short stack of worn hardcover notebooks stuffed with papers. “Okay, this is everything.”
“Does that pile include your current identity papers as well?”
“Yes.” He brushes his brown hair off his forehead. He still hasn’t handed over the bundle. “You’ll return these as soon as possible, right?”
“As soon as I’ve read through everything, I’ll give it all back.”
“Okay.” He hesitates, his cheeks softly flushed. “These notebooks are like my journals, so there’s personal stuff in here. Sensitive stuff. Medical information. So ...”
“I promise I’ll take good care of everything and do my best to respect your privacy,” she says.
He finally passes her the collection. She flips the lid of the cigar box on top: nestled in tissue paper like a holy relic, a single scrap of woven cotton label tape. Originally white but now yellowed, either from age or exposure, the label clearly displays the nameSimonstitched in a curling font. On the right, just before the label tapers off into a torn, frayed edge, is the starting curve of another letter.
Nomi pokes the frayed edge with a finger. “Huh. This could be something—maybe aCor aG?”
“Yeah, I spent a long time trying to figure that out.” Simon has retrieved his glass, and now he sips, leans a shoulder against the wall. “Didn’t get anywhere. Is it the start of a middle name, an initial, a surname? Maybe it’s the start of a phone number, I don’t know.”
“Right.” Nomi flips the box lid closed. Simon’s apartment smells of espresso and cigarettes—not unpleasant; she wonders if he keeps his work knives here at home, then pushes the thought of blades firmly away. She still can’t identify the classical piece. “Okay, thanks for this. Like I said, I’ll return everything as soon as humanly possible.”
He straightens, gestures with his glass. “You’re sure you don’t want to come in?”
