“No.” Simon takes back the cloth, dunks it. “He followed you to the church, then the subway. But when you got out at Hell’s Kitchen, he was ... distracted.” Might as well admit it. “I pushed him down the subway stairs.”
“You what?”
Simon shrugs, wrings water out of the cloth. “There was a crowd. I tripped him, he fell back. I didn’t stick around to see.” There was a detached mental arithmetic he’d applied to it. “You were dressed to blend in, be unobserved. I figured you didn’t want some sneaky guy checking out what you were doing.”
“So you became the sneaky guy.”
Oh, the irony.“Sorry about that. But I tried to warn you, when you came out of the bodega.”
“And instead of listening, I got angry with you. Great.” Her face is cleaner now. She glances away, back; she’s about to make a confession. “My ex-partner is still with the NYPD. She feeds me intel, but we have to be careful. The bodega is one of the safe places we can meet.”
“I’m reallynottrying to be your guardian, or an amateur detective.” Simon winces. “Although you’re possibly right that I need to get a hobby.”
Sofia Rosa returns then with a small tube of cream, which turns out to be the lidocaine-prilocaine mix he was hoping for; it’s typically used for catheter insertion and skin debridement, so it should dull some of the pain he’s about to inflict. As his landlady turns off the coffee, Simon helps Nomi to recline facing the ceiling, applies the cream.
As the numbing agent takes effect, he and Sofia Rosa prep the rest of the equipment, transferring everything to a clean towel on the end table. Sofia Rosa switches on the standing lamp before exiting to takecoffee to Mr. Harvey. Simon washes his hands in the kitchen again, this time more thoroughly. He has no gloves, but it won’t be the first time.
He returns, checks everything over—cooled water, needle and a tough silk thread, scissors, thimble, everything boiled. Dressing materials sit to one side. He has enough light. Medical treatment is like cooking; it’s good to have all your ingredients prepared beforehand. He’s feeling much calmer now, with something useful to do.
Nomi is stretched across the couch cushions in her odd outfit, a towel under her head and another beside her face. Blood streaks have matted her white shirt collar to her neck, although she’s undone the top button and tugged off the string tie. Her hair is unraveling from its braid, and red stains are smeared in the shaved side cut over her right ear.
Her breathing expands and deflates her skinny rib cage in a jagged staccato rhythm: She seems heightened, anxious, with good reason. Simon’s tempted to reassure her, but she’s the kind of person who views reassurance with suspicion. Better to just go with the reassurance that competence provides.
He moves the scissors so they’re more accessible. “You’re up to date with your shots?”
“What, like tetanus?” Nomi’s eyes swivel, with nothing to focus on but the ceiling. “I had one about three years ago.”
“Good enough. Okay, I’m going to rinse the wound now.” He cleans everything gently with the cool boiled water, which also tests her level of numbness at the site. Seems all right. Best to do this before it gets more swollen. “The cut isn’t too deep, but it won’t stay closed on its own. I’m only going to place enough stitches to keep it together, so it can heal.”
“Fine.”
“Last chance,” he says. “Do you trust me to do this? This is your face.”
“Just do it.” Her voice is rough. She closes her eyes.
He takes up the needle and thread. “Did you get what you needed from your ex-partner?”
“Mostly, yeah. Some of it was useful—” Her breath hisses sharply as the needle goes in, and her cheeks flood with color.
“Keep talking,” he suggests.
“Jesus fuck.” Nomi’s lips tremble, but she’s tough. She blows out air. “Okay, so Ricki Cevolatti was a gofer for Eric Lamonte.”
“Our friend with the Italian pandering charge,” he notes. The thimble is useful for creating counterpressure to achieve skin puncture.
“Lamonte manages three clubs on the West Side.” Her face is still furiously flushed, and she’s looking at the ceiling, at the lamp, anywhere but at Simon. She also appears to be distracting herself by divulging information. “He coordinates hookers, drugs, booze deliveries, stuff like that. But the club properties are owned by a businessman named Arthur Galetti, who’s connected to the Gambino mob.”
“That’s a criminal organization.” Sofia Rosa has told him about the Italian mafia. “Please don’t nod your head.”
“Sorry. But yeah. So the last few months, Galetti’s been buying up waterfront land like crazy—” She exhales as Simon ties off the first stitch. Her fingers clutch her shirt, the fabric pulling over her stomach. “Then he petitions city council to rezone. All above board, all legit—respectable investor in the community ... You get the drift.”
“What’s Galetti doing with the real estate and the rezoning?”
“We don’t know. And city council must have concerns too, because they’ve been holding up the rezoning requests.”
“Right.” Simon snips thread ends with the scissors. “Well, maybe Galetti reallyisinvesting in the community.”
“I don’t believe it. Galetti’s a crook. But whatever he’s doing, he keeps his hands clean by using smaller guys like Lamonte. Ow.”
