“Aw, you noticed.”
His shirt is wide open almost to his navel. “I look underdressed.”
“You look just right.” Her carnivorous teeth gleam as she grins and steps back. “Okay, that’s better. How do you feel?”
He decides to go with honesty. “Like an alien in an ill-fitting human skin.”
“You’ll be fine. Great, let’s go.”
She spins and heads outside. Simon follows, his head thumping.
Immediately, the sulfurous light of the streetlamps hits him square in the eyes, sets off tracers in his vision. Nomi has turned left towardGreenwich, walking fast. Simon works to keep up. The street is dark, but he can hear music at a distance, the swish of cars on the cobblestones, laughter from down the street, everything echoing. People are moving in the black, like lantern fish swimming in the depths of the ocean. There’s the smell of frying meat.
Being outside is overstimulating. He should probably have stayed at the apartment. But there’s something perversely enjoyable in the experience: A coldness in his nerve endings makes the air feel fresh on his body, makes colors and edges vibrant, distinct. On his right, Nomi strides along, oblivious to the bioluminescence that floats around her and turns her loose dark hair into a swirling oil slick, turns her pale skin into creamy fire.
“Are we getting a cab?”
Nomi snorts at him. “It’s two blocks. The walk will sober you up. Now listen, I know you’re in a bad mood, but I’ve got some unfortunate news.”
Of course she has. “Just tell me.”
“Three of my contacts got back in touch. They’ve hit dead ends on your case. No missionary workers went missing—I’ve got confirmation on that—and obituaries for men in your age range during the time period are coming up blank.”
They’ve turned left onto Greenwich, where a Black girl in tight jeans is having a muffled conversation in a lit-up phone booth. Trash blows elegantly against the wire links of a side fence as they cross West Twelfth.
Simon watches a car corner up ahead. “Your missionary contact, that’s the Catholic priest from the church you visited on Sunday? Could there have been mission groups from other denominations?”
Nomi shakes her head. “No. Clergy talk to each other, you know, regardless of affiliation, and they keep centralized records. The missionary angle is done.” She glances at him, appraising. “I never really saw you as a religious zealot, anyway.”
“But ... no obituary hits, either.”
“Nope.” Nomi strides past a store that advertises butcher supplies: boots, gloves, knives, scales. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I suggested they search East Coast records, but you could be from someplace else. We don’t know. Trying East Coast was just a shot in the dark.”
It’s hard to make his synapses work in concert, but he can extrapolate from what she’s saying. “We’re unlikely to hit the bull’s-eye on this, are we?”
Nomi slows for a car, then crosses West Thirteenth, clearly considering how to phrase her response. “I don’t think we’re going to suddenly stumble onto your point of origin, no. I think it’s going to be a slow process of elimination. We’ll narrow down our search to an inevitable moment where we say, ‘You are most likely this guy.’”
“That could take years.”
“It could.”
He’s surprised at how desolate that idea makes him feel. “Maybe you should just run my fingerprints.”
She pauses their matched steps so she can look him in the face. Her eyes are faintly purple, lit by stars. “Hey, I told you it would be tough. It’s only been five days—have a little patience.”
Her faith is curiously touching. “You’re not put off by any of this, are you? I’m an illegal immigrant with sketchy papers and medical issues who’s sent you on this wild-goose chase, and I tell you that I might be a whole different person in my previous life, and you just take it in your stride.”
Nomi waves a hand. “Look around, Noone. You’re on the West Side. Everyone here is from somewhere else, everyone is pretending to be something they’re not—someone cooler, someone better, more sexy, more confident, more cunning. When the sun goes down and the clubs open, we all put on our masks and turn into different people. You’re worried about what I think? I think you fit right in here, with the rest of us.” She grins at him, silver lip ring flashing. “Now come on—Big Mouth is just across the street.”
Chapter Fourteen
September 1987, Tuesday
They cross over Ninth Avenue, and before them stands the five-story pink Triangle Building. Prospective patrons are milling at the black-painted doors at the base of the Triangle, mostly men in jeans, all with generous mustaches. Lights flash in the dark windows; music is thrumming in the sidewalk. Cars cruise around slowly, and a line of yellow cabs stretches away to the right.
Nomi realizes she should probably explain. “We’re not going to a gay club. There’s a bunch of clubs in this building—Big Mouth is mixed gay and straight. Mainly it’s just for people who like to dance. The entry’s around the other side, on Hudson.”
She ushers Noone through the crowd, where he’s getting a lot of appreciative looks, and up to the tip of the Triangle, skirting a tall double streetlamp at the end of the block. On the Hudson side of the building, Nomi spots the door to Big Mouth with the regulation beefy guy standing out front. Dealers mill along the external wall, and a line of people in hybrid fashion—jean shorts and afros, leather and Day-Glo, white suits and teased hair—have gathered nearby on the curb. The security meat is letting people in two at a time.
