Nomi turns to see Noone glowering at the club entry area in a way that suggests he’s having profound misgivings.
She pulls him to face her. “Listen, just follow my lead. We go in, have a drink, look for Janice—if we talk to her, great, if she’s not there, we go home. All good?”
“This seems like a very bad thing to be doing in my current state of altered consciousness.”
“Thousands of drug users would beg to differ.” She paws in his jacket pocket, pulls out his sunglasses. “Here, put these on if you’re worried about the lights. You look great, they’re going to let you in.”
The whites of his eyes flare. “You weren’t sure I’d get in?”
“I knewI’dget in—they always let in girls.” From her own pocket, she digs out cash. “You’ll have a good time. Come on! Baby’s first nightclub! It’s gonna be great, let’s go.”
The security guard lets them both through the doors, like she thought he would. She pays the cover charge to the girl in goth makeup behind the wire cashier’s cage; she and Noone are given their wrist stamps. People are coming in and out. They climb four flights of wide wooden stairs, lit by a dim green bulb, before reaching a balcony corridor where they find another door, heavy with sound insulation. Nomi pulls on the handle; behind her, Noone takes an audible breath as the full wash of heat and sound and darting lights spills over them.
The entry is black. Most of the interior of the club is black, with exposed pipes near the low ceiling. Music is pounding—maybe not tunes as good as some place like Paradise Garage, but the beat is seductive. Probably close to two hundred people of all races and genders are crammed into the space, dancing, spilling drinks, laughing and waving their arms, making the sprung floor bounce; Nomi is relieved she’s not a cop anymore, because this place is a health-and-safety violation nightmare.
Noone seems to be hypnotized by the maelstrom. Even though he needed to be coaxed out of his lair to come along, Nomi’s glad he’s here. There’s a nonzero chance they’ll see Lamonte tonight, and if they do cross paths, she wants Noone’s brand of crazy on her side. The downsideis that she did not anticipate he would look so insanely hot in Saint Laurent, holy shit. It’s fucking distracting.
She ignores the disco ball flashes and points-pushes Noone around to the cloakroom window, unzips her jacket and hands it to the guy. Underneath, the shortest dress she owns, bought at Lee’s Mardi Gras store last year: a fluttering black slip with string straps and a thigh-skimming slashed hem. It looks indecent but still somehow manages to cover all her midriff scars. Black leather boy shorts in case she falls on her ass. This outfit is perfect with her small tits, and it makes her tattoos look big, which is right for this crowd. She’s never been much for glamming up, but she’s glad she made the effort tonight, although she keeps bumping the fake lip ring with her teeth.
Noone has been gazing around the club with his sunglasses in place. Now he looks back, pauses, removes the sunglasses to blink at her.
“What?” Nomi half yells.
“You’re ... in a dress.” He scans her. “I think.”
Nomi rolls her eyes. “Jesus—how much medication did you take, exactly? I shouldn’t have given you the schnapps.”
Noone breaks into a disarming laugh. “Too late now.”
“Stop staring at me and look around. We’re looking for Janice—Italian, long brown hair, roughly my height. She’ll either be working the floor or behind the bar.”
“There’s two bars,” Noone points out.
Nomi squints, shields her eyes against the laser lights, wishing she could wave the dry ice smoke away. “We might need to split up.”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Noone leans closer. “You’re purple.”
Did he just say she’s purple? God, the music is ridiculously loud. “What was that? Jesus Christ, I need a drink. Let’s go right, start with bar number one, work our way around to the couches on the far left side.”
To her surprise, Noone leads the way, carving through the crush of patrons. A minute ago, he seemed disoriented. Now, he’s straightenedup, his shoulders have broadened, his jacket swings. Is he actually enjoying himself?
At the first bar, most of the bartenders have given up on wearing shirts in the club’s pulsing heat. Noone waves a fifty-spot for attention. In the sea ofMiami Vicepastels and postpunk dance wear, he looks darkly exotic in his black suit, damp hair swept off his face and those blue, sardonic eyes. Nomi pleads for bottled water, and he adds it to the order, finesses his cuffs. When the order arrives, he passes her the water and then turns to give her a tall glass and lean his elbow on the bar, posture relaxed, as he raises his own glass.
“Champagne?” Nomi’s never drunk champagne at a club. “What are we celebrating?”
“This.” Noone grins at the mess of bodies on the floor—the heaving gyration of harem pants, studded cuffs, mirror shades, black lace. “Mystery of Love,” by Mr. Fingers, is spinning, and people are getting into it. “It’s bizarre. You can’t see the colors, can you?”
“What?” She watches him quaff half his drink in one swallow. “Hey, slow down.”
“Why?”
“Just . . . pace yourself.”
“I like this. I didn’t think I would, but I do.” He smiles at the chaos of the club, then back at her, apparently fascinated by her dress. “This is nice too. Is it silk?”
“No idea.”
He rubs a corner of her hem between his fingers. “I think it is. It’s very soft.”
