He tears out the notebook list and stuffs it into his jeans, packs everything up. Pulls on a black shirt, his boots, his peacoat. Cigarettes in his left coat pocket, keys and cash in his right, gold-rimmed sunglasses on his head. These clothes are morehimthan the clothes he wears to Gennaro’s. When looking for items at Goodwill, he usually goes by touch, feeling for textures he knows: cashmere, linen, silk, wool, leather. He doesn’t overthink it. Everyone has their own style, right? Once again, it’s normal.
The rock music has stopped playing downstairs. As soon as he gets out the door, he hears a ruckus. Someone on the second floor is speaking loudly.
“—not paying her to come up here and maketrouble—”
A softer voice interrupts. Can’t hear the words. Simon turns his key in the lock, walks to the top of the dark-painted stairs.
“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Male, rough voiced. “It makes problems forme, and thenI’mthe one getting it in the ass because Miss Solange can’t do what she’s told!”
Someone is being vulgar and disturbing the peace in this building. Inhisbuilding. Sofia Rosa would not like it, and Simon does not like it. He goes down each step to the second floor at a measured pace, assessing the territory.
One level down, in the dirty-yellow bifurcated hall, the gruff young woman in black clothes stands in the open doorway of her apartment. Her arms are up, hands clenched on the jambs, barring entry. Another, taller figure stands in shadow behind her.
“Malcolm, you’re being unreasonable,” the gruff young woman says. “Solange is still doing her job.”
A middle-aged man in black trousers and a pimp’s polyester shirt—Malcolm, presumably—stands in front of her, shouting. “If she were doing herjob, she wouldn’t be up here seeingyou!” Face contorted, Malcolm takes a lumbering step across the linoleum toward the young woman in the doorway. “You dumb bitch—”
“Hello, friend.” Simon finds himself suddenly at Malcolm’s side, although he can’t remember moving—how did that happen? His vision grays a little at the edges. He straightens his shoulders, and it feels like an uncoiling. “You’re being very loud.”
Malcolm grimaces at the interruption. “I don’t give a flyingfuckabout—”
Simon bumps Malcolm hard backward. People aren’t used to being manhandled by strangers, and it slows their reaction time. Malcolm also reacts slowly. His mouth makes a dumbfounded “oh” between his jowls as Simon pushes him inexorably toward the second-floor balcony. There’s an electric familiarity here; Simon doesn’t know why, but he feels very alive in this moment. Something inside him is stretching, flexing, released from confinement.
Malcolm’s facial expression cycles from fury to frustration to fear. “Hey—”
“You’re in my building, and I don’t like you.” Simon keeps his tone friendly. “Nobody likes you.”
“What the fuck are you—” Malcolm is bent back against the banister. The wood creaks. “Jesus Christ, man.”
“You should go.” Simon keeps his gaze lasered on Malcolm’s eyes, which are a darting, muddy hazel.
“Don’t hurt him,” the young woman says behind them, in a voice that suggests she doesn’t care either way.
Simon smiles.
“Okay, okay, Jesus,” Malcolm whimpers.
Simon releases him. Malcolm stands, takes a breath. Looks at the young woman.
“Don’t,” Simon warns darkly.
Malcolm closes his mouth, backs up. He moves to the stairwell, jogs down to the ground floor, polyester shirt flapping.
Simon looks over the banister to check that Malcolm strides out the narrow door. He hasn’t done anything like that before. Not in America. A terrifying thrill of exultation bubbles up inside, leaving him peculiarly charged as he turns around.
“Great,” the young woman says, shaking her head, which apparently means that nothing is great. “Thanks a lot.”
Simon blinks. “He was being a problem.”
“There was no problem, and it was none of your business.” The young woman is rail thin, in tight black jeans and boots and a knee-length black cardigan. The gray T-shirt underneath—so she doesn’t wear only black after all—readsLadies and Gentlemen, The Fabulous Stains. Her long brown hair is shaved in an arc over her right ear, the remainder pulled back in a straggly ponytail from a stern, plain face.
Simon squints. “I don’t—”
“I better go talk to him.” The taller figure in the apartment entrance sighs.
She hoists a shoulder bag, steps forward into the hall. She’s a Black woman, very attractive, maybe early thirties, wearing purple pants and a white T-shirt. Her coat is in the crook of her elbow.
Simon’s neighbor turns to her and frowns. “You want me to come along?”
