“Just dealing with the puppets is trouble enough.”
She could go over to their table right now and demand Brittany Jackson’s location. They’d laugh in her face, but she gets an irrational urge to do it. She wonders how much they’d laugh if she put a gun to Lamonte’s head ... Another irrational urge—she doesn’t even have her piece on her—but it’s the only language these guys understand. Only violence and anger have meaning for them; saying “You are hurting a vulnerable child and her mom” has no impact at all. Men like Lamonte don’t have a soft side to appeal to.
Nomi forces herself to look away. Then she sees Noone; he’s staring at Claude Ameche like he’s considering the best way to carve him up for a roast.
“Hey.” Nomi tugs hard on Noone’s lapel. “Hey. Whatever you’re thinking right now, you need to stop thinking it.”
“I had an opportunity last time, and I missed it.” He’s still staring.
“And you don’t get a second shot. I mean it, Noone. The last thing I need is you going off script because of some insult to your sense of chivalry, or whatever the fuck. There’s more at stake here. Stay focused, remember?” She tries to divert him. “Oh, look, there’s the other bar.”
The second bar is longer than the one near the entry, with at least six bartenders working double time to keep up with demand. Laser lights glance off the mirrors and glassware behind the staff, off the fishbowl full of matchbooks in front. Up this end, two young women in Big Mouth T-shirts are pouring shots—
“There’s Janice.” Nomi straightens. Before she can step forward, she realizes the proximity to Lamonte’s table is going to screw everything up. “Shit. If I show my face up there at the bar, I’ll get busted by Ameche for sure. And Janice won’t want to talk if—”
“I’ll go,” Noone says.
Nomi stops worrying a nail. “What?”
“I said I’ll go. Ameche didn’t see me when I followed him.”
“How do you know?”
He raises his eyebrows. “I know. And I can be useful for more than just muscle.”
She’s dubious. “Okay. But if you’re gonna be the one talking, we need to know who Ricki spoke to, what he might have said, where he picked up his deliveries—”
Noone stops her. “We won’t get all that. But I’ll do my best to get two out of three.”
“Shit.” She rakes at her hair. “What are you gonna say? It’s not like you can flash a badge.”
“Trust me.” Noone smiles, showing a glint of sharp incisor. “Even without a badge, I can be persuasive.”
His energy has changed again, his gaze roving lazily over her face, curious and hungry, lingering on her mouth with its enticing ring. He’s close enough so she can smell him—clean sweat, tobacco, the oily herbal tang of schnapps—and the smile is pure predator. Trust him? You wouldn’t leave him alone in a room with your wife.
Where the hell did this come from? Is he fucking with her? Well, if it’s working on her, it’ll work on Janice. Goddamn, though, she should never have unbuttoned his shirt.
Nomi wets her lips. “Go on, then. Show me what you’ve got.”
Noone grins, strolls away toward the bar.
Nomi has to move a little closer and blend with another cluster of patrons at a different table to keep both parties—Noone and Janice, Lamonte and his crew—in her line of sight. But Lamonte’s group doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere. Wheedling a cigarette from a girl nearby to keep her hands busy, Nomi focuses her attention on Noone as he does some wheedling of his own.
He calls Janice over to place an order, and his face comes alive. He seems genuinely engaged, touches Janice’s hand to get a light for his smoke, initiates what looks like flirting chat as he waits for the pour, knocks back a shot. It’s quite a transformation. Nomi’s made a performative switch herself on occasion, when she’s had to fish for information, but it’s disconcerting to see Noone change like this. Standing at the bar, he’s all elegant angles in his black suit. He tilts his head, makes a panty-dropping grin. Janice looks dazzled. “All the devils are here” is right: He looks like a prince of the underworld.
Even under Noone’s spell, though, Janice reveals a few anxious tells. Her gaze flicks toward Lamonte’s table. Noone draws her attention back. Janice’s smile becomes less certain, but she’s still talking. Noone must make a joke—she smiles for real—then she’s getting him a second drink, something acid yellow in a martini glass with a white napkin. He pays, leans forward across the bar and whispers something in herear. Janice blushes, giggles. Nomi feels a flash of sympathetic heat between her legs.
Now Noone turns with his glass, catches Nomi’s eye, looks pointedly toward the couches closer to the entry, between the cloakroom and the bathrooms. He walks off in that direction. Nomi clears her throat, feeling like she’s just watched a live sex show. She drops her cigarette under her boot and dumps her empty water bottle, starts pushing through bodies.
There are maybe four couches, all of them black and ugly, with wide arms. Space is at a premium, but Noone’s somehow found a spot.
Nomi kind of wants to smack him. “Do I get a seat?”
“Right here.” He takes her by the wrist, pulls her into his lap, hands her his martini glass. “Here, you should try this, it’s good.”
The drink tastes of citrus and vodka, an icy-cold blast of sanity against the shocking warmth of Noone’s body. Maybe he’s having trouble throwing off the bit: His long fingers make glancing touches at her arm, shoulder, waist, hip, soft as the wings of a butterfly. She should slap his hands away when they stray too close to her scars, but something inside her doesn’t want to. Oh, she could get intosomuch trouble with this guy tonight. She won’t, because she’s not a fucking moron, but she can play a little.
She sips again. “Mm, nice—it’s a lemon drop. So what did Janice say?”
