“Feeling better?” Nomi’s eyes are sparking.
“Somewhat.”
“It’s been quite a night.” Her grin is mordant. She refocuses on Sullivan as he picks up his camera bag and waves her toward the main-entry door. “This guy is kind of a creep, but I might learn something here, so keep your shit together, okay?”
Sully leads them out the big insulated door onto the balcony corridor, the one Simon remembers reaching after they climbed all those stairs on arrival. As soon as the door shuts in their wake, the upper registers of the music disappear; the remaining sound, even the deep thud of the beat in the floorboards, becomes quieter and more manageable. Simon feels it as a slight relief, like someone’s poured warm wax into his ears.
They’re standing about ten feet along the balcony, under the glow of the emergency lights and one of those weird green bulbs. Max the Security Guy positions himself by Sullivan’s shoulder; Simon, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, takes up a similar pose with Nomi.
“Hope I’m not talking too loud.” Pushing his camera bag to his back, Sullivan lights a cigarette. “I’ve been taking snaps in there for nearly two hours, and my hearing has gone to shit.”
“Oh no, you’re fine,” Nomi reassures.
“You’re a private investigator, huh? Never met a private investigator in a club before.” He smiles, like their meeting is a personal compliment. Simon recognizes Sullivan’s type: young men of the Upper East Side who come down to the Meatpacking District on the weekends for a little strange. “How did you get my name?”
“A friend of Ricki Cevolatti’s.”
“Shit, poor Ricki. I saw in the papers what happened.” But Sullivan looks more nervous than sad.
“Is that why you’ve got security?” Nomi asks politely.
“Oh, nah.” Sullivan waves his cigarette perilously close to his ginger fringe. “Not at all. I had a couple rough experiences a while back—I was riding along with the Guardian Angels about three years ago, yeah? Anyway, I ask Max to come with me sometimes when I’m going someplace hairy.”
“Lamonte’s clubs can get hairy?”
Sullivan just smiles and shrugs. “It’s the West Village.”
Nomi nods, lets it go. “So, look, I’m not investigating Ricki’s death, but I’m trying to find out a little more about Ricki’s last few days. Where he went, who he saw, what he said, that kind of thing. It could impact another case I’m working on.”
“Ah, Ricki. Well, Ricki was a doofus, you know. Always shooting off his mouth.”
“How did you know him?”
Sullivan takes another drag, gestures toward the door of the club from which they’ve just emerged. “Like this. We met at clubs in the Village, or down in Soho. I mean, he was my dealer, right? But we got friendly. We’d have a few drinks, gossip a little. We weren’t super tight or anything, but we got along.”
Nomi’s kohl-dark eyes have narrowed. “He knew you were a journalist?”
“Oh yeah, sure. But you know—photojournalist. Ricki thought it was just about taking pictures.”
“He didn’t know you broke stories.”
“Long photo essays, mainly, but yeah.”
“Can I ask what you and Ricki chatted about, last time you saw him?”
Sullivan scratches the back of his neck, perhaps annoyed that this tête-à-tête with the hot girl has become more interrogation than seduction. “Look, Ricki was an okay guy, but he wasn’t the brain-surgeon type, you feel me? We’d talk about the scene, talk about work—that was mainly it. I don’t even remember what we talked about last time.”
“Bummer.” Nomi smiles, trying to be a little more coaxing. “It would really help me if you could remember.”
“I mean, we covered some ground.” Sullivan waves, noncommittal. “You know—the situation in the district, places shuttering since AIDS, the city cracking down. The future of the clubs, basically. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
“I guess not.” Sensing Sullivan’s impatience and his obvious lack of interest in cooperating, Nomi calls it. “Okay, well, I appreciate you talking to me. I’m sure you’ve gotta get back to the floor, so let me just ...”
She moves to grab a Sharpie sticking out of the breast pocket of Sullivan’s plaid shirt. Max the Security Guy glares, takes a step.
“It’s fine, Max,” Sullivan says, handing Nomi the pen.
“Be careful,” Max says to his boss in an undertone.
