“You know me, Max, I’m always careful.”
“It’s just a pen,” Simon notes.
Max startles, stares at him.
Sullivan blinks at Simon, flustered. “Hey, you speak French? Makes sense—you look kinda like a northerner.”
Nomi is gaping, and Simon has to think on his feet, not having realized they were speaking French at all. He hopes Sullivan mistakes his wide eyes for blithe surprise, not stunned shock. “You were raised French speaking?”
“Yeah, I got the US-Canadian thing going on.” Sullivan nods amiably. “That’s cool, man. Don’t meet so many Québécois in NYC.”
Nomi has recovered fast and is now just giving Simon side glances as she uses the Sharpie to write on the back of Sullivan’s hand. “Okay, so this is my number. If you think of anything else about Ricki or your conversation, give me a call.”
Sullivan grins at her, sly. “Can I give you a call anyway?”
Simon has an abrupt vision of himself as a French-speaking cannibal tearing strings of tendon off Daniel Sullivan’s bones with his teeth.
“Sure,” Nomi says good naturedly.
“Sweet.” Sullivan gives her what appears to be his most-practiced smile. “Real sorry to bail on you, but I gotta get the rest of these shots. Good to meet you, though. We’ll catch that drink some time.”
“I’d love that,” Nomi says, managing not to sound insincere. “See you ’round.”
Sullivan and Max the Security Guy move past them and back to the heavy door, which lets out a wail of cresting music as it opens. Nomi maintains her smile until the door closes, then lets her expression drop as she turns.
“Sully’s bought.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I mean, that guy he’s got for security is huge, but I’m telling you right now, it’s not Max who’s keeping Sully safe in the clubs. Lamonte has got to him.”
Simon leans back on the banister. “He was nervous. His hands were shaking while he smoked.”
“I saw.” She glares accusingly. “Oh, and hello—did you know you could speak French?”
“No,” Simon mutters, feeling inexplicably embarrassed.
“You were just standing there exchanging sentences in French, and I had no idea what all three of you were saying. Wow.”
“We were just talking about the pen.” His lips feel numb. He rubs his face, avoiding glancing over the banister at the four vertiginous flights of stairs below them. “I thought we were speaking in English.”
“French, Italian, Spanish, Maya, English ... You’re a regular little United Nations of languages.”
“Can we discuss this later?”
“Sure, but—”
Before she can finish, the door of the club opens again, lights and music making a localized spill in the corridor. Max the Security Guy steps out, holding a white business card between thumb and forefinger.
“Sully asks me to give you this.” Max’s English is heavily accented. The card looks like a flower petal in his large hand. “You give him a phone number, he gives you a phone number.”
“Uh, thanks?” Nomi releases her arms, takes the proffered card.
Max glowers, but it doesn’t seem directed at Nomi. “And he cannot tell you, but I will tell you. They give him money to be quiet, but also they make threats, you understand? Me, I take no money, I can say what I like.”
Nomi exchanges a glance with Simon. “What do you want to say, Max?”
“Sully and Ricki, they are talking about the ...” Max grimaces as his tolerance of English runs out. He appeals to Simon. “Can I just tell you in French? That would make everything simpler, I think.”
Nomi’s expression reveals that they’ve switched languages, but Simon nods anyway. “Of course. Go ahead, I’ll translate.”
“As you like.” Max thrusts his hands into the pockets of his coveralls. “Ricki and Sully discussed the politics of Ricki’s business. Ricki was not as stupid as Sully makes him out to be, you understand? They discussed the city council land rezoning, and the woman senator who opposes Mr. Galetti.”
