Simon is giving Nomi the translation in spurts, but now she lifts a finger to interrupt. “The woman senator—do you mean Gloria Axedale?”
Simon doesn’t know that name.
“Yes, this is the woman,” Max confirms. “Mr. Galetti wants more properties. He’s buying places all along the High Line route. He submits his rezone applications, and this Axedale woman is denying them.”
“Did they mention any policies?” Despite the language barrier, Nomi’s trying to drill down for details. “Anything to do with monopoly land ownership?”
Max makes a “maybe” face. “There is something about the Cabaret Law. But this is a New York issue I don’t understand.”
“This is all public information, though,” Nomi insists. “It’s not something Ricki should have gotten killed for sharing.”
Max shakes his head. “No, listen.” He turns to Simon. “Tell her this—tell her that Ricki said the Axedale woman can no longer refuse the rezoning. He said that Mr. Galetti has found a way to make her behave.”
When Simon is finished, Nomi frowns. “What way?”
“This, I do not know.” Max has shifted back to English. “Sully, he wants to report this, but then he learns of Ricki’s death. He receives aphone call. Now, of course, he cannot report, not if he wants to keep his tongue in his mouth and his fingers on his hands.”
“Or the money in his bank account,” Nomi says.
The big man shrugs, his shoulders like two ham hocks. “That is all I can tell you.”
“Max, this is incredibly helpful,” Nomi says. “Thank you for speaking with me.”
“He is a foolish man, my boss—too much powder, you understand? But you should have this information.” Before turning to go back into the club, Max looks at Simon. “Look after your lady. And I do not think you are Québécois, my friend. My father is from Rouen, I have been to France many times—you have more Parisian than Canadien in your accent. It was a pleasure to meet you, though.”
The security man raises a large palm in farewell, walks back through the door.
Nomi spins around. “Goddamn.”
Simon’s head is hammering, and he wants to unpack Max’s comment about his French-language background, but this puzzle is still tugging at him. “Who’s Gloria Axedale?”
“I mean, seriously, goddamn.” Nomi looks rattled and excited at once. “Axedale is a former member of the New York State Senate. She’s the current chair of the New York City Planning Commission.”
“So Ricki talked with a journalist about clashes between Galetti and Axedale, the chair of the planning commission, over rezoning.”
“And how Galetti now has a way to make Axedale approve his rezoning requests,” Nomi says. “Don’t forget that part. That’s the biggest part.”
“Then Ricki turned up dead. And now Lamonte has bought the journalist.”
Nomi chews at the metal in her bottom lip. “How is Galetti influencing Axedale?”
“Mobsters, state senators, New York City planning ... This is getting a little complicated, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not to mention that you’ve somehow picked up the ability to speak Parisian French.”
“I didn’t ‘pick it up,’ it just ...” Simon exhales, his head fuzzy. “Is it time to go home now?” He doesn’t want to sound plaintive, but it sort of comes out like that.
“I need my jacket,” Nomi reminds him.
They return to the club, head for the cloakroom. Nomi hands the guy her ticket, but there’s a queue. Simon stands beside her and wonders what her lip ring would feel like on his tongue if they kissed, distracts himself with a final scan of the floor.
He should say something. “I apologize. For—you know, before, on the couch.”
Nomi glances at him and snorts. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I acted like an idiot.”
“You’re recovering from a migraine, half cut on medication, then I pour schnapps down your throat and drag you along to a nightclub ...” She shakes her head at her own poor judgment. “You did tell me you get a little loopy.”
