“Twinset-and-pearls type, right. Well, she did go to Harvard.” Nomi grimaces. She waves the notepad, making the pages flutter. “So what has Galetti got on her that’s made her bend over?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have anything. Maybe it’s a direct threat.”
“She’s a lawyer and a former senator—I imagine she’s been exposed to threats before.”
“She’s got three kids in their twenties.”
Could that be a possibility? “What are their names?”
“Charles, Marion, and David.” Noone settles back, finally looking more relaxed. “No Jeremy, sorry. But maybe it’s the husband—an affair, a business scandal.”
“You bought me a hoya,” Nomi says suddenly.
The plant is sitting on the coffee table, where Noone placed it before he sat down. It’s a small specimen, clearly propagated from a cutting, but it’s already got some nice leaf growth, variegated and glossy. The tube is sitting in a little puddle of Saran wrap, which appears to have been wreathed around the base so Noone could transport it.
“You were upset last night. I’m sorry I upset you. I’m sorry I screwed up.” Noone scratches the bridge of his nose. She wouldn’t say he looks penitent, but his eyes have gone softer. “I don’t know what a hoya is. I don’t know anything about houseplants. You want a plant in Piedras Negras, you just step outside the door and—”
“You freak me out.” Nomi clutches her mug.
“Okay.” He seems to be mentally debating how to phrase his response. His words come out halting. “I don’t ... always have great control over how my condition manifests. But I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory last night. Again, I apologize.”
“I put you on the spot at the club.” Her admission is a peace offering. “And itwasreally good to have backup—I wouldn’t have gotten the information from Janice or Max without you.”
He opens out his hand. “I’ll try to do better?”
Nomi sighs, stands up. “Okay, come on. I got some more stuff from my ex-partner today about Lamonte’s guys—let’s see if we can figure out which dots connect.”
Chapter Seventeen
October 1987, Thursday
Simon is on his 7:00 a.m. break at work. He’s already eaten a corned beef sandwich in the employees’ room, and he’s now drinking coffee out of a thick white ceramic mug while having a cigarette with other workers in the alley beside Gennaro’s. The alley is dark, the external walls dripping with slimy condensation. The location is insalubrious, it’s noisy with the factory air-conditioning, and there’s only milk crate seating, but this is still somehow the most enjoyable cigarette Simon smokes all day.
Mike Nell pushes his mustached face, then his entire stocky self, out through the plastic strips in the staff doorway. “Noone? A word.”
Simon doesn’t like the sound of that, but he walks over. “Something else you need me for?”
“Not exactly.” Nell’s face is impassive. “Some fella came around last night asking about you. Said he owed you money, but I didn’t believe it.”
Simon finds a smooth, cold pit has opened up in the middle of his stomach. “That’s good to know.”
“Look, I’m not gonna ask if you’re in trouble, because I honestly don’t give a shit. But if you’re planning on skipping town or something, do me a favor and let me know so it doesn’t fuck up the roster.”
“I’m not skipping town,” Simon says immediately. “If I have to take a break, I’ll tell you.”
“Good,” Nell says. “I hate having to deal with new hires. Also, you’re the best cutter I’ve got for the morning slot, and I’ll be pissed off to lose you.”
“If that guy comes again—”
“Don’t worry, I know how to say ‘fuck off.’” Nell turns and walks back to whatever he was doing.
Simon strides home after his shift, mulling things over. So here it is: the inevitable consequence of his own stupid actions on Tuesday night. Wonderful. He’d even given Ameche his name. What on earth had he beenthinking?
There was nothought, you didn’tthink, you just acted—Nomi’s words from their very first meeting roll back, hammer home. Simon feels like the worst kind of fool.
He checks the lobby of the tenement, and the stairs as he climbs them. There’s no one lurking on Nomi’s floor or his own. He lets himself into his apartment, closes the door, flips the deadbolt. If Nomi’s trick with the lock picking tools is anything to go by, the deadbolt isn’t a serious obstacle for someone trying to break in, but unfortunately, it’s all he’s got.
Simon strips out of his boots and clothes, takes a shower. This situation reminds him so much of his first years of recovery in Guatemala: this impulsivity, the lack of self-control, the urge to lean into his instincts, despite being shown again and again that his instincts could be wrong. So many times, he would come to and find himself standing somewhere—outside at the edge of the forest, inside a room of the clinic house—and Flores would take his elbow gently and say, “Whatever you are seeing, it is not there, my friend. Close your eyes and reach out your hand. Touch the tree trunk. Touch the tabletop. That is solid. That is real.”
