“Nope.” She softens the refusal. “You have a shift at Gennaro’s in a few hours.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll be fine.”
Simon’s brows knit. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.” Nomi retrieves her beanie, jams it back on her head, studying his face. It hasn’t escaped her attention, how haggard he looks. “You should get some sleep before work. You look like shit.”
“Wow, thanks.” But this interaction has been less antagonistic than when they last spoke, a few hours ago, and he seems faintly relieved. He turns to head upstairs, turns back. “I finish at eleven. Don’t go exploring Galetti’s properties without me.”
“You got it.” She checks her watch. “I’ve gotta go. It’s nearly midnight.”
“Nomi?”
“What?” She’s at the top of the stairs to the ground floor.
He gestures toward his own head. “You, uh, need your stitches out. They’ve been in nearly six days.”
“Tomorrow,” she promises, and then she’s gone.
There’s nothing like Gansevoort Street in all its chaotic, nasty, lewd, bustling glory in the middle of the night. Refrigerated trucks are humming, traffic and people trundle around, lights cut throughthe dark. The scents of meat and diesel strike up through her nose, and there’s a breeze starting to whip up the sidewalk. Huddled deep in her jacket, Nomi marches briskly past puddles of standing water near the drains. The temperature is crisp, and the cobblestones are slippery. She’s feeling good, and it’s not just because she’s cut recently: Tonight has been a seesaw of disaster and triumph, but it looks like things might actually be tipping toward triumph, and when does that ever happen?
When she gets to the Riverview and Mischa’s not there, it still doesn’t spoil Nomi’s mood.
“You just missed him, hon,” Cherie calls out. “He’s gone up to the corner.”
“Thanks, Cherie.” Nomi reverses course.
The corner is the Triangle building. She follows Greenwich until it turns into Ninth Avenue, finally arrives at the pink slice of nightclub heaven. Friday night, the outside curb is absolutely pumping, and it takes her a minute to weave between patrons and pimps and dealers and tourists before she finds Mischa near the entrance to Hellfire.
“Well, hello!” He’s in leather pants again, which now makes more sense on this cold night, and a voluminous purple parka along with his regular Day-Glo headband. “How are you, sweetie?”
“Good,” Nomi says. “Great. Any word on that thing I asked you about?”
“No-thing,” Mischa enunciates. “No damn thing at all. I’m real sorry. I asked everyone I know.”
“That’s okay, man. Don’t worry about it. You did your best.” She can’t help being disappointed, though.
Mischa makes a face. “Ugh, I feel bad about it. Is there anything else you need, maybe?”
She considers. She still hasn’t taken any Valium, and she’s only got the one tab left—but perhaps tonight she can stand to relax a little. “Actually, yeah. You wanna help me out with my usual?”
“Of course!”
Mischa has secret pockets everywhere for his various products—he roots inside his jacket. They make the exchange. High above, a quiet grumble of thunder, maybe some bad weather coming in. Nomi’s about to thank Mischa and walk off when she sees it.
Farther ahead, outside the entrance to Big Mouth, Lamonte’s flunky Ray Dinkins is making a performative farewell with one of the hookers from the club. She’s hanging on his arm. He’s laughing and waving her off. He looks pretty drunk—he’s having trouble pouring himself into the back seat of a cab—and he’s alone; Nomi clocked that immediately. No Gino, no Claude, no Eric Lamonte, just Ray in his orange satin shirt and ugly pants and leather tie.
And here she is, without a ticket to the ball.
Nomi keeps her eyes on Dinkins as she speaks in an undertone to Mischa. “Meesh, are you carrying right now?”
Mischa shakes his head. “Baby, you know that’s not my scene.”
Dinkins finally manages to get himself into a cab, closes the door.
“Okay, no problem,” Nomi says. “Thanks for the help tonight.”
