“Ray, use your brain,” Gino Hart says. Hart’s aura is a violent magenta, a color only seen in nature in things like poisonous bugs or toxic plants. “If he killed the kid, he’s not law enforcement.”
“Feds can shoot up in front of you,” Dinkins whines, “so who the hell knows? Maybe he’s deep cover. How the fuck can you tell?”
“Who are you, dipshit?” Ameche pokes Simon in the shoulder before turning back to his boss. “I only got a few details—he’s like a ghost. He works at Gennaro’s, lives at that dump on Gansevoort ... Maybe he’s fucking the PI girl.” Ameche turns to Nomi then, a big grin stretched across his blunt face. “Is he fucking you, sweetheart? Is that what this is? Did you drag your little boyfriend into this mess because you needed a big strong man at your back? Fucking feminist bitches, it’s always the same.”
“I don’t know who he is,” Nomi says blankly, and she actually doesn’t look sure, so she’s really convincing. Simon wonders if maybe he wastoopersuasive when he talked to her?
“What if heiswith the Westies?” Hart suggests.
“Does it matter?” Lamonte says, shrugging. “Did you ask him?”
“Hey, box cutter man,” Hart says. “Are you with Jimmy Coonan’s crew?” He makes a face as he looks at Ameche. “Claude, what did I tell you? You hit him too hard.”
“I hit him just enough,” Ameche counters, and he slaps Simon’s shoulder again. “Hey! I’m talking to you, fuckface. What’s your deal? Who are you?”
“I’m no one.” Simon keeps his eyes on Nomi when he says it. This is going to end badly, but at least these guys aren’t focused on her anymore.
“Ah, Jesus,” Ray Dinkins laments.
“Let him have it,” Lamonte says.
Simon feels a sudden snap in his neck, and he’s looking at the other side of the room, which—even before the explosion in his cheek and head—is the first thing that registers when Ameche hits him across the face with the hand holding his gun. Pain radiates out like a burst of white light, filling up Simon’s eyeballs, lifting his brainpan.
“Are you a fed?” Ameche pistol-whips him again. “Are you LA?”
“I’m not either of those things.” Simon’s mouth is bleeding, and the sting feels fuzzy and warm, makes his voice mumbly. “I’m no one.”
Ameche shakes his head.
Lamonte says, “Gino?” in a world-weary tone, and Gino Hart steps in close to Simon and says, “You’re mine now, baby,” and the expression on Hart’s face is as happy as a kid on his birthday.
Simon tries to ignore this. He works at moving his wrists around inside the duct tape securing him to the chair.
What seems like eons ago, Captain Felipe Brava berated a crew member in Simon’s presence for using duct tape for some chore. Brava had turned to Simon and waved the roll and said, “I hate this stuff. It’s stupid stuff. Who would use duct tape on a boat?” which Simon took to mean that moisture acts on tape like it acts on everything you use at sea, that is to say, deleteriously. Metal and rubber and hemp endure, but duct tape is about as useful as paper and probably moreannoying, as you think you’ve done a job, but then the job you did with it breaks again.
Simon’s not sure why he’s thinking about Brava, or about boats, except that he’d like to be on one right now, and not here in this warehouse. But the captain was right; duct tape will loosen when it’s moist, and the blood covering Simon’s left wrist is helping the work.
“Okay,” Gino Harts says, as he leans with his hands on his knees, regarding Simon. “I’m gonna make you hurt now. If you want it to stop, just tell us who you are.”
He uses scissors to cut off Simon’s vest, then yanks down the collar of his Henley, and Simon wonders why, until Hart goes to the workbench and collects a cordless drill.
Nomi makes a strangled noise, says, “Ohgod...”
Simon takes a number of deep breaths.
The sound, when Hart uses the drill on Simon’s left pectoral, is like nothing he’s heard before, except in the slaughterhouse in an amplified version; it’s the screech of the electric meat saw as it cuts through a haunch. It’s not quite the same sound, but it’s in the same family, and Simon would scream just as loud if it were the meat saw cutting him.
“I’mno one,” he gasps, when Hart pauses. “I’mno one.”
But he can hardly breathe, the pain in his head like an eclipse, the pain in his chest like a brand. He’s going to throw up.
“Heh, then I guess we try again,” Hart says, smiling, as he lifts the drill.
“Stop!” Nomi yells. “Fuckingstop, oh JesusChrist—”
But now Hart is drilling the other side of Simon’s chest. Simon shudders in his chair like he’s convulsing, pain bursting inside his head like an exploding star. His jaw locks, his legs turn to water. Nomi is crying.
“Are we having fun yet?” Hart asks, grinning like a magenta demon as he turns to Nomi. “Don’t worry, sweetheart—you’re next.”
