“Wait,” she says, then some sort of mechanism rights itself in her brain, and she gets up and runs over to some place he can’t see behind him. By the time he’s struggled awkwardly into a sitting position—ow—she’s back with a set of keys, which she shoves into his hand. “Gino Hart parked outside on the street. It’s a white Ford Escort with a busted side window. We’re near West Nineteenth and Tenth Avenue—oh shit, can you even drive?”
He starts to laugh at that, but it’s too painful, so he stops. “I guess we’ll find out.” Then, as Nomi’s helping him to stand up—fuck, thathurts—he thinks of something else. “The cops will ask what happened.”
Nomi puts a hand to her forehead; it seems as if she might have a headache too. Brittany looks up at Nomi and pats her knee; then Nomi gets another flash of common sense. “Lock me in the storage room with Brittany.”
“What?”
“I mean it—lock us both in the storage room.”
It’s smart, a level of smart he’s only just able to keep up with at the moment. “Good idea. And look, I won’t go to the tenement, in case the police go there with you to do follow-up. Meet me at the Riverview?”
Nomi is passing him his coat. “Will you be all right?”
Pulling on his coat involves moving too many parts of him that sting or ache, but he accomplishes it somehow. “I survived a headshot, I’m pretty sure I’ll survive this. Okay, let’s go.”
Nomi picks up Brittany in her arms, walks over to the storage-room door. She’s reassuring the girl that next time the door opens, Brittany’s mom will be there, but it’s still a hard sell—Simon understands why. But the sirens are closing, and there’s not much time.
Before he shuts the door on them both, he squeezes Brittany’s shoulder and says goodbye, gives Nomi her jacket. “Good luck with the police.”
“Good luck on the road.” Her dark eyes are a little vulnerable, for what he thinks might be the first time. “See you soon.”
Then the solid door has sealed them in, and he flips the hasp and clicks the padlock, walks away.
Simon has no memory of arriving at the warehouse, because of unconsciousness, and now he’s got to navigate his way out. He staggers to a large metal sliding door, walks through and discovers a garage. Straight ahead, a large warehouse door is open: Wind blows in, and it’s cold, and he can see the outside. He has no idea where he is, but this is the direction he’s moving in, and hopefully, he’ll be gone before the police arrive.
He pulls his peacoat tighter, limps through this garage area past an old forklift; then he’s in a front yard which is open to the gray sky. Rain is still coming down, a light drizzle now, and the cold breeze sneaks in behind his collar; the nape of his neck is damp, and he shivers. There’s a plywood fence, and on the left, an entry door, which is swinging a little in the breeze; it bumps him gently as he totters out onto the street.
Sirens are getting louder. He looks around: On his right, parked on the curb, is a white car with a spiderweb of cracks in the rear passenger window. He walks over to it, uses the keys in his hand to unlock the driver’s side door.
Getting into the car is tricky and somewhat painful. But once he’s in, and the door is shut, he’s warmer. Now what? He exhales, lets his hands move: They function confidently of their own volition, putting the blood-slippery key in the car’s ignition, starting the engine, remembering headlights and wipers and seat belt. He even knows how to put the seat back to accommodate his legs, which are longer than Gino Hart’s were.
I know how to drive. How about that.
Simon puts the car in gear, works the hand brake, and rolls off the curb. He still hasn’t had a cigarette, and he has a strong desire for one, but determines that—on balance—destabilizing his newly discovered driving skills and jolting his body’s various wounds for the sake of anicotine hit probably isn’t worth it. He’s mostly numb right now, and he’d like to keep it that way for a while.
His brain is still whirring, though, and it’s currently showing him a map of New York City streets from West Nineteenth to Eleventh Avenue and onward—he even remembers which streets are one way only.
Turn left onto West Nineteenth, left again onto Eleventh, left onto West Fifteenth, right onto Ninth, right onto Jane ...
He’ll be at the Riverview in no time.
Chapter Thirty
October 1987, Saturday
The hardest part, for completely understandable reasons, was convincing Brittany to go back with her into the storage room. But it was worth it, just to see the look on the little girl’s face when the door is cracked open by a couple of the guys from Tenth Precinct and Solange is on the other side.
Both Solange and Brittany burst into tears. Nomi gets a bit choked up, before reminding herself that she has to have her shitvaguelytogether in front of Felix Balter and her former colleagues—although she does get a solid hug from Irma, still in her civvies, so that kind of helps. It also helps that Irma assures her she’s following up personally to guarantee Brittany and Solange won’t be separated by social services; Nomi was worried about that.
Brittany is checked over by the EMT, who says she’s completely fine, although he notes that she seems a little underfed, and slightly groggy with shock. Nomi has to wave both hands to get them to checkherover. The EMT guy says the grains of gunpowder in her cheek will work out on their own, and he examines her finger, finally saying, “Well, it’s broken”—so helpful. He doesn’t even give her drugs, just suggests she take ibuprofen, before giving her one of those stupid metal finger splints, which she immediately gives back in favor of simply taping her pinkie to her ring finger. Altogether, the EMT’s a real dud,but Nomi feels pretty proud of herself that she didn’t give the scalpel blades in his medical kit more than a single glance.
Balter wants to question her; then after he’s looked around the warehouse, he wants to question her some more. But the beauty of being a civilian is that she can simply say, “I’m feeling crummy now, and I want to go home,” and they can’t make her stay. There isn’t much she has to lie about—apparently, being locked in a storage room for the duration of the incident provides you with a Get Out of Jail Free card—and she’s not doing the cleanup, thank Christ: A job of that magnitude is best left to the professionals.
About an hour after the blues arrive, Irma comes over and says, “Are you sick of being here?”
“Yeah, actually, I am.” Nomi’s feeling that postadrenaline exhaustion now, but she’s still amused by Irma’s T-shirt, which has a big Daffy Duck on it. “Can you give me a ride?”
“Have you been checked by medical?”
