“Sure, for whatever that’s worth.”
“All right,” Irma says, “let me just tell them I’m taking you.”
Balter puts up some resistance, but tough shit. The only thing Nomi makes sure to do before she leaves is to wave at Solange and Brittany in the back of the EMT van. Solange gives her a thumbs-up and a mouthed “Thank you,” and Nomi thinks this feeling may actually be better than cutting.
They walk through the drizzling rain to Irma’s shitbox blue Honda Civic, parked a half block away because of all the unit response vehicles, and Nomi pours herself into the front passenger seat. She finally feels like she can exhale. “I really appreciate this, Irm.”
“No problem.” Irma buckles her seat belt. “Oh, and I heard back about Jeremy Axedale. Gaffney and the other response unit broke into the Perry Street apartment—apparently, the kid was pretty strung out, but he wasn’t hurt. They put him in an ambulance with a couple uniforms, and his mom was going to meet them at the hospital.”
“Glad to hear that story had a happy ending.” But Nomi doesn’t actually care much, now Brittany’s safety is assured. It’s over.
Irma starts the car, puts on the wipers, and pulls out. “Pretty crazy scene back there.”
“Uh-huh.” Nomi has her head back on the rest.
“Never seen a mess quite like it.” Irma seems determined to give her a little side-eye. “Nomes, can you level with me? You’re not going rogue on me, are you? Because I know I said you should take Lamonte out if you have a chance, but that was more of ajoke—”
“It wasn’t me, Irma.” Nomi can say it with total honesty because it’s pretty much the truth.
“Okay. Then good.” Irma’s face and shoulders soften with relief. She snorts and gives Nomi a grin. “I mean, I never really pegged you as the ‘carve ’em up’ type, you know?”
“Tell you the truth,” Nomi says, “I’m coming around to the idea,” and Irma guffaws.
Nomi almost falls asleep on the way back to Gansevoort, but when Irma pulls up at the tenement, she rouses enough to remember something. “Oh shit, my piece.”
“I’ll get it back to you once ballistics is done with it,” Irma says. “Babe, I’m really glad you’re okay. Please don’t go chasing after mobsters on your own anymore. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
They hug, and Nomi takes a lot of comfort from Irma’s soft, tobacco-smelling warmth. “Thanks for the cavalry rescue. Give my love to Dez. And, you know—thank you for everything. I couldn’t have worked this one out without you.”
Irma sniffs and smiles. “I’m still your partner in all the ways that count.”
“I know you are. Get out of here.”
Nomi makes a tired wave as Irma drives away. But as soon as the Civic is out of sight, she walks into the tenement, climbs—painfully—upstairs to Simon’s apartment and uses his keys, grabs the things sheneeds from his place before returning to the lobby area and knocking on Sofia Rosa’s door.
Her landlady answers, wiping her hands on her apron. “No-mee! You are looking very tired today, yes? Do you want coffee?”
“No coffee today,” Nomi says. “But Sofia Rosa, do you still have all the stuff that Simon used to sew me up? Can I maybe borrow it?”
Her landlady puts everything in a big Ziploc bag, and Nomi stuffs it into her jacket pocket before going back outside and limping toward the Riverview. On the way, a few people ask if she’s okay; Jamie from Florent gives her half a plain bagel. The drizzle is clearing, a minor miracle. Nomi chews on the bagel, finishes it as she finally arrives at the hotel on Jane Street.
Cherie is in the lobby and appears to have been waiting for her. “He’s through the ballroom door, in the side bathroom. I already got him a soda, and some hot water and clean towels. He was real fussy about the ‘clean’ part, even though he looks like he’s about to keel over. I said, ‘Sweetie—’”
“Thanks, Cherie, let me go check.”
In the side bathroom—which is much bigger and nicer than the one Nomi used last Friday, with a lot of white tile—Simon is sitting on the countertop, bracing his booted foot against one of the pipes along the wall. A cigarette, almost ash down to the butt, is eddying smoke from its spot in the corner of his mouth. He’s shirtless, using a damp towel to wipe blood off his neck and chest; as she arrives, he presses the towel firmly against the shallow slash wound that extends from just under his breastbone over to the ribs on his left.
“That’s not going to stop bleeding until it’s stitched up,” Nomi pronounces. She’s talking from experience.
“Or glued,” Simon agrees. He tosses the rest of the cigarette into the nearest sink, sighs deeply. “You made it.”
“Holy shit, look at you,” Nomi says.
He smiles, wan, clearly exhausted, his eyes ringed by brown circles. Beaten up, but still alive. “Hey—I can drive.”
“Congratulations.” Nomi unpacks her supplies onto the countertop. “This stuff is from Sofia Rosa. I’m going to lay it out here on a towel, and you can tell me what to do.”
Simon looks at her hands, which are still shaking slightly, the right one taped up on one side. “Actually, I think what I’d like you to do is assist.”
