“Yeah—work with me.” She’s not sure why she’s suggesting this now, but it feels right. “I mean, still do your other job, obviously. But also, hey, let me exploit some of those skills and freaky insights and whatever that you’ve got, in a way that will actuallyhelppeople—like you helped Brittany. Think about it. For the last five years, you didn’t know where all that stuff came from. Well, now you know. Now you canharnessit.”
He bites his bottom lip. “But ... what if the me I was starts to reemerge?”
Nomi stands to face him, caps the soda and sets it down. “Like I said, I give advice with provisos. But you want my advice? Don’t overthink it.”
“Don’t overthink it? Okay.” He looks grateful, relieved even, for this strange absolution.
“Yeah.” Nomi hands him his coat. “Now come on. Let’s get you home.”
Chapter Thirty-One
October 1987, Saturday
The walk home is slow going, and Simon feels a twinge someplace on his body with every single step, but at last they’re on Gansevoort and back at the tenement. Incredibly, it’s nearly five thirty in the afternoon; the day’s storm has blown itself out, leaving the district’s streets cool and clean smelling, which is certainly a novelty.
Nomi helps him on the stairs, which are a challenge. Then he’s back inside his warm, golden apartment—how he’s missed it!—and she’s steering him to sink into a chair, bringing him a glass of water.
“Here you go.” She sets the glass and the bag of medical supplies on his breakfast table. “And hey, I have to get some groceries before I flake out, so I might as well walk down to Gennaro’s and tell your supervisor guy that you’re out of action for tonight, yeah?”
Simon winces at the thought of screwing up Mike Nell’s roster. “Give him my apologies and tell him I’ll be back on board in a couple days.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine about it. Get some rest. I’ll knock on your door later and make sure you’re still alive.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Coma watch?”
Nomi grins. “I mean, you’ve probably got a concussion, right? Seems only fair that I get to return the favor and wakeyouup every four hours. Okay, last chance—do you need anything from Perrotta’s?”
“Thanks, but no. I’m good.”
She turns for the door, hesitates. “One thing before I go ...”
“What is it?”
“‘It’s a good game’?” She tilts her head, like the inquisitive little mammal she is.
He sighs. He’d been wondering if she would bring this up, and now, when his energy is at its lowest, she’s hitting him with it. “I didn’t mean it, Nomi. I didn’t want Lamonte and the others examining Brittany too closely, and I had to say something to convince you she was dead, so I picked the worst thing I could think of.”
“Deceptive and manipulative behavior, huh?” If they were arguing, or if this were more of an interrogation, she’d be crossing her arms.
“I’m sorry,” he says simply.
She relaxes her shoulders, lets it go. “Ah, forget it. But next time we’re being tortured by mobsters, try not to be such a dick about it, yeah?”
“I’ll do my best.”
She nods and turns, mollified. “Okay, I’m outta here. See you in four hours.”
Once Nomi’s gone, Simon looks around. There’s still a little blood spatter on the floor, and the saucepan of ponche remains sitting on the stove. He drinks the water Nomi left for him and contemplates moving. His bed seems mighty appealing right now, but there are a number of actions he needs to perform to get there. He has to take off his coat, his boots, close his curtains. He also wouldn’t mind a coffee—a proper coffee—and a cigarette.
But before that, even, he needs food: He’s starving. Apparently, being abducted, and concussed, and tortured, and fighting for your life gives you an appetite—who knew?
Simon pushes himself upright by leaning on the breakfast table, hissing sharply when he straightens. But once he’s up, it’s easier. He putters about slowly in the kitchen, puts on coffee, rinses out the dirty saucepan, finds himself a plate, cutlery.
While the coffee is brewing, he goes to the bathroom and checks himself in the mirror. There he is, all right: a white man in his mid-twenties with a longish face, blue eyes. A fairly standard configuration for a face. He rubs two fingers over the ridged white scar where his neck meets his shoulder on the right. There are parts of him that are fixed, set, branded into him like this scar, like the scar beneath his hair. Other parts of him are life-changingly altered, or still in flux, and maybe—for the first time in five years—he can feel some peace about that. Not everything that was lost had value. Not everything that was lost was worth saving.
In the mirror, there’s a raft of new bruises; he looks peaky and pale, and very much like he’s been beaten up. But he looks normal. His features are stable, and he recognizes himself—heknowshimself. He’s still him.
Perhaps in this new country and new community, without the pressure of wondering if he’ll be able to make the disparate elements of his identity line up, he can rewrite the story of who he is. NotHaw, notSimon Gutmunsson: just Simon Noone. A man of his own invention. A man who is trying—so very hard—to be good.
