“I can’t have you here,” she protested. “I need to leave for work soon.”
“We won’t stay long,” Gianni said, then laughed. “What’s with thelaundry?” He pointed to her clothesline. “You wear anything besides black T-shirts and hoodies? What are you, a twelve-year-old boy?”
Usually inured to his jabs, Nikki nonetheless tensed in annoyance.
“Fuck off,” she said.
“Gianni, be respectful,” Raoul scolded indulgently.
Mac chimed in with, “What a great old building. So much character.”
“Mamma bought it in the seventies.” Gianni’s voice oozed with nostalgia. “I have so many memories here.”
Nikki rolled her eyes.
“What memories?” she challenged. “We lived in military housing. Mom kept renters here.”
Gianni shrugged. “Fond memories.”
—
Inside, Gianni helped himself to coffee, rifling through the kitchen and shouting for Nikki to tell him where she kept the sugar and to ask if she had biscuits.
Nikki snapped, “Don’t fuck up my kitchen. You have ten minutes.”
She darted towards her bedroom.
—
To her irritation, Mac followed her into the narrow hallway.
“Hey, Nina,” he said. “Do you have a moment?”
She shook her head. “Not really. I need to get to work.”
But he didn’t leave. Instead, he drew in closer.
“You’re plugged in around the neighborhood, aren’t you?” he asked.
So near, she saw his pores and the flare of his nostrils, and smelled his breath—onions and fish.
“What do you mean?”
He leaned against the wall and smiled.
“I mean…a smart, beautiful woman like you. Doors would open.”
Nikki blew out. “What are you getting at?”
“Have you thought about leveraging your access?”
“What?”
“You see things,” he coaxed. “…know things. You could help a lot of people out if you share what you know.”
He brushed fingers lightly against her arm. She recoiled.
“You should leave,” she said.
