Chapter Four #2
“Very funny.” She’s never seen anything like it before, and she’s still getting over it. “So when you woke up, you had no idea who you were.”
“Correct.”
“But you said you’re right handed, you’re not color blind . . . You’ve done some testing. So what else do you know about yourself?”
“Well, I can read and write, obviously, and retain information. I seem to be good at math and languages. My motor skills are fine. I can ride a bicycle.” His eyes get a faraway look.
“One of the kids from the village came to the clinic and showed me cat’s cradle, but I already knew how to play .
. .” He shakes it off. “Anyway, I wasn’t catastrophically brain damaged.
I can make new memories okay, I just can’t access the old ones. ”
Her instincts to scrutinize are firing up, as if physical gears are ratcheting in her head. “Did the fact you’d been shot have significance?”
“Hard to say. The URNG were fighting government forces all up and down the country—getting shot was surprisingly easy in Guatemala back then. I might’ve just gone somewhere I shouldn’t have, walked into a bad situation, met the wrong person.
” Noone stubs out his smoke, stands to go to the kitchen and rinse his empty mug.
“Flores said there were basically four options. That I was a student or tourist of some kind, possibly in training with Médecins Sans Frontières . . . that I was a missionary . . . that I worked for one of the petro companies . . . or that I was a smuggler.”
Nomi turns in her chair. “So you could be a criminal.”
“Maybe. Who knows?”
“You don’t need anyone examining your papers too closely.”
“Not really, no.” He stands sideways, one hand on the metal sink, black shirt loose over his jeans. “I’ve only been in the country seven weeks, and I’d like to stay a little longer.”
“Until you figure this out.” Makes sense. “What’ve you been doing since you arrived?”
“Working, mainly. I’ve got the early-morning shift at Gennaro’s. They pay okay. Sofia Rosa gave me this apartment on no bond and no advance—I’ve scraped up enough to give her a month extra, so she knows I’m not going to skip out on her.”
If he gets along with their landlady, that pushes Nomi’s opinion of him closer to the green than the red.
She suddenly realizes it’s dark outside the apartment windows; she’s stayed longer than she anticipated.
It’s Friday, and her skin is prickling, calling to her—plus there’s tonight’s Riverview party to consider.
“Okay, that’s all good to know. I should really get going.” She clicks her pen, collects her notes, and stands. “Thank you for the coffee. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. But I appreciate you doing the translation for me.”
“Right, of course.” Noone extends a hand, escorts her to the door. “Come again, for all your translation needs.”
“Have you tried with any other languages?”
“No. But I guess I should do that.”
Nomi realizes she’s already decided, so she stops at the open entrance to Noone’s apartment and turns to look at him. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll help you.”
His blue eyes light. “That would be—”
“There’s conditions.” She wants to make this clear, before he gets any ideas. “I’m not moonlighting. This is my primary business, and I don’t do this work for nothing. I charge a fee. But on the upside, I’m pretty cheap.”
“I can pay you,” he says immediately.
“Great. It’s great to be paid.” It’s cooler out in the hallway; she cradles her notes and pulls her cardigan closer.
“So if I’m trying to look into your identity, your history, you’ll need to give me everything you’ve got.
Research, papers, that clothes label, everything.
As soon as I can, I’ll give it all back. ”
“Okay.”
“I have stuff to do tonight, but I’d like to talk with you again tomorrow.”
“I finish at Gennaro’s at eleven in the morning. But then I nap after I get home—I don’t really get up until about one.”
“I can work around your schedule.” Nomi feels strangely breathless. There are sharp edges to Simon Noone that make her wary, and she really hopes this isn’t a decision she’ll regret changing her mind about. “What are you going to do when we find out who you are?”
He stops. “I’ve got no idea. Figure out a way to make both halves of me join up somehow, I guess.”
Good answer. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
She leaves him rubbing the back of his neck, goes to the stairs.
Her apartment seems cluttered after Noone’s space; she closes blinds, picks up a little dirty laundry in her sleeping area, waters her plants.
Unfolds her notes and the fax copy, slides them into the Lamonte file.
Then she finds a clean manila folder and creates a new file, called Simon Noone.
She jots down everything she can remember about her conversations with him, in a series of bullet points.
Finally, she sets her pen aside. It’s evening.
She took Noone’s case because it’s intriguing.
He’s intriguing; his injury is real, and there’s something pure about it: He just wants to know who he is.
There’s no “people being awful to one another” aspect to it, which describes a lot of the cases she’s taken on over the last two years.
Half the time, her typical clients don’t really want to know the outcome of her investigation; it’s usually a worst-case scenario, because people don’t hire a backstreet private investigator when the situation is a happy one, so she’s always put into the position of feeling like a carrion crow who delivers terrible news.
But Noone wants these answers; Nomi could see it. It’s eating him up, not knowing. To him, she’s not a black-winged bearer of bad tidings, but someone who will provide him with valuable insight.
And he helped her with the Italian. For a moment, it took her back to her experiences of collegiality while working with a team on a case.
It had felt good to sit next to someone, both of you collaborating to dig up information.
She used to like working with others—in the NYPD, it was only that she couldn’t stomach dealing with the people she was supposed to be on a team with. This was different. Better.
Nomi checks her watch: A little over an hour before she needs to walk to the Riverview. She’s antsy—that familiar restlessness under her skin—but she can control herself until she gets home later. She’s getting better at this.
She makes a small dinner: omelet with lots of butter, sauerkraut on the side, a handful of tortilla chips. She showers and changes into fresh jeans and a sleeveless Cramps shirt, plus an oversize black leather jacket. Eyeliner, silver earrings, a studded leather cuff, and she’s ready to go.
Through the door, downstairs, out in the street—the district is starting to come alive again in the early dark of night: There are more people on Gansevoort now than there were at midday.
Nomi heads toward Washington, nods to a girl on a fire escape farther along, nods to a man behind the wheel of a truck near the corner.
She’s glad for her boots on the cobblestones; most of the hookers around here wear stilettos, and she’s always worried about their ankles.
Hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, she crosses the street and follows the road toward Horatio, watching for headlights, taillights.
There are a lot of folks cruising in cars, some on business.
Back in the day, she would’ve dreaded a street-beat detail in the Meatpacking District—too many variables, too many loose units, too much risk.
But those same aspects help her now, covering her tracks, disguising her passage.
She can stay low to the ground here, which is how she likes it.
The tall pylons of the elevated train overpass are solid blocks of concrete and steel, like walking around under a jetty, as if Pier 51 has spawned a dry-land version of itself here under the streetlamps.
Nomi stays out of the really dark pools of shadow.
Up ahead, the Riverview’s red brick ramparts, genteelly dilapidated.
The building has been a local institution since 1908, as much a part of the district as the blood in the streets.
The plan is to get inside, check in with Enrique, watch the show. Between dances and people watching, she can catch up with at least three contacts who might have some information on Lamonte’s known associates.
A small crowd is wandering around or toward the hotel on Jane Street, lured by the sound of a pulsing club beat.
Nomi does a quick scan, ducks up the steps and between the grand columns at the hotel’s entrance.
In the lobby, the music is louder, and people are gathering, chatting, laughing.
It feels like a party. The black-felt-covered ballroom door opens occasionally, letting out the soaring vocals of the Communards and an exciting flash of sparkling glitter before closing again.
A little entry queue has formed behind a tall Black drag performer in booty shorts and kitten heels, who’s getting change from the cashier. Once they walk off, the line moves forward, and eventually Nomi steps up to the grille.
“Hey, Cherie, how you doing?”
“All good, just don’t ask me for change.” Cherie, currently chewing gum, is twenty-three years old, from Hoboken, and lives at the Riverview as well as working here. “Hey, Nomi, when you gonna learn how to dress, huh? That Cramps shirt . . .”
Nomi grins. “Shut up and give me a ticket. Is Enrique around? He said he’d put my name on the door, but I can pay if he hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Nah, you’re good, he put you on the list. Hold up, let me stamp you.” Cherie administers a pad stamp to the back of Nomi’s left hand. “There you go, honey. Go crazy. Enjoy the show.”
“Thanks.”