Chapter Four #3
And she’s through the felt-covered door.
There’s no bouncer, because this is not really a club, in the same way that the Riverview—with so many permanent residents—is not really a hotel.
Tonight, the ballroom here is an event space; tomorrow, it could be something else, a market or a sex dungeon or a cinema for a community movie night.
Everything is fluid in the Meatpacking District. Nothing is permanent.
Well, some things are permanent. Past the strobes, Nomi takes off her leather jacket for the cloakroom, exposing her tattoos.
This is how most people in the West Village know her: by the black ring circling her right bicep, by the flames and thorny vines and roses climbing up her left arm from her wrist, by the two ravens battling across her right shoulder blade, wings feathering the back of her neck.
And now, by the—hard-to-make-out—pad stamp of a pair of burning lips on her left hand.
Turning from the cloakroom, she sees Enrique wave nearby; he’s laden down with a makeup case, a garment bag for his outfit, a pair of heels dangling from one finger. “Nomi! Hey, girl! I got your thing.”
She squeezes through to reach him, grinning. “Another thing?”
He scrounges in the back pocket of his parachute pants, holds up a little clear baggie. “Here you go. Marco says he’s sorry the old amethyst one broke, and he hopes you love this new one.”
Nomi takes the baggie, swallows hard: inside, a perfect obsidian arrowhead, no bigger than a Kennedy half dollar, wrapped in silver wire at the base and ready to be suspended from a necklace.
“It’s gorgeous.” She’s dry mouthed. “Marco did a great job.”
“He said he’s got a chain for it, if you want.”
“I don’t need a chain.” She clutches the baggie, tries to keep her hand from shaking as she thanks Enrique, as he air-kisses her cheek and sashays away.
Between her fingers, the obsidian’s hardness bites through the plastic.
Now, the question of what to do. She should wait; she knows that.
But there’s an incessant hum on her body’s entire surface.
If she doesn’t do something to calm it, she’ll be distracted all night.
Okay, fine.
She finds Mischa among the crush of people closest to the corner by the door, with the rest of the dealers whose business model involves being accessible. He’s wearing leather pants with a silver velvet shirt, and a Day-Glo headband already dark with perspiration.
He returns her nod. “Hey, what’s happening, sugar?”
“Those pants look too hot,” she notes.
“Ohmigod, I know,” Mischa says. “I’m sweating like crazy.”
Leo Farina, with one foot propped against the wall, peers around his hangers-on to see her. “Well, lookie here, it’s Dirty Harriet.”
This gets a few guffaws. Leo’s in tight white trousers with a shiny black shirt, open to show off his chest. He has a lot of gel in his hair and looks like he’s already got a good buzz on: It’s common knowledge that Leo gets high off his own supply.
Nomi usually ignores him; Leo is a tourist at the Riverview.
His primary beat is Chachi’s, a few blocks south, where the straights are cashed up enough to afford blow, Leo’s stock in trade.
But tonight, he’s in her territory, and she’s jazzed by the baggie in her hand, happy to wrestle.
“Hey, Leo, the guys from Saturday Night Fever called. They want the costume back.”
A chorus of “ooohhh”s from the corner boys. Lip twitching, Leo waves a hand to show he can take a joke.
“Don’t tease.” Mischa play slaps her arm. “You want some party favors?”
“Nah, nothing fancy, Meesh, just the usual.” Nomi gives him the money, they make the exchange, then she ducks behind the cloakroom to a small empty bathroom, which is badly lit and smells like moldy drywall.
From Mischa’s packet, she takes a single Valium and breaks it with her short thumbnail, swallows one half with water from the faucet. It’s less than she needs, but she’s super careful with benzos; getting into a bad habit is too easy. She has enough bad habits already.
Out in the ballroom, the Communards have given way to New Order.
Nomi holds up the clear baggie from Enrique, with the pendant inside glittering like a black shark’s tooth.
The arrowhead is surprisingly heavy, nicely weighted.
When she takes it out, the silver wire is helpful for grip.
She’s sweating a little. Normally, she would never do this here—she has rules.
But it’s Friday, it’s past her regular time, and getting her new tool has got her thrumming.
She doesn’t want to ritualize it here, and this space isn’t private. Better to move fast.
Nomi lifts the hem of her shirt and flicks the sharp edge of the arrowhead against the skin to the right of her belly button. Blood wells, and the humming wasps inside her body still. Her focus returns. She sighs in relief.
Because this is also how people in the Village know her. It’s part of who she is, part of her identity, a side of herself that she occasionally lets loose. It’s one of the reasons why she’s here. Because being in the district isn’t an accident.
Nomi stanches the red with a Kleenex, pressing hard.