Chapter Nine #2
“And instead of listening, I got angry with you. Great.” Her face is cleaner now. She glances away, back; she’s about to make a confession. “My ex-partner is still with the NYPD. She feeds me intel, but we have to be careful. The bodega is one of the safe places we can meet.”
“I’m really not trying to be your guardian, or an amateur detective.” Simon winces. “Although you’re possibly right that I need to get a hobby.”
Sofia Rosa returns then with a small tube of cream, which turns out to be the lidocaine-prilocaine mix he was hoping for; it’s typically used for catheter insertion and skin debridement, so it should dull some of the pain he’s about to inflict.
As his landlady turns off the coffee, Simon helps Nomi to recline facing the ceiling, applies the cream.
As the numbing agent takes effect, he and Sofia Rosa prep the rest of the equipment, transferring everything to a clean towel on the end table.
Sofia Rosa switches on the standing lamp before exiting to take coffee to Mr. Harvey.
Simon washes his hands in the kitchen again, this time more thoroughly.
He has no gloves, but it won’t be the first time.
He returns, checks everything over—cooled water, needle and a tough silk thread, scissors, thimble, everything boiled.
Dressing materials sit to one side. He has enough light.
Medical treatment is like cooking; it’s good to have all your ingredients prepared beforehand.
He’s feeling much calmer now, with something useful to do.
Nomi is stretched across the couch cushions in her odd outfit, a towel under her head and another beside her face.
Blood streaks have matted her white shirt collar to her neck, although she’s undone the top button and tugged off the string tie.
Her hair is unraveling from its braid, and red stains are smeared in the shaved side cut over her right ear.
Her breathing expands and deflates her skinny rib cage in a jagged staccato rhythm: She seems heightened, anxious, with good reason. Simon’s tempted to reassure her, but she’s the kind of person who views reassurance with suspicion. Better to just go with the reassurance that competence provides.
He moves the scissors so they’re more accessible. “You’re up to date with your shots?”
“What, like tetanus?” Nomi’s eyes swivel, with nothing to focus on but the ceiling. “I had one about three years ago.”
“Good enough. Okay, I’m going to rinse the wound now.
” He cleans everything gently with the cool boiled water, which also tests her level of numbness at the site.
Seems all right. Best to do this before it gets more swollen.
“The cut isn’t too deep, but it won’t stay closed on its own.
I’m only going to place enough stitches to keep it together, so it can heal. ”
“Fine.”
“Last chance,” he says. “Do you trust me to do this? This is your face.”
“Just do it.” Her voice is rough. She closes her eyes.
He takes up the needle and thread. “Did you get what you needed from your ex-partner?”
“Mostly, yeah. Some of it was useful—” Her breath hisses sharply as the needle goes in, and her cheeks flood with color.
“Keep talking,” he suggests.
“Jesus fuck.” Nomi’s lips tremble, but she’s tough. She blows out air. “Okay, so Ricki Cevolatti was a gofer for Eric Lamonte.”
“Our friend with the Italian pandering charge,” he notes. The thimble is useful for creating counterpressure to achieve skin puncture.
“Lamonte manages three clubs on the West Side.” Her face is still furiously flushed, and she’s looking at the ceiling, at the lamp, anywhere but at Simon.
She also appears to be distracting herself by divulging information.
“He coordinates hookers, drugs, booze deliveries, stuff like that. But the club properties are owned by a businessman named Arthur Galetti, who’s connected to the Gambino mob. ”
“That’s a criminal organization.” Sofia Rosa has told him about the Italian mafia. “Please don’t nod your head.”
“Sorry. But yeah. So the last few months, Galetti’s been buying up waterfront land like crazy—” She exhales as Simon ties off the first stitch.
Her fingers clutch her shirt, the fabric pulling over her stomach.
“Then he petitions city council to rezone. All above board, all legit—respectable investor in the community . . . You get the drift.”
“What’s Galetti doing with the real estate and the rezoning?”
“We don’t know. And city council must have concerns too, because they’ve been holding up the rezoning requests.”
“Right.” Simon snips thread ends with the scissors. “Well, maybe Galetti really is investing in the community.”
“I don’t believe it. Galetti’s a crook. But whatever he’s doing, he keeps his hands clean by using smaller guys like Lamonte. Ow.”
Despite the “ow,” she’s doing better with the pain than he expected. Maybe it’s the numbing cream. “Second stitch. You’re doing great.”
“Thanks, Mom.” With her head immobile, Nomi’s eyes dart away as if she’s embarrassed. Then she looks back, blinking. “You’re good at this.”
“I did a lot of assistant work for Flores in the village.” Her skin is pouched and tender. It’s a little harder with this straight needle, but he’s getting the hang of it. “I told you I lived with a doctor.”
“And you work in a slaughterhouse.” Her gaze is still on him.
Simon pierces her skin again with the needle, has an uncomfortable vision of himself tying up a carcass for spit roasting: trussing the marbled meat with neat stitched lines of twine.
But he’s not at work now. And he’s strangely discomfited by Nomi’s flushed, sweaty face, her gasping breaths, her body held at exquisite tension.
“I’ve sutured injuries plenty of times.” He wets his lips. Better to go back to their previous topic. “Okay, so Galetti’s at the top, Lamonte’s below him, and Ricki Cevolatti was the guy at the bottom who spoke out of turn.”
“Yes.” She closes her eyes as he ties off the second stitch, her respiration high and unsettled, humming through her closed lips. “Mmm . . .”
“Keep breathing.” He snips. The numbing cream really is doing a fine job.
She exhales as the needle goes in for the third stitch, her breath coming out choppy. “So I don’t know for sure, but I think Ricki blabbed about Solange Jackson. Lamonte runs contractors, small-time pimps who send hookers through the clubs. Guys, girls, whatever. Solange’s pimp, Malcolm Forest—”
“The loud guy outside your door.”
“Malcolm works for Lamonte.” Nomi braces as Simon pulls the thread through the other side.
Her fisted hand butts against his knee, and he tries not to flinch at the contact.
“Fuckfuckfuck. Okay, when Solange first hired me, she told me that about ten days ago, Lamonte arranged for Malcolm to send her to party with an exclusive client outside the club. All hush-hush, real shut-your-trap stuff. But Ricki knew about it somehow.”
“And Ricki didn’t keep his trap shut.”
“So that’s three questions now—what did Ricki know, who did he talk to, and what did he say?” She chews her bottom lip. “I’m trying to think of anyone I know who would’ve been in Ricki’s orbit.”
Simon ties the final knot carefully. “You said Ricki was a gofer? Lamonte must have had him doing something to help Solange’s assignment—driving her to the client, delivering food . . .”
“Delivering drugs.” Her expression is thoughtful. At least the conversation is keeping her distracted.
One last snip, and Simon leans back. He’s gotten over his odd discomfort of a moment ago; now he can assess the work.
For emergency surgery with improvised equipment, it’s not a bad job, and he managed to avoid sticking himself with the needle.
He rinses his hands in the bowl of water, dries them on a clean towel. “All done.”
“All done?”
“Sit up nice and slow.” Once she’s sitting, he gives her a hand mirror.
“Holy shit, I look like an extra from a Freddy Krueger film.” Nomi grimaces at herself in the glass. “I need to go back to my apartment, clean up, change clothes—”
“I still have to put a dressing on that.” Simon sets the suture equipment away to one side, reaches for the Neosporin.
“Wait.” Nomi straightens, touches his hand. Her cheeks are still pink, and she seems weirdly energized, but he’s seen people affected by postinjury adrenaline react this way. “Wait one second. I’m a mess, but we can use this.”
“What do you mean?”
She gives back the mirror. “Let me up. I think I know someone we can talk to about Ricki—”
She stands abruptly, wobbles.
“Hold on.” Forced to stand as well, he grabs her by the waist. “You have a head injury. I don’t think you should be going anywhere.”
Her face is animated, and her hands grip his forearm. “He’s one block away. Come on, Noone. We’ve got a real chance here.” Now her eyes get stubborn. “I’m going, even if I have to go slow. So you can either come along, or—”
“Are you seriously trying to either-or me?” His tone is disapproving, but it’s theater. She’s asked him to go with her. A tiny part of him is sparking, victorious. “Forget it, I’m coming along so you don’t collapse in the street.”
“Ohmigod, I won’t collapse in the street—”
“Or get beaten up again.”
“I got caught by surprise!”
“If you say so.” He glances around. “Wait, I don’t want to leave this mess here.”
He tidies everything in Sofia Rosa’s living room—bloody dish towels, surgical equipment, the tube of cream—and puts the couch to rights. The dressing materials go into his pants pocket for later. He ties his ugly jacket around his waist by the sleeves.
Nomi has been testing her limitations with standing and moving around. Now she’s ready, impatient. “Okay, let’s go.”