Chapter Sixteen
Nomi looks around at the rear courtyard of the bodega, which is gray with damp. Benito has given up on getting his dish towels dry today; instead, a half dozen large plastic food-display tubs are stacked together against the fence, their backs exposed to the rain.
“First of all, what’s the big deal with the rezoning?” Irma is in her blues, her NYPD cap resting on the ugly table. She’s eating her chopped cheese in big bites, a little lettuce and mayo leaking out the side.
Nomi is pacing on the pavers and smoking one of Irma’s Winstons while swigging a soda.
She stopped buying cigarettes years ago, when the cherry-red glow of the burning tip began looking too tempting, but sometimes she still needs that nicotine hit.
“It’s something to do with monopoly land ownership and the Cabaret Law.
I’ll have to do more research. I’m assuming, if Galetti is fighting so hard over it, it’s something that’s preventing him from making money. ”
Irma nods, talking with a mouthful. “It’s always about the money.”
“If Axedale was opposing Galetti in the planning commission, then she was limiting his ability to cash in.”
“But Ricki told this Sullivan guy that Galetti had found a way to put pressure on Axedale, so she sings to his tune?” Irma dabs at her mouth with a paper napkin. “Man, I need a board full of index cards to get all this who’s-who stuff straight.”
“No, you’ve got it right.”
“Galetti wants his rezoning plans approved.” Irma sighs. “And Ricki got knocked because he told all of this to a journalist.”
“Yeah, I think so. But now Lamonte has shut the journalist down.”
“Poor Ricki got his tongue hacked out for nothing.”
“I guess he made a good warning for everyone else—talk, and Lamonte will take your fingers off.”
Irma is nodding, chewing. “But then the million-dollar question is, what leverage has Galetti got over Axedale?”
“And how is this all tied to Brittany Jackson’s abduction?” Nomi blows smoke, gnaws on a fingernail.
It’s started to drizzle again. Nomi moves a little closer to the patio table, as if that provides any more protection from the rain.
The city is gray; she’s wearing gray—combat trousers with a dark gray T-shirt.
Over it all, a big khaki jacket. Every drab thing reflects how she’s feeling today, and she’s too tired to care.
But Irma is making a rolling gesture with her right hand while holding the remainder of her sandwich in her left.
“Go back a little—think about leverage. People have lots of pinch points, right? Do this, or I’ll fuck up your reputation .
. . Don’t do that, or I’ll threaten you with violence, or threaten your family, or refuse to give you money . . .”
“Or just refuse to support you politically? Could that be it?” Nomi touches the tip of her tongue to the spot on her bottom lip where she yanked out the ring last night; she scratched it, and it’s smarting. “We need to know where Axedale is vulnerable.”
“I’ll have to look into that.” Irma squints at her. “Now tell me what the hell happened to your eye.”
Nomi tries to wave it off. “I had a run-in outside my apartment with one of Lamonte’s goons, Claude Ameche.”
“Goddamn, girl. I told you—”
“It’s fine. It’s been sewn up.” But she has to give Irma more than that. “My only worry is, there was another run-in last night at the club. Ameche’s really pissed off now.”
Irma swallows the last bite of sandwich, swigs from her own soda, looking serious. “They know where you live, Nomes. Have you considered moving out of your apartment for a little while, until this whole situation calms down?”
“And leave my plants?” But Nomi knows a joke isn’t going to cut it. “Look, there’s someplace I can go if I need to.”
“Good. I’m thinking that’s a good thing, because you might need to, just sayin’.” Irma wipes her mouth and hands with a napkin before digging around in her purse. “Okay, here’s something for you—you asked about Lamonte’s known associates. Here’s the latest mug sheets.”
The papers she drags out are photocopies, much creased, a little rough from sitting in the bottom of her bag. Nomi sticks her cigarette in the corner of her mouth and puts her soda bottle on the table so she can smooth out the sheets and look.
She scans through the first KA sheet, gets a hit on the top row of the second sheet. “This guy—Ray Dinkins. He and some hired company were at the club last night with Lamonte.”
Irma picks something out of her teeth with a fingernail. “Dinkins has priors for felony pimping and procurement, did a little time about seven years ago. He’s a low-level bozo, but he’s extremely loyal.”
On the third sheet, Nomi finds another photo she recognizes. “This guy too.”
Irma fishes in her bra for a cigarette, narrows her eyes.
“Gino Hart. Young guy, old school. Priors for aggravated assault, abuse of a corpse. Seems to be a big Norm Abram fan—anything tool related, he likes it. Bolt cutters, blowtorches, wood chippers, that kind of thing.” She lights up, lifts her chin at the photo.
“Another guy you should probably avoid.”
Nomi butts out her cigarette. She isn’t thrilled at this news, but she has another bone to pick. “I gotta know—is Balter following up on Galetti? Because what the hell was Calvin Gaffney doing outside Janice D’Addario’s apartment?”
Irma blows smoke, shrugs. “I don’t know about that.
Galetti’s real estate deals are across Sixth and Tenth Precincts, though—there’s a list of his land purchases floating around the station house, I know for a fact—so maybe McKee and Balter are getting their heads together on it.
Also, I heard a bunch of guys at Sixth have been out with the flu or something, so Balter could’ve sent Gaffney out as a loaner.
Everyone’s short, Nomes—Gabino from Seventieth said the boys in Flatbush are trying to investigate Ricki’s murder across three precincts.
” She makes an amused fish mouth. “Gaffney said you spilled coffee on him.”
“First, it was an accident. Second, it wasn’t me, it was my . . . research assistant, and third, Gaffney was being an asshole, he earned it.” Looking indignant is more effort than Gaffney deserves. “Also, it was pretty funny, so.”
“And nobody caught it on camera? Damn.” Irma grins outright before remembering more stuff to rummage for in her purse. “Hey, that missing person search you had me do? Here’s what I got, but I don’t think it’ll bring you much joy.”
Nomi accepts the additional papers Irma passes over. “Nothing useful?”
“A couple hits, maybe, but see what you think.”
Nomi stuffs the papers into her tote, takes a swig of soda. She’s been considering something for a while, and on this gloomy, brushed-steel day—after what she witnessed last night at the club—she thinks maybe it’s time to do it.
She keeps her tone casual. “While I’ve got you running around doing chores for me, you wanna check out a print? I picked this up on another thing. It could be a random, some bit of scene contamination, but I want to be sure.”
She hands Irma an index card from her tote.
Two pieces of clear packing tape are fixed to the card; each piece of tape has a single fingerprint—one is a thumb, the other one is probably a middle finger, she’s not sure.
The whorls and ridges of Simon Noone’s prints are clearly outlined in the tape adhesive.
“Easy.” Irma tucks the card away and finishes off the dregs of her own soda. “I can send the results through Enrique, probably by tomorrow?”
“No rush.” The act of handing over the prints has made Nomi break into a light sweat. She diverts. “You doing okay at the station? They’re not throwing more stuff at you than you can handle? I feel bad for loading you up.”
“Nah, you know me—I don’t stretch out of shape for nobody.
” Irma grins, then gets somber. “Nomes, you said you had someplace you can go if things get too hot, right? Lamonte’s torturing people, buying off journalists .
. . Maybe you want to put some thought into an exit plan, s’all I’m saying.
Maybe pack a bag for emergencies. Put your plants on a timer or something. ”
“I’ll think about it.” Nomi knows Irma; the woman is not an alarmist. This means something.
But she’s made commitments, and she’s not reneging on them now.
“I just want to get this kid back to her mom. The longer Lamonte has her, the easier it gets for him to think of her as a transactional asset—and he already has connections to the sex trade.”
“You’re scared for her,” Irma notes.
“Yes. But I’m also fucking furious. This sort of stuff—kids and their moms, you know? It just . . . gets me.”
“With what happened to you and your mom, that’s understandable.” Irma grinds out her smoke, stands, reaches for her hat. “But you get too attached, sweetie. It was always your thing. I applaud it—I do—but you’ve gotta keep something in the tank.”
“I’m trying.”
“Just don’t burn yourself out. And don’t get burned. And keep me posted, okay?” She gives Nomi a hug, a smacking kiss. “Mwah—see ya, babe.”
Nomi sits on her side-ended apple crate after her ex-partner leaves, capping and uncapping her soda.
Thinking about leverage, about blowtorches, about exit plans .
. . about fingerprints. Then she goes through the bodega’s pantry storeroom, back into real life.
Pays Benni, checks the outside landscape at the door, heads back onto West Forty-Ninth.
The afternoon is waning, and Old Glory, on the fire escape up ahead, is limp and dripping.
On the other side of the street, an older man pushes his food cart.
People are mostly at work or inside, taking refuge from the first miserable day of fall weather.
School hasn’t let out yet, and the normal bustle in the street is absent.