by Jason Starr
As I approached the apartment, the door opened wider, and Sue poked her head into the hallway. She was even shorter than I’d expected—about five feet tall—and very thin. She had brown hair, cut in a boyish style around her ears, and pale skin.
“Come in,” she said in her mousy voice, which sounded even higher and squeakier than it had on the phone.
“Thanks,” I said hesitantly.
I entered the small, cluttered apartment, or really a rectangular-shaped room. The place was maybe two hundred square feet, maybe, and had a rusty sink, a tiny stove, and an old refrigerator, probably from the sixties, at one end, and a wide-open window at the other. A small, beat-up drop-leaf table and two large, antique-looking chairs, partially covered in peeling white paint, were near the brick wall. Near the other wall, a futon lay on the floor with a small, old Turkish rug in front of it. A mishmash of paintings, photographs, and posters hung around the apartment, including old framed posters of Van Gogh’s self-portrait and that famous picture of the Flatiron Building, and what looked like an original oil painting of an overweight nude woman. While the apartment had obviously been decorated with things purchased at thrift shops, or maybe even found on the street, everything had been arranged with a well-thought-out, maybe shabby-chic sense of style.
I stood in the center of the room as Sue knelt down for a moment near the futon. The apartment was as hot as the stairwell, and I was sweating through my shirt. Sue stood up, probably noticing how uncomfortable I looked, because she said, “The fan broke.”
I glanced at the old, dusty fan in the corner, wondering when was the last time any air had circulated in this room.
“Yeah, it is kind of hot in here, huh?” I said.
“It’s the tar roof,” she said. “Anytime the sun’s out it gets boiling in here.”
I took my first good look at Sue, double-taking at how thin her arms were. She was wearing old, ripped khaki shorts and a tank top, and she was much thinner than I’d thought. Her face was gaunt, with her cheeks sunken in, and her body reminded me of the photos of Auschwitz victims. Her skin was more than pale—it had a worn-out, ghostly appearance—and her eyes were as lost and vacant as Barbara’s had been during her final days in the hospital.
I stood there for several seconds, broiling in the heat, wanting to leave and get the hell back to my air-conditioned office.
“So,” I said, “my wallet . . .”
“I have it,” she said, not moving. I noticed how her mouth moved in a strange way when she talked, as if her jaw were misaligned.
“Great,” I said. I waited a few seconds, then said, “So . . . can I have it back?”
“Sure,” she said, “but you’re gonna give me a reward, right?”
I don’t know why I didn’t expect her to ask for money or why this question offended me so much. Of course, I didn’t mind giving her something as a token of thanks, but I guess I felt like she should have been up-front about it on the phone.
“I don’t have a lot of cash on me,” I said, reaching into my pocket and taking out some crumpled bills. “My wallet was stolen last night and I didn’t have a chance to go to the bank yet.” I found a twenty and said, “How’s this?”
“Not enough,” she said, staring at my hand, suddenly seeming very agitated, wiping her nose repeatedly with the back of her hand.
I reached into my pocket. I had a ten and a few singles.
“Thirty-three’s all I have,” I said.
“I want three,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Hundred,” she added.
“What?”
“I want three hundred bucks.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “I already canceled most of my cards anyway. I just wanted the wallet back to save me some inconvenience—”
“Three hundred’s the price,” she said.
“I’m not giving you three hundred dollars,” I said.
“Then I’m not giving you your wallet,” she said.
We stood there in the sweltering apartment, staring at each other. Sue had a serious, unyielding expression, but I still felt sorry for her. She looked very nervous and agitated, and I realized she was probably a junkie.
I would’ve left right then if it weren’t for that picture of Barbara. I still knew I wasn’t being entirely rational about it, but I felt like if I didn’t get it back, I’d always regret it.
“Look, I’m trying to be reasonable,” I said. “I appreciate that you called me and I want to give you a reward, but three hundred’s crazy. I have an idea. How about you can keep the money that was in the wallet too—there must be fifty, sixty bucks in it—”
“The wallet was empty when I found it,” she said. “Your cards and everything were in it, but there was no money.”
Her dark, lifeless eyes were focused straight ahead at my chest; by the way she was avoiding eye contact, I was positive she was lying about something. Either she’d stolen the money herself or she was working with Eddie Lomack, the drunk who’d distracted me in the bar last night. Suddenly I could picture her and Eddie meeting last night, after Eddie had walked away. They’d probably split the money from my wallet and then tried to figure out how they could soak me for more.
“I don’t have any more cash on me,” I said. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.”
“Go to an ATM,” she said.
“With what?” I said. “I don’t have a cash card.”
“I’ll give it back to you.”
“I canceled it already.”
“Go to any Chase branch,” she said. “They’ll give you a new temporary card, or you can take out money right away with picture ID.”
She spoke with such assurance about banking policy that I wondered how many other wallets she’d held for ransom. I was also irritated by how she knew that I had an account at Chase. Obviously she’d gone through my wallet pretty carefully.
“Did you steal my wallet last night?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she said, overly defensive. “I found it on the train.”
“You told me it was the bus.”
“That’s what I meant—the bus, the First Avenue bus.”
“Look,” I said, “I know you’re trying to make some money off me, but it’s not gonna happen. I have my driver’s license in that wallet and some personal things that I’d like to have back, but I’m not paying you three hundred dollars. If you won’t give it back to me I guess I’ll just have to live without it.”
I turned to leave when she said, “Two hundred.”
Without turning back toward her I said, “No.”
“One-fifty,” she said.
I opened the door.
“A hundred bucks,” she said, “but that’s as low as I’m going. I don’t care—I’ll throw the fuckin’ wallet away.”
“Deal,” I said.
She held out her hand to shake; I saw the track marks on her arm—some looked fresh—and I kept my hand right where it was, by my side.
“You got picture ID on you, right?” she said.
Because I’d been planning to go to my bank during lunch today, I had my passport with me.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Good,” she said.
I headed back down the stairs, holding my breath most of the way and breathing under the collar of my shirt when I had to. When I left the building I took a series of deep breaths, as if I’d been working in a coal mine all day.
I remembered seeing a Chase branch on Broadway and Eighth Street when I’d gotten off the subway. I walked there as fast as I could. It was almost twelve-thirty, and the deadline for my article was two o’clock. I could have handed the article in late and it probably wouldn’t have been a big deal, but I didn’t want to have to get into it with Peter.
At the bank, two of the three bank officers were taking breaks, and there were two people ahead of me, waiting to see the other officer. After I waited for more than half an hour, one of the other officers returned from his br
eak and helped me. His name was Stanley Carmichael. He was a squat, balding guy with very thick glasses, and he had to be the slowest bank officer in New York. It would have taken an average person a few minutes to reactivate my account and issue me a temporary banking card, but it took Stanley Carmichael nearly half an hour. It was excruciating to watch this guy squinting at the computer monitor, typing with one finger, and calling other bank workers over to help him input information. Finally, I had my new ATM card and I withdrew three hundred dollars—one for Sue and two for myself.
It was almost one o’clock when I left the bank and started jogging back to the apartment building on Sixth Street. I rang Sue’s apartment, hoping she would come down to meet me this time, but naturally she buzzed me up and I had to climb the four flights of stairs. When I reached the top floor, the door to apartment fourteen was ajar, but Sue wasn’t standing there waiting. I knocked two times, then went inside and said, “Hello?”
Sue was walking toward me, coming from the direction of the futon. There was a funny burning odor in the apartment.
“Did you get the money?” she asked, seeming much more relaxed than she had before.
I reached into my pocket and handed her the one hundred dollars in twenties. As she counted the bills, I glanced beyond her and saw a syringe on the futon. Adjacent to the futon, on the floor, there was a small frying pan.
“So can I have my wallet?” I asked.
“I want another hundred,” she said.
“What?” I said.
“You heard me.”
“We made a deal.”
“I changed my mind.”
“I don’t have any more money on me,” I said, feeling my face getting warmer.
“Yeah, right,” she said. “You had your wallet stolen last night and you just went to the bank. You must’ve taken out another hundred at least.”
“Look, I’ve had it,” I said. “I just ran to Broadway and back to get you your hundred bucks and now you’re gonna give me my fucking wallet.”
“Fifty,” she said.
“Maybe I should just call the cops right now,” I said.
“I didn’t have to call you, you know,” she said. “I could’ve thrown the wallet away when I found it.”
“You mean stole it.”
“I didn’t steal it.”
I was tired of arguing and haggling. Another fifty bucks to get my wallet back and go on with my life seemed worth it.
“All right,” I said, “give me my wallet and I’ll give you the money.”
She lifted the futon and picked up my wallet. She handed it to me and I was giving her the fifty bucks when the door opened behind me.
“What the fuck’s this shit?”
I turned around toward the door and saw a short, unshaven Latino guy in a black leather vest and nothing underneath. His eyes were glazed over and bloodshot, and he was sweating more than I was.
“It’s nothing,” Sue said, suddenly very nervous. “He just works for the landlord.”
“Landlord, huh?” the guy said. “So now you fuckin’ his friends too?” Then he said to me, “You fuckin’ my lady?”
“It’s not like that,” Sue said. “He’s just somebody I—”
The guy pushed her aside, almost knocking her down, and said to me, “You fuckin’ my lady? Huh? You fuckin’ her?”
“No,” I said, backing away. “Of course not.”
“Bullshit you ain’t,” he said. “Why you got money out?”
“It’s not like you think,” Sue said. “He’s just—”
The guy pushed Sue away and she fell onto the floor. Then he came closer to me and opened a switchblade.
“You fuckin’ my lady, bitch?”
“Relax,” I said. “Just calm down, all right?”
Holding the blade in front of him, he closed in on me, looking as crazed as a death-row psychopath. He was between me and the door, so I had nowhere to run.
“Take it easy,” I said. “Just—”
“You fuck my lady,” he said, “maybe you wanna fuck this.” Then he lunged at me with the blade. He would have stabbed me in the chest if I hadn’t moved to my left at the last moment. He still got my right arm below the shoulder, but before I could feel any pain he was coming again, this time toward my face. I grabbed his right forearm with both of my hands and we struggled. The blade, a few inches in front of my eyes, looked like a sword. Sue was screaming for him to leave me alone, but he was relentless. I squeezed his forearm harder, knowing that if I let go that would be it. He swung his left fist and punched me in my face, getting my lower lip, but I didn’t let go of his forearm.
“I didn’t fuck her,” I managed to say, but I knew it would be impossible to get through to him; he was out of his mind, probably whacked-out on drugs, and he wouldn’t calm down until I was dead.
Sue grabbed him from behind, trying to pull him off me.
“Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it!”
“Fuckin’ cunt,” the guy said. “I’m gonna cut your fuckin’ tits off.” He straight-armed her in the chest and she fell back against the wall.
I was trying to wrestle the switchblade away, without making much progress. Sue came up behind the guy and jumped on his back, but she was so weak and slight that he continued to struggle with me, unaffected. I hoped someone in the building would hear all the commotion and call the police.
Sue put her hands over the guy’s face, scratching at his eyes.
“Fuckin’ cunt . . . fuckin’ ho,” the guy said. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you too, bitch!”
The guy backed up, ramming Sue hard against the front door until she finally let go of his face. He brought back his hand and turned, about to stab her, when I grabbed him from behind. I watched for the blade, knowing that at any moment he could wheel around and jab it into me.
The guy turned, breaking free, and I saw the blade coming toward the side of my face. I backed away, turning my head, and the cold metal and the guy’s rough fist brushed past my right cheek. He screamed something in Spanish—the only word I could make out was puta—and came at me again. This time I was ready. I grabbed his arm with the switchblade before he could bring it forward, and I held it steady. With my other hand I tried to work the blade free, but he wouldn’t let go. I was using all of my strength, determined not to let this crazy asshole kill me. I have no idea how long we struggled— it could’ve been a few seconds or a few minutes. I was staring into the guy’s wild eyes, knowing I probably looked just as wild, as Sue screamed, trying to pull us apart. Then, somehow, I managed to work the blade free and it clanged onto the floor. Sue picked it up and the guy and I continued to struggle. I twisted his arm back and he pulled my hair. Then he elbowed me in the gut, and that’s when I really lost it. I grabbed him around the neck, getting him in a headlock. Then I kicked a chair out of the way and rammed his head as hard as I could against the steel door. I guess I could’ve stopped right then, because he wasn’t fighting back anymore, but I didn’t want to. I started kicking him, again and again. I don’t know how many times I kicked him, but it was more than five and less than twenty, and then, after giving him one final kick in the ribs, I backed away.
I stood there in front of him for a long time, panting like an animal. He was still curled up on his side, not moving at all.
Sue kneeled down over him, crying, shaking him, saying, “Ricky, oh my God, Ricky. Wake up, baby. Come on, wake up. . . . Come on, just open your eyes—just open them. . . . Don’t die—don’t die on me, baby. Don’t die!”
She said other things too, but all of the noise faded to nothing.
Finally Sue stopped crying and turned to me and said, “You killed him.”
The apartment seemed twenty degrees warmer and it was spinning.
“What the hell’re you talking about?” I said. “We’ll call an ambulance. He just got knocked out, that’s all.”
“Look at him, you fuckin’ idiot,” she said. “He stopped breathing; he doesn’t have a pulse.
He’s dead.”
As I looked down at his perfectly still body, panic set in. I was shaking so badly I could barely speak.
“I didn’t mean it,” I said. “You know that, right? I was just trying to stop him, to keep him from . . . I mean, he would’ve killed you, or both of us, or he would’ve . . . It was an accident, damn it!”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You still killed him.”
I was so dizzy I could barely stand as Sue remained on her knees, sobbing next to the body.
“Come on, you saw what happened,” I said. “It was self-defense, he was out of his mind, he . . .” I stopped and stared at the body for several seconds, still in disbelief, then said, “Come on, he’s not really dead. How can he be dead?”
“You must’ve crushed his skull or something,” Sue said. She was still crying.
“That’s impossible,” I said. “We’ll get an ambulance, they’ll work on him—”
“Just shut up!” she screamed. “Just shut the fuck up!”
I stared at the body.
“Why the hell did he come after me like that anyway?” I said. “What the hell was wrong with him?”
Still sobbing, Sue caught her breath and managed to say, “He was just jealous.”
“Jealous?” I said. “Jealous of what? What the hell are you talking about?”
“He wanted me to stop bringing guys back up here,” she said. “He said he wanted to get married. ‘It’s just gonna be me and you, baby. Just me and you.’ That’s what he always said.”
For several seconds I stood there, staring. Then I got ahold of myself and slapped the side of my leg, fumbling around, finally finding my front pants pocket. I took out my cell phone when Sue said, “What’re you doing?”
“Calling the police,” I said.
I’d inputted 911 and pressed enter when Sue said, “Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Just don’t.”
I ended the call.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You can go. I’ll call the cops.”
“What the hell’re you talking about?”
“Just gimme a thousand bucks and I’ll take the rap,” she said.
