by Jason Starr
I stared at the body for a while, then turned to Sue, who hadn’t budged, and said, “So he’s still playing dead, huh? Nice try, but it won’t work.”
“What the hell’re you talking about?” she said. “Have you totally lost it? You better do something. I can’t stand having him in the apartment anymore. I can’t look at him.”
I continued staring at the body in a daze, the truth setting in. I didn’t know how I’d managed to convince myself that it hadn’t happened.
“You were supposed to take care of this,” I said.
“I couldn’t, all right?” Sue said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a really shitty liar.”
“Then why did you tell me—”
“Because I thought I could pull it off,” she said. “I made a mistake, all right? Go ahead—shoot me.”
“Call the police now.”
“I can’t.”
“Do it, damn it.”
“You do it,” she said. “Tell them the truth—say you killed him by accident, self-defense, whatever. That’s what you wanted to do anyway, right?”
I considered this, but decided it was too late. The police would run tests, realize the body had been here for about seven hours. They would want to know why there was a delay in reporting the incident. I could tell them that I’d panicked and ran away, which was sort of the truth, but with Ricky’s head bashed in they’d never believe my self-defense story— especially not now.
“That won’t work,” I said.
“Well, you better do something else then. You’re the one who killed him.”
“I saved your life.”
“Bullshit.” She sounded ridiculous, getting angry with that high, squeaky voice. “You know how many times Ricky came at me with a blade? He wasn’t really gonna hurt me—he just liked to get macho like that. You didn’t have to ram his head into the door like some maniac.”
Now I knew there was no way I could call the cops. Sue would never back up my story and I’d be arrested for murder.
I couldn’t believe I’d let this happen. If I hadn’t tried to get my wallet back, I could’ve been home right now.
“Come on,” Sue said, “just call the—”
“We’re not calling anybody.”
“Then what’re we gonna—”
My brain jump-started. “Was Ricky a junkie too?”
Sue stared at me with her glassy, lifeless eyes, then said, “Who’re you calling a junkie?”
“Shut up. Was he a junkie too?”
“I’m not a fuckin’ junkie.”
“Was he a junkie?”
“He shot up once in a while, yeah, but he wasn’t a junkie.”
“We’ll make it look like it was drug-related,” I said.
“What’re you talking about?”
“The murder, I mean killing—whatever. We’ll dump the body somewhere. Tompkins Square Park’s right around the corner, right? The cops probably find dead junkies there all the time.”
“Ricky wasn’t a junkie.”
“Shut up,” I said, almost shouting. In a much quieter voice I said, “Does he have track marks?”
I leaned over toward the body to get a closer look at the arms. They looked like pincushions.
“Perfect,” I said. “So that’s what we’ll do. The cops’ll think some drug dealer killed him. They had an argument over money and started fighting; then the guy rammed Ricky’s head into a tree and killed him. They’ll come talk to you, but they’d never question you. Why would they?”
“It won’t work,” Sue said.
“Yes it will,” I said.
“How’re we supposed to get him to the park?”
“We’ll carry him.”
“You crazy? He weighs one-sixty-five.”
“So?”
“What if somebody sees us?”
“We’ll wait till later—the middle of the night. Four, five in the morning. It’s just down the stairs, then a block or two to the park.”
“The cops won’t believe it was over drugs.”
“Why not?”
“Why would a dealer kill him?”
“For money.”
“If the dealer killed him he’d never get his money.”
“Maybe he didn’t mean to kill him.”
“If a dealer was after him he wouldn’t bust his skull,” Sue said. “He’d shoot him, or cut him, or something like that.”
“Maybe there was a struggle,” I said, “a fight and . . . Or maybe it wasn’t over drugs, all right? Maybe somebody just tried to mug him—kids. Or maybe he got into a fight—said something to the wrong guy. That happens all the time—two guys fighting over a parking space and one guy flips and starts beating the other guy up.”
“Why would they be fighting over a parking space in the park?” Sue asked.
“The fight could’ve been over anything,” I said, losing patience. “The cops’ll find his body in the park, they’ll think he was killed fighting, and that’ll be the end of it.”
“I don’t care,” Sue said. “Say whatever you want. But I’m not helping you carry him anywhere.”
“Oh, yes you are.”
“You can’t make me.”
“You’re right, I can’t. But you think if I get caught I won’t turn you in too? I’ll say you were an accessory, or an accessory after the fact, or whatever the hell they call it. They’ll put us both away for a long time.”
“So let them put me in jail,” Sue said. “What the fuck do I care?”
“You can’t get any heroin in jail,” I said. “They won’t give you anything to dry out with either. You think you can handle that? I don’t think so.”
My last words seemed to have an effect on her. Sick of looking at her face, I turned away; then I realized I was staring at the body, at the blue-gray lips, parted slightly and swelling, and I turned again quickly. I didn’t want to look at Sue anymore either, but the apartment was tiny, like a cage, and it was hard to avoid her. I stood with my arms crossed in front of my chest, rocking back and forth nervously, staring at the wall adjacent to the refrigerator.
“So what’re we gonna do now?” Sue asked.
“Wait,” I said.
Sue remained on her futon, cross-legged, staring at nothing, and I remained facing the wall. I noticed a roach—a good-sized one, about an inch long—moving vertically toward the floor. It was robust, shiny, moving at a good, steady pace, definitely thriving in its environment. I continued to watch it as it reached the floor, went around a plastic Pepsi bottle, around mouse or maybe rat droppings, and disappeared swiftly into a space between the wall and the floorboards.
I realized that my face and neck were sweating.
“You sure that fan doesn’t work?” I asked.
“I told you, it broke,” Sue said.
“It must be ninety fucking degrees in here,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. “I don’t know how the hell you live here.”
“Sorry, it’s not the fucking Plaza Hotel,” she said.
Sue looked away and I noticed another roach coming from near the stove. I stomped on the roach, rubbing the shiny pieces into the floor, and then I sat down on one of the chairs, hoping sitting would make me sweat less. It didn’t work. Sweat was dripping off of my forehead like I was a basketball player in the fourth quarter.
“How come this building’s such a dump anyway?” I asked.
“What’re you talking about?” she said.
“There’s garbage piled up downstairs, you got roaches and mice. The rest of the neighborhood’s gentrified. How come they didn’t gentrify this place yet?”
“You mean how come it’s not infested with yuppies yet?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“It’s a rent-controlled building,” she said. “People’ve been living here for years.”
“So lots of buildings are rent-controlled,” I said, “but they’re not hellholes like this place. I mean, the stairwell’s
disgusting, it’s infested with God knows what, it’s about a thousand degrees in here—”
“The landlord’s trying to get people to move out so he can raise the rents.”
“That’s against the law.”
Sue shrugged and said, “It’s not working anyway. People in this building aren’t going anywhere no matter what he does.”
“Still, you must be paying a decent amount for this place. How do you afford it?”
“What the fuck do you care?”
“I’m just curious. I mean, do you make all your money turning tricks and selling wallets or do you have a day job too?”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m serious. Heroin’s gotta be an expensive habit, and you must eat, what, once or twice a week, right? After that, there must not be too much left over for rent money.”
“Maybe I don’t pay rent,” she said smugly.
“What?” I said. “Your psychotic, jealous, knife-wielding boyfriend helped you out?”
“Maybe I just worked out a special deal with my landlord.”
“A free-rent deal?”
“Yeah, a free-rent deal.”
“And how exactly does that work?”
“Easy,” she said. “I meet him in his car a couple times a week and he lets me slide on the rent.”
“So you really are screwing your landlord.”
“I don’t fuck him,” she said as if the idea disgusted her. “I just blow him.”
“Classy,” I said. “You should be really proud of yourself.”
“You just wish you had a setup like that.”
“That’s true,” I said. “I wish I was giving my landlord blow jobs. Why didn’t I ever think of that?”
“Beats working for a living,” she said. “Going to an office every day, having somebody tell you what to do.”
“True,” I said. “And you can make your own hours too.”
“Right.” Then, realizing I was being sarcastic, she said, “You can suck my dick, asshole. You think you’re all that? Mr. Hot-shot Business Writer Man living on West Eighty-first Street.”
I gave her a long stare, then said, “You really studied my wallet, didn’t you? You know where I live. I bet you know my Social Security number, credit card numbers, place of birth, mother’s maiden name. . . .”
“You think you’re so much better than me,” she said, “but you’re not. Where’re you from? Wait, let me guess—you got a New York accent, but you’re not from Manhattan. You from Staten Island? Brooklyn? Queens?”
“I’m from Long Island.”
“Ooh, big-shot bridge-and-tunnel man. Probably didn’t come from the rich part of the Island either—you’re probably from White Trashville, out near Stony Brook. You know where I’m from? Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, buddy. In case you don’t know, that’s a very ritzy area. My parents had a twelve-room house, filled with classy furniture.”
“Sounds like you had a great life,” I said.
“I did,” she said. “At least I did till you came along and fucked everything up. I was gonna go on the juice and quit hooking and me and Ricky were gonna open a business together.”
“A business, huh?”
“Yeah, a business. An antique store, if you really wanna know. I have a good eye for that stuff. See those chairs? I found them on the street last week and I’m gonna sell them for fifty bucks apiece. Girl’s coming to pick them up this weekend. I have a good eye—I always spot bargains. I bought some silver-ware once—sterling silver—for twenty bucks at a flea market. I sold it the next day to an antique dealer on Lafayette Street for two-fifty.”
“And I’m sure the profits went to a really great cause,” I said.
Ignoring me, she said, “Yeah, I have a great eye for bargains. If I opened my antique store it would’ve been a big success. I wasn’t just gonna sell antiques; I was gonna sell cheese.”
“Cheese?” I said.
“Yeah, cheese,” she said. “You know the place uptown that sells cheese and antiques?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s a really classy place, and my place was gonna be just like it. Ricky was gonna give me the start-up money, but thanks to you, that’s all shot to fuckin’ hell.”
I rolled my eyes and looked away, deciding that I wouldn’t say another word to her for the rest of the night.
We were both quiet for a long time—maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Sitting on one of the chairs, I stared at the brick wall mainly, following the paths of a couple of new baby roaches that had appeared, but a few times I couldn’t help looking toward the bathroom, at Ricky’s body. Sue seemed to be becoming more and more anxious and fidgety—rocking back and forth, making weird clucking noises with her mouth.
I couldn’t take sitting anymore, so I started pacing.
“Why don’t you just sit down?” Sue said. “You’re making me fucking nervous.”
I ignored her.
Maybe another five minutes passed, and then Sue said, “Or if you don’t want to sit you can lie down here with me.”
I did a double take, thinking I might’ve missed something. Then I looked at Sue and saw her returning my gaze in a way that convinced me that I had been propositioned. I didn’t know why I was so surprised.
“Come on,” she said, continuing to fidget in a more exaggerated way—wiping her nose every few seconds, her legs shaking. “It’ll only cost you fifty bucks.”
I imagined climbing on top of her thin, heroin-addicted body; although the idea disgusted me, there was something exciting about it too.
“Come on, lemme relax you,” Sue said, rubbing her nose. “I mean, you look so nervous, pacing around. I’ll make you feel real good, baby. What do you say?”
“The answer’s no.”
She was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “Okay, I’ll give you the Upper West Side business writer’s special. I’ll suck your cock for twenty-five.”
I looked away, shaking my head. When I looked over again she’d taken off her shirt. First I noticed her rib cage—the bones clearly visible—and then my gaze shifted higher, toward where breasts should’ve been. It looked like a man’s chest—or rather a boy’s, an emaciated boy’s, except for the surprisingly big brown nipples. It was sad because her face wasn’t bad-looking and if she were twenty pounds heavier and hadn’t poisoned her body with heroin she would’ve been very attractive.
“Come on, why won’t you fuck me?” she said, stroking her breasts softly. “I could tell you were thinking about it before. Come on, baby, you can have a whole half hour and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll make you feel so good.”
“Will you just put your top back on?”
“Fuckin’ faggot,” she muttered as she put her shirt on and continued fidgeting and twitching. I paced from the refrigerator to the stove and back, feeling as pent-up as one of the miserable-looking gorillas they used to have in the Central Park Zoo. My feet were hurting and I was still sweating badly; I wondered if I was starting to get dehydrated. I went to the sink and gulped down water from the faucet, some of it dribbling down my chin and neck. After splashing some water over my face I actually felt slightly refreshed. I glanced at Sue, but she was looking away, pulling on her hair, scratching her arms. I opened the refrigerator, hoping there would be something to eat, but there was nothing except a bag of Wonder bread with only a couple of stale-looking end pieces inside, an empty can of Franco-American ravioli, some blackened banana peels, and a couple of loose slices of American cheese that looked hardened. Then I caught a nauseating whiff of something rotting and I closed the door quickly.
“I eat out a lot,” Sue said.
I looked over at her and smiled slightly, then realized she wasn’t trying to be funny. I started pacing again. After awhile, I decided I’d better conserve my energy, and I sat in one of the chairs.
Sue was still shifting anxiously from side to side, still making those clucking noises. I was about to tell her to shut the hell up when she said, “So if you don’t want
to fuck me maybe you’ll give me fifty bucks anyway.”
I ignored her.
“Come on, it’s just fifty,” she said. “Fuck, I could’ve gotten a thousand from you if I met you tomorrow night.”
“I guess you blew it then, didn’t you?” I said.
A few more minutes passed, and then she said, “You ever shoot dope?”
I didn’t want to answer her, so I just shook my head.
“Man, you don’t know what you’re missing,” she said. “The first time I shot up I couldn’t believe how good it felt. It feels like you’re just floating away, like you’re nothing. Hey, I got an idea. You let me go out and get some, we’ll shoot up together. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a clean needle. Come on, I love turning on virgins.”
“I have enough problems in my life,” I said. “I don’t need yours too.”
“Trust me,” she said, “after you shoot dope all your problems go away.”
“Forget about it,” I said.
“Faggot-ass fuckin’ prick asshole piece of shit,” she said, suddenly venomous. “You’re just a stupid fucking faggot, that’s what you are.”
I started pacing again. Sue’s tics had gotten even more exaggerated now, and her face was cringing, as if she were in serious pain.
“You okay?” I asked. She didn’t answer, and then I said, “Really, are you feeling all right? Is there something I can get you? A glass of water or a piece of that cheese? Or maybe you want a wet towel.”
“If you really want to help me you’ll give me fifty so I can go out and take a fuckin’ walk,” she said.
She continued looking pained.
I ignored her for a while, then said, “Not that I really give a shit, but how did your life get so screwed up anyway?”
She didn’t answer.
“Come on, I really want to know,” I said. “I mean you seem intelligent, you’re not so bad-looking, and you said you were from that nice area in Michigan. You must’ve had a good family, went to good schools—”
“Fuck you.”
