by Jason Starr
“What?”
“Talking down to me like you’re a fucking priest or something. You fucking asshole.”
“I’m just trying to connect the dots.”
“I gotta get the hell outta here,” she said, standing up.
“Yeah, right,” I said.
“I’ll be back in a half hour, tops,” she said. “Come on, what do you think I’m gonna do?”
“Oh, I know what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna go to the first phone booth you see and call the cops. You’ll tell them a guy killed your boyfriend and if they don’t believe you they can just go up to your apartment and see because he’s still there.”
“I’m not gonna rat you out, all right? I’ll come right back here and we’ll do it the way you want—we’ll carry Ricky down to the park. I think that’s a great idea, so why don’t you just—”
“Sit down,” I said.
She tried to bolt past me to get to the door, but I grabbed her skeleton arm and yanked her back toward me. She stumbled over her own feet and I let go of her and she fell down onto the floor onto her side.
“Fucking cocksucking piece of shit,” she said.
We glared at each other, the showdown lasting for maybe ten seconds. Finally she settled back down on the futon, fidgeting and rocking back and forth. Although I was looking away, I was watching her in my peripheral vision; if she made a sudden bolt toward the door I was going to block her. I realized that if, later on, she became even more desperate for a fix, it would be harder to restrain her. I started looking around, seeing if there was rope or something else in the apartment that I could use to tie her up if I had to, but I didn’t see anything.
“You know what I don’t get?” Sue said. “I don’t get why you wanted your stupid wallet back so bad anyway. If you just told me to fuck off right away Ricky’d still be alive.”
I was going to remind her that she was the one who called me about the wallet, but I didn’t want to get into that again.
“I mean you paid one-fifty for it,” she went on. “That’s a lot just to get your license and some canceled credit cards back. I would’ve taken twenty bucks.”
I squatted, facing the wall, noticing a monster-size water bug scamper from under the sink toward the refrigerator. I stared at the bottom of the refrigerator, waiting to see if the bug would appear again.
“You really are a nut job, aren’t you?” she said. She sat with her head hanging between her knees for a while; then she looked up at me again and said, “Say whatever you want about me. Say I’m a junkie, say I’m a whore, say whatever the fuck you want, but look at you. You’re the one who’s fucked-up. Look what you did—look what you fuckin’ did. You didn’t have to kill him. You could’ve just got the knife away, held him down, but you didn’t. You kept going. I saw the way you looked when you did it. You looked whacked, like you were getting off on it.”
I was still staring at the bottom of the refrigerator, waiting for the bug to come out, when the doorbell rang. Sue looked as panicked as I probably did. We stared at each other, and the bell rang three more times in quick succession. There was a period of silence, and then a man said, “Come on, I know you’re in there. Come on, open up.”
“Who the hell is that?” I whispered.
“Shit,” Sue whispered harshly, as the ringing started again. “See, I told you we should’ve called the cops, you stupid fuckin’ idiot. I told you.”
6
THE BELL MUST have rung twenty times. Sue and I remained still. I was hoping whoever it was would finally give up and go away, but then a harsh voice said, “Hey, Ricky, open up, will ya? Come on, I gotta talk to you, for Christ’s sake. Charlotte, I know you’re fuckin’ there too. Come on, I heard you guys talking. Will you put your fuckin’ clothes on and let me in?”
“Who the hell’s Charlotte?” I whispered.
Sue gave me a Who do you think, stupid? look as the bell rang again.
“Come on, what’re you gonna do, make me break the fuckin’ door down?” the man said. “Come on, Ricky, what’re you doing, getting your dick sucked in there? Come on, open up!”
There was more ringing and then the guy started banging on the door. It sounded like he was using his fists.
“I better let him in,” Charlotte said, getting up.
I grabbed her arm. It felt like I was gripping a broom handle.
“Sit down,” I whispered.
“We gotta let him in,” Charlotte said, “or he’ll—”
“He’ll go away,” I said.
The banging was getting louder.
“Come on, Ricky,” the voice said. “I know you’re fuckin’ in there, you little piece of shit.”
“You don’t know Kenny,” Charlotte said. “He won’t go away. Ricky owed him money, and he won’t leave till he gets it.”
The banging continued.
“Take the body in the bathroom,” Charlotte said.
“The bathroom?” I said.
“Open up!” Kenny said. “Just open the fucking door.”
“I’ll be right there!” Charlotte called out.
The banging stopped. I looked at Charlotte, wanting to strangle her.
“Go,” she whispered.
Avoiding looking at Ricky’s face, I lifted him by the sneakers. The body wasn’t as stiff as I expected it to be, but it was stiff enough to remind me that he was dead. I backed into the bathroom, taking little shuffle steps. There was barely enough room for a toilet, a shower stall, and a tiny sink. The body and I didn’t fit—at least, not with the body horizontal. The banging on the door continued and the doorbell kept ringing, but I couldn’t tell what the guy was saying. I lifted the body up under its shoulders. At first, it was facing me, which was getting me kind of sick, so I turned it around one hundred and eighty degrees. Then I became aware of an odor of shit, probably from a postmortem bowel movement, and I couldn’t hold back. Somehow I made it to over the toilet in time, managing to keep the body upright as I vomited. Charlotte poked her head into the bathroom.
“What the hell’re you doing?” she whispered.
I upchucked again. It must’ve been old food, because it felt like battery acid was passing through my throat.
“Come on, just flush,” Charlotte said.
Then, from outside the apartment: “Come on, Ricky, Charlotte, just open the fucking door. Jesus.”
“I’ll be right there!” Charlotte called out, and then she leaned around me and flushed the toilet.
“What’re you doing?” I said weakly. Talking hurt, as if I had tonsillitis. “Now he’ll know somebody’s in the bathroom.”
“Just get in there and shut up,” Charlotte said.
Gritting my teeth, I lifted the body and carried it in front of me into the shower stall. It was a small, cramped shower, tiled with what had probably once been off-white or light yellow tiles, but they were brown now, covered with soap scum and mildew. I tried to prop the body upright against the back of the wall, but it kept slipping forward.
“Come on,” Charlotte whispered urgently.
Grinding my back teeth, I held on to the body as I tried to close the shower door. The door was corroded and kept popping open, so I had to stand there with one hand on the door handle, the other pushing the body back against the wall. The stench of shit was worse now, and I was trying not to breathe too deeply.
Charlotte left the bathroom and closed the door. I heard the locks on the front door turning and then the door squeaked open.
“About fuckin’ time,” Kenny said. “What were you doing, hitting up?”
I heard heavy footsteps entering the apartment.
“So what the fuck took you so long?” Kenny asked.
“I was in the bathroom, puking,” Charlotte said.
“What’d you do, suck a rotten cock?” Kenny laughed. “So where’s my boy, Ricky?”
“He’s not here.”
“You’re shittin’ me. He said he’d be around tonight.”
“Well, he’s not.”
&
nbsp; “You sure he’s not hiding somewhere? The fuckin’ prick owes me money.”
Footsteps headed in my direction. My entire body tensed.
“Don’t go in there,” Charlotte said.
The footsteps stopped.
“Why not?”
“I had the shits too.”
“You must’ve sucked a lot of rotten cocks.” Kenny laughed.
The footsteps headed away, but I couldn’t relax. It was Kenny’s voice. It had sounded vaguely familiar before, but now I knew where I’d heard it—last night, at the bar. Kenny was Eddie Lomack.
My body temperature seemed to go up ten degrees. Fucking Charlotte had lied to me about a lot more than her name.
The conversation continued; I’d missed some of it.
“Gino’s?” Kenny asked.
“I don’t know, maybe,” Charlotte said.
“Why would he go to Gino’s?”
“I didn’t say he went there. I just heard him saying he might go by there later.”
The talking and the footsteps sounded farther away. Maybe they were near the futon now.
“You sure he didn’t jump out the window and go down the fire escape?” Kenny said. “I coulda sworn I heard you talking to somebody before I started knocking.”
“It was the radio,” Charlotte said.
“Son of a bitch,” Kenny said. “I lent him a hundred last night, said he needed to buy some food, but I shoulda known he’d just blow it on more junk.”
“Look, he’s not here. Just check Gino’s, all right?” Charlotte said.
“You’re really hard up, huh?” Kenny said. “What’s the matter, Ricky blew all his money on his own stash last night, didn’t share anything with his beautiful whore girlfriend?”
“Look, Ricky’s not here, so why don’t you just get the fuck outta here, you fuckin’ asshole.”
“You don’t look too good, sweetheart,” Kenny said. “Yeah, you must be hitting it hard these days, huh?” I pictured him smiling, the way he had last night at the bar while he was distracting me with pictures of the centerfolds. “Probably going through, what, ten, fifteen bags a day? Probably hadn’t had any in what, a few hours? Yeah, you’re real hungry now.”
“You got some or not?” Charlotte said.
“Come on, you know I’m on the fuckin’ juice,” Kenny said. “But look what I do got. . . . It’ll buy you a couple bags. Keep you going another few hours . . . Hey, not so fast. You’re gonna have to work for it, baby.”
“Come on, Kenny, just gimme it.”
“What, Ricky’s not around, so what difference does it make? In fifteen minutes you can be scoring, baby. Then you could be back up here, cooking it up nice and sweet—it’ll make you feel so good, baby. Bet you haven’t felt that good in a long time—so long you probably forgot what it feels like. But hey, it’s up to you. If you don’t want it . . .”
“You want to fuck me, stop talking and take your little dick out,” Charlotte said.
“Little?” Kenny said. “That look little to you?”
The apartment got quiet, and then Kenny said, “Yeah, like that, bitch. Work it just like that.” Then, about a minute later, I heard Kenny’s moaning. It sounded like a sick animal, or a dying one. He was talking too. At first I couldn’t make out the words; then I could hear some of them. It sounded like dialogue from a bad porno movie. He was saying, “Keep doing it like that. . . . Yeah, just like that, bitch . . . Fuck me harder, yeah. . . . Keep fucking me that way. . . . Yeah . . . Play with my balls now. . . . Yeah, play with those balls, you little slut.” I didn’t know what was making me more nauseous, holding up a dead body or trying to fight off the images of Kenny and Charlotte that kept coming to me. The aftertaste of vomit in my mouth wasn’t helping, and I had to concentrate on more pleasant things—sunny weather, the ocean, solid food, a beautiful woman—Rebecca. No, not Rebecca. Shit, anybody but Rebecca. Angie. Yes, Angie. Angie’s face—to keep from throwing up again.
As the fucking went on, the only noises came from Kenny until he ordered Charlotte to “Come for me, baby. Come on, come for me,” and she let out a series of lame, obviously fake squeals. I imagined her lying there on the futon on her back, just waiting for it to end so she could go shoot up.
Kenny’s grunting and bad porno dialogue continued, and then, just when it seemed like the sex might never end, Kenny let out three louder grunts and then there was sudden silence.
There was more talking, but it was low and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Then I heard Kenny, his voice suddenly louder, say, “Wait, I gotta use the John Hancock.”
Every muscle in my body tensed.
“Wait, don’t go in there,” Charlotte said, her voice close now too. They must’ve both been right outside the door.
“Why not?” Kenny asked.
“I stunk up the bathroom really bad.”
“So what the fuck do I care?”
As the door opened, I crouched down, managing to keep one hand on the shower door handle and the other holding the body upright by pressing it against the back of the stall. If it wasn’t for the mildew on the shower door, which was denser toward the bottom, Kenny could have easily seen in. As it was, he would’ve probably been able to see me if he looked in my direction.
Kenny hawked up a wad of spit. It splashed into the bowl, and then he started peeing.
“Liar, it don’t stink in here!” he yelled. Then he added, “Hey, some of your chunks missed the bowl!”
He finished peeing. He didn’t bother to flush, and then I saw the shadow of his legs pass by the shower door and stop. I thought he was going to look inside the stall, but then I heard the handle on the bathroom door turn and he left. My heart must’ve been racing at two hundred beats a minute.
“Where’s my money?” Charlotte asked.
“Easy,” Kenny said. “You’ll get your skag, you’ll get your skag.”
“Come on,” Charlotte said urgently. “Let’s go.”
The front door opened then closed. I waited several seconds, making sure they were really gone. Then I got up, leaving the body propped up diagonally, bent slightly near the neck and shoulders, and left the stall and the bathroom.
I never thought I could feel so relieved to be in the main area of the apartment. I was like a prisoner, released from solitary confinement and put back into his jail cell. But after a few minutes I started feeling pent-up again. I had to leave, go outside, or I was going to lose my mind. I considered going downstairs, just for a few minutes, but I decided it was too dangerous. Someone could see me leaving the apartment, or someone could come in the apartment because I’d have to leave the door unlocked. I went to the one window in the room; it was partway open and I opened it further. Child safety bars were screwed into the sill, and it horrified me to think that a child had once lived in this shithole. I leaned over the bars, bringing my nose as close to the screen as I could without touching it, and breathed. The apartment was facing the back of another, taller building, maybe forty feet away, and the air didn’t seem to be circulating much better than inside the apartment. Still, I remained there, with my nose near the screen, trying to get ahold of myself. I noticed a young guy in an apartment across from the building. He was lying on a couch in his underwear, watching TV, holding a green bottle—probably a cold beer. I hoped he knew how good he had it.
I started pacing the apartment again, wondering if Charlotte was going to go to the police. I didn’t know why she would at this point, but I didn’t have any reason to trust her either.
Several minutes went by, and I was becoming increasingly convinced that Charlotte was going to make up a story and turn me in, when my cell phone started ringing. The sudden noise startled me, and I realized how lucky I was that I didn’t get a call while I was hiding in the shower. I checked the caller ID—it was my home number—then I shut the phone off.
I knew Rebecca wouldn’t give up. She’d keep calling me, on my cell and at work, trying to get through. I didn’t care about pis
sing her off, but I realized that if the police did wind up investigating me I’d have no alibi. If I called Rebecca back and told her I was at my office it wouldn’t help, because I still wouldn’t be able to prove I was there.
I had to stay positive, pray that Charlotte wasn’t dumb enough to go to the cops, and that I’d never even be a suspect in the case.
The heat and the lack of fresh air in the apartment were unbearable, and the entire room was starting to smell like my body odor. Every time I heard a noise outside the apartment I hoped that the next sound I’d hear would be a key turning in the lock.
At midnight, there was still no sign of her. I was exhausted and starving—the turkey sandwich for lunch was all I’d eaten all day—and I didn’t know how much longer I could last.
Around one A.M. I heard a noise outside the apartment. Convinced it was Charlotte, I rushed to the foyer, but the noise stopped. Impulsively I opened the door, realizing what a stupid thing I’d done only when I saw that Charlotte wasn’t there. Instead, the young black guy who’d knocked into me on the stairwell before was standing by the door to the left. He was fumbling with his key chain, trying to find the key to his apartment. Before I could duck back into Charlotte’s apartment he turned around and looked right at me. I mumbled, “Sorry,” and he turned away, continuing to jingle his keys.
Back in the apartment, I knelt with my face buried in my open hands. If I hadn’t opened the door, if I hadn’t let that guy see me, I would’ve had a chance. But now when the police came to question Charlotte tomorrow they’d probably talk to her neighbors too, asking, “Did you notice anything unusual at Charlotte and Ricky’s apartment last night?” The guy next door would mention me, give them a full description and—shit— I’d even talked, so now he could ID my voice.
I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. The guy had looked out of it, and there was a chance he might not remember me at all tomorrow, or at least he wouldn’t remember me well enough to give a description. This gave me some hope, but not much.
The next time I checked my watch it was past two-thirty. I had no idea what was holding Charlotte up. Even if she was planning to bring a cop back with her, it wouldn’t take her this long. I wondered if she was dead. She could’ve OD’d and was lying in an alley somewhere. But if she was dead that wouldn’t help me. I couldn’t leave because that guy had seen me, and with Charlotte unable to back up my self-defense story, I’d be screwed. I decided I’d give her till about half an hour before dawn. If she wasn’t back by then I’d have no choice but to take the body outside by myself.
