by Jason Starr
Another excruciating hour went by, and then I heard the lock in the front door turn. I rushed over as Charlotte entered, and I was surprised by her appearance, by how much better she looked. Her pained expression was gone and she seemed noticeably calmer and more relaxed. Except for her thin, ghostly face, she seemed almost normal.
“Where the hell’ve you been?” I asked. “It’s almost four fucking A.M.”
“Thanks for waiting up, Daddy,” she said, stepping past me. She tossed her ripped denim jacket off to the side and then plopped down onto the futon. I did a double take, surprised all over again at how thin her arms and shoulders were. She was dangerously emaciated and probably needed medical help.
“You’ve been gone six hours,” I said.
“You gonna ground me, Daddy?”
I hated the way she was suddenly so relaxed, acting like this was no big deal.
“Come on, let’s go,” I said. “We’re doing it right now.”
“Doing what?”
“What the hell do you think?”
“We should wait.”
“We’re not waiting.”
“The after-hours places are still open,” she said. “There’re still a lot of people out there. Give it another hour and the streets’ll start to clear out.”
The idea of spending another hour in the apartment seemed unbearable, but I realized that it probably made sense to wait.
I turned away, but there was no way to get away from her. She had closed her eyes and had her arms flung back over her head. She wasn’t fidgeting or twitching anymore, like she had been earlier in the night. She looked like she was spending a relaxing afternoon on the beach. It was easy to imagine how she might’ve looked fifteen, twenty years ago, when she was a rich girl growing up in Michigan. She could’ve been lounging next to a pool in her parents’ backyard.
“So’re you gonna tell me the truth now or what?” I said.
“What do you mean?” she said, not bothering to open her eyes. She sounded like she’d been falling asleep.
“Come on,” I said, “I know you’ve been lying to me since the second I walked in here, so just tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“Really, Sue.”
She opened her eyes, looked at me for a couple of seconds, then closed them again, acting as annoyingly nonchalant as before. Then she said, “Sue’s my street name.”
“You stole my wallet last night, didn’t you?” I said.
“I told you, I found it on the bus—”
“Stop fucking lying to me,” I said. “I recognized your friend Kenny’s voice—only he told me his name was Eddie. I guess that was his ‘street name’ too, huh?”
“Kenny’s not my friend.”
“Sorry,” I said, “Ricky’s friend who you don’t mind fucking every once in a while for drug money even if the love of your life happens to be dead in the bathroom at the time.”
“You got it all wrong, you stupid asshole,” Charlotte said. “Kenny wasn’t at the bar you were at last night.”
“Yes he was,” I said. “He distracted me while you picked my pocket.”
“I told you, I found your wallet on the bus.”
I went over and grabbed her arm above her elbow and lifted her up to a sitting position.
“You stole my wallet last night, didn’t you?”
“What’re you gonna do, kill me? Go ahead—do it. I really don’t give a shit.”
I continued to squeeze her arm, which felt like a broom handle. She didn’t seem to feel any pain.
After maybe ten seconds she said, “If you let go, I’ll tell you.”
Finally I loosened my grip and she wriggled free. She remained sitting, rubbing her arm, which seemed to have turned slightly purple.
“See, I knew you were a fuckin’ basket case,” she said.
I moved toward her again when she said, “Kenny and Ricky took your wallet—I had nothing to do with it, and that’s the God’s honest truth. They stole shit off people all the time. They sometimes worked the subways, but they did midtown mostly. They hung out at bars and looked for drunk tourists— I guess that’s what they thought you were. Anyway, they took your wallet last night, and Ricky came home with it. He took all the money out and left the wallet here, so I decided to call you—to give it back to you.”
I gave her a Yeah, right look.
“It’s the truth,” she said, “and I don’t give a shit if you believe me or not.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “Ricky wasn’t at the bar with Kenny last night—you were. If Ricky was there he would’ve recognized me when he walked into the apartment today.”
“Maybe he didn’t get a good look at you last night,” Charlotte said.
I realized this was possible. Whoever had picked my pocket had been behind me and might not have gotten a good look at my face.
“Maybe,” I said, “but I still don’t get why he attacked me. I mean if you bring guys back here all the time—”
“I don’t do it all the time,” she said defensively. “I usually do it outside—in cars, mostly.”
“Still,” I said. “That doesn’t explain why he’d flip out and pull a knife on me.”
“Ricky was in love with me.”
I must’ve rolled my eyes.
“I don’t give a shit what you think,” she said. “We were gonna get married soon. We were gonna open that antique store too and save up money and move to a bigger apartment someplace. Maybe in Queens or the Bronx. Ricky had family in the Bronx.”
“Stop with that bullshit,” I said. “If you and Ricky were so in love, why were you fucking other guys for money? Why were you fucking your landlord, for Christ’s sake?”
“I wasn’t fucking him!” she screamed, starting to cry.
“And why were you so quick to take the rap for his murder?” I said, not letting up. “You mourned for exactly two minutes— then you were out to make a quick thousand bucks off it. That really sounds like true love to me.”
“I did love him, you fuckin’ prick.”
As Charlotte wiped away more tears with the back of her hand, I checked my watch. It wasn’t four A.M. yet, but I felt like if I stayed in the apartment another minute I was going to lose my mind.
“We’re going,” I said.
“It’s not late enough,” she said.
“You got bedsheets, a rug, something to wrap the body in?”
“We should wait till—”
“We’re not waiting!”
She paused, then said, “All I got is what’s on the bed.”
“Get up,” I said.
She stood up slowly, like an old woman with arthritis. The cotton blanket was too thin to conceal a body. I pulled the sheet off the futon, noticing all the cum and blood stains, but it wasn’t nearly big enough or thick enough.
I picked up the rug in front of the bed, but it was too small, maybe two by four.
“You got anything else?” I said. “Another blanket or rug?”
She shook her head.
“Come on,” I said. “You must have something. ”
I went to the one closet in the apartment, near the front door. Hanging from wire hangers were dirty, torn clothes— jackets, coats, shirts, pants—that the Salvation Army wouldn’t even accept. On the floor were some boxes of things and a duffel bag, but it was much too small to use.
“Jesus,” I said.
“Wait till the stores open in the morning,” Charlotte said. She had sat back down on the bare futon mattress. “You can buy a blanket then.”
“And wait another day in here?” I said. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I looked around the apartment again, coming up with no new great ideas, then said, “We’ll just carry him between us like he’s drunk or he OD’d. It could be better that way anyway. In this neighborhood that’ll look less suspicious than carrying a rug or laundry down at four in the morning.”
Dropping the sheet on the floor, I went i
nto the bathroom. The body must’ve slid forward on the soap-scummed wall, because when I opened the door to the shower stall it fell out toward me. Despite my physical and mental exhaustion, my reflexes were quick enough to catch it by its shoulders. It was about as stiff as before, but it seemed to have gotten colder. Ignoring a surge of nausea, I held the body upright outside the shower stall.
“I need something—a rag or shirt or something,” I called out.
“What?” Charlotte said.
“I need . . .” I looked up at the vent above the sink. It was clogged with puffy gray dust, but I knew my voice still might be able to travel to another apartment.
“Just come here,” I said in a quieter voice. When Charlotte came into the bathroom I said, “I need a shirt or a rag or something—make it wet.”
“What for?”
“Just get it.”
Charlotte returned about a minute later with a damp T-shirt. Managing to keep the body upright, I scrubbed the sneakers as best I could, even doing the bottoms, and then I wiped the legs of Ricky’s jeans, even though I knew fingerprints couldn’t be found there. I wasn’t even sure the sneakers needed to be wiped down, but I wanted to be as safe as possible.
When I was confident I’d done the best I could, I said to Charlotte, “Okay, here’s what we do. We carry the body down between us as fast as we can, and we don’t stop till we get to the park. Tomorrow, when it’s discovered, the cops’ll come tell you. Just start crying, the way you did before, and there should be no problem. They’ll probably ask you—”
“I can’t,” she said.
“Yes you can,” I said. “Just say you know nothing about it and—”
“No, I mean I can’t carry the body down. I can’t touch it.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “You touched it before.”
“I know, but I can’t again. I can’t even look at him anymore.”
She turned away, toward the door. Still supporting the body with my left hand, I grabbed Charlotte’s head with my right hand and forced it back around.
“Look at it,” I said. “Get used to it, because you’re helping me carry it down.”
Her eyes were closed.
“Fuck you,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I realized that I couldn’t force her to go with me, and arguing with her was just wasting time.
“Fine,” I said, “but after I leave, I never want to see your pathetic face again. And when the cops talk to you, you better lie good, because if I go down I’m taking you with me. Got that?”
Charlotte nodded slowly. I tried to lift Ricky’s left arm over my shoulder, figuring I’d carry him down that way, but the arm was too stiff and I could barely move it. Instead, I grabbed him from behind in a bear hug and started backing my way out of the bathroom, getting nauseous from the smell of shit. I saw Charlotte, back on the futon, lying on her side, facing away. I’d started walking forward now, shuffle-stepping, holding the body in front of me. When I got to the front door I was already sweating and gasping.
In the hallway I looked in both directions, especially toward the neighbor’s door to the left; except for music playing in a lower-floor apartment, it was quiet, and no one was around. I tilted the body horizontally and held it by my side, as if I were transporting a heavy rug. But it didn’t feel like a rug; it felt like a stiff, heavy, cold body. Sucking it up, I headed down the stairs as fast as I could. Halfway down the first flight I was already exhausted, and I didn’t see how I could possibly make it. I’d had an off-and-on sacroiliac problem since injuring myself carrying a metal filing cabinet home from a thrift shop a few years ago, and the way I was struggling on the fourthfloor landing I didn’t see how I could possibly make it all the way to Tompkins Square Park without throwing my back out or having a heart attack.
I considered dragging the body behind me and letting it bounce on the stairs, but I figured it would make too much noise. Then, heading down the next flight, I realized how idiotic the whole plan was. Anyone could leave an apartment at any moment and see me, or someone could come up the stairs, and I’d have nowhere to hide. No one would believe Ricky was drunk or had OD’d, the way I was carrying the body, and even if that was what someone did think, it wouldn’t do any good when the cops started asking questions. The person would just give the cops a description of me and eventually I’d be caught.
I considered turning back, but I talked myself out of that quickly. If I had to wait until tomorrow night the medical examiner would figure out that Ricky had been dead for more than thirty-six hours, and the cops would never believe that he’d been in the park for so long without being discovered. It was now or never, and I just had to pray that I could make it without being seen.
As I approached the third-floor landing my arms were killing me, and I was breathing so hard my lungs hurt, but I didn’t let myself rest. Jazz music with a strong sax sound was playing in the apartment adjacent to the bottom of the landing. Hopefully, someone had gone to sleep with the stereo on and there was no one awake in the apartment. I’d barely finished having this thought when I arrived on the landing and the music suddenly stopped. I froze a few feet in front of the door to the apartment where the music had been playing, holding Ricky’s body by my side, his head jutting toward the doorknob. I heard heavy footsteps in the apartment, and if the person had heard me or opened the door for any other reason I could get ready to spend the rest of my life in jail.
The footsteps were closer now, and I imagined a surly, muscular guy with a goatee—like my future cell mate was going to look—opening the door at any moment. He’d scream for help, tackle me to the floor, and hold me down until the cops came. Aunt Helen and some of my other relatives would be shocked when they heard the news, telling reporters, “He was such a nice, easygoing guy—he could never have done something like that.” I’d plead innocent, say the whole thing had been an accident, but everyone watching the news would think, Sure, that’s what they all say. People at my office would have the same reaction, but Rebecca wouldn’t give a shit. She’d just move on and start mooching off some other guy.
The two locks on the door turned and I knew this was it. The door would swing open and—
The footsteps started again, dissipating into the apartment. It took me several more seconds to realize that the person was locking the door, not unlocking it, and I wasn’t going to get busted—not yet anyway. I waited until there was total silence, and then I continued around toward the stairs leading down to the next floor.
The short rest had given me a surge of energy, and I was able to move faster than before. Fatigue set in again as I neared the second floor, but I was able to push myself to keep going. I kept telling myself that once I got outside I could find a dark area and rest for a while, and then it would be only a block and a half to the park.
When I reached the ground floor and saw the double doors leading to the outside several yards in front of me, I didn’t think I could make it. I was going to pass out and collapse— what a pathetic way of getting caught. Then I was opening the first door, which seemed like it weighed a thousand pounds, and I made it into the vestibule, and I opened the second door, which seemed to weigh even more. I made it outside, but I couldn’t go any farther. I squatted, resting the body against an overflowing garbage can. It was okay—the street was dark, empty, and quiet; the only noises I heard were distant traffic on Avenue B and, somewhere, a dog barking. I could rest for a few minutes and go on, but then I thought, Why not just leave the body here? It was going to be discovered anyway, so what difference did it make when or where it was found? Somebody could’ve fought with Ricky and bashed his head into the concrete right here as easily as in the park.
I thought it through a few more times, making sure I wasn’t making a stupid, rash decision. When I was convinced I wasn’t, I started walking up Sixth Street, as fast as I could without running. Crossing Avenue A, continuing west, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I broke into a full sprint.
&
nbsp; 7
APPROACHING FIRST, I started walking again toward the West Side. I figured it would be a good idea to hail a cab in the West Village or Chelsea, far away from Charlotte’s. Desperate voices in the dark asked me for change—“Yo, you got twenty cent?”—or offered me drugs—“Smoke, man, smoke”—but I kept going, not making eye contact with anybody. I was sick of all the zombies who just existed to make other people miserable. Everyone who thought the scum was gone from the city didn’t leave their apartments at night.
Around Broadway my fatigue started to set in again, but it was nothing compared to how I’d felt lugging the body. I continued along Eighth Street, past all the closed stores, the streets emptier. On Sixth Avenue I finally hailed a cab, and I sat in the car, staring blankly straight ahead as Aziz Amir sped uptown, making almost every light. A wave of euphoria had set in—I was really out of that apartment, on my way home. The situation had seemed so hopeless, especially when I’d heard those locks turning, but now I was free. My arms, shoulders, and lower back ached badly, and I knew my muscles would hurt even more tomorrow, but the pain would be worth it. I’d lie on a bed of nails for months if it meant getting through this.
In the back of the cab I felt filthy, like the whole day was sticking to me, and I couldn’t wait to wash it away. It was going to be so great to take off all my clothes, stand on the soft, shaggy bath rug, then get under a hot blast of water. I’d just stand there and let the water pound on my head and run down my neck, and I’d feel my muscles relax and peace overtake me, and I’d know I was away from Charlotte and that whole nightmare.
I paid Aziz, giving him a two-buck tip, and I went into my building. Opening the door to my apartment I was thinking about the warm water, my tension releasing, the filth swirling down the drain. Then I saw Rebecca standing in front of me, wearing the same black dress she’d been wearing when I’d left, but she was obviously drunk and wasted. Her eye makeup had run, giving her dark “raccoon eyes,” and she was swaying as she tried to stand still. The apartment had a faint odor of pot.
