"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 are 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 leftover 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. Hotshot 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 silverware 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 doubletake, 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."