– The best isn’t the problem, Joe.

He heads back down the hall toward the kitchen.

– The worst is what we have to worry about. The worst is still over the bridge.

He turns in the doorway.

– But they’ll be coming.

I don’t got enough problems.

I don’t got enough problems dealing with the day-to-day shit that rains from the sky in Manhattan, now I got to start worrying about it being shipped in from Brooklyn. That’s what happens when you get a regular job, other people’s shit becomes your problem. ’Course, by the time you got that figured, it’s up around your ears and you’re just trying to keep your fucking mouth shut.

– Cat got your tongue?

I look up from the square of linoleum between my shoes and try a smile. It doesn’t work.

– No, babe, just tired.

– You didn’t have to come by.

– Sure I did. What else am I gonna do?

– You know how to flatter a girl, Joe.

– Not what I meant.

– I know. Just kidding.

Evie reaches out and takes my hand. The IV hose hooks around her pinkie and I pull it free so it won’t get tangled.

– The one on your cheek looks better.

She pokes the tip of her tongue into the pocket of her cheek, pushing out the spot where the first of her Kaposi lesions appeared.

– Yeah. Pretty cool. Now if I can just get rid of the other thirty-six I’ll be in business.

A nurse comes in, looks at the IV, checks the cunna in Evie’s arm, fakes something that might have looked like a smile when she started this job and walks back out.

Evie shows me her teeth.

– I love that one, she’s so sweet. Not a bitch like the others.

– A real Florence Nightingale.

– Yep, she’s the one told me how to use the diuretic suppositories, used visual aids and everything.

She makes a fist with one hand and forces the index finger of her other hand into its grip.

– Very helpful.