“Sit down there at that desk,” he said, “and write a letter. Put in that letter that you’re asking for property in your divorce complaint, but you really don’t want any, that when the case comes up for trial, you’ll have your lawyer tell the judge you don’t want alimony, that you’ll keep the apartment for as long as the rent is paid, that you’ll keep your clothes and whatever money you have in your jeans, and Morgan can have all the rest.”

“What are you going to do with that letter?” she asked.

“See that you give Morgan a square deal.”

Her mouth was a firm, straight line. Her eyes were hot with anger. The man on the bed met her gaze with the calm assurance of one who is so accustomed to having people yield that he doesn’t even take the possibility of their disobedience into consideration. After a second or two, she walked over to the desk, jerked open the drawer as though she were going to pull it out by the roots, yanked out a sheet of paper, and wrote.

Bleatie said to me, “God knows how a cigarette will taste, but I’m going to try one anyway. You got one?”

I nodded.

“Put it in my mouth,” he said, “and light it for me, will you? The way this bandage sticks out on my nose, I’d probably burn the side of my face off trying to find the end of the cigarette.”

I gave him the cigarette and lit it. He inhaled a couple of deep drags and said, “God, it tastes funny!”

After that, he smoked in silence. Over at the desk, Sandra Birks scratched the pen across the paper. When an inch of the cigarette had burned down, she finished writing, blotted the paper, read it over, and handed it across to her brother. “All right,” she said. “Now I hope you’re satisfied. You’d strip your own sister naked just to give a lousy friend a break.”