In the middle of a desultory exchange of news items—Roger Lovell this, Melanie that—Russell had mentioned that the person who’d been subletting his studio apartment in the Lower East Side for the past five years had called him to say she was moving out of the city. A job in Houston, poor thing. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding someone,” Desmond had said. “No,” Russell said, “assuming I decide to look for someone.” Ah. And did that mean he was thinking of finally giving the place up? “Those are two of the three available options,” Russell had said.

Desmond hadn’t thought about this enigmatic statement until after they’d hung up. Replaying the conversation in his head, the only third option he could think of was that Russell would keep the place and not sublet it or, to narrow it down even further, move back in himself. If it was supposed to be a threat, it wasn’t a very credible one. For one thing, the place was so tiny, it wouldn’t accommodate Russell’s collection of cocktail shakers, let alone the rest of his life. But why raise it as a possibility, even obliquely, unless the thought had crossed his mind? Twice in the past five years, there had a been a change in tenant in the apartment, and twice Russell had made noises about giving the place up. The sublet racket he was running, like most housing situations in the city, was technically illegal, and the only way he could justify keeping his name on the lease was by keeping the rent a mere $50 above what he paid. Desmond had always encouraged him to hang on to the place. You never knew when it might come in handy for some friend who suddenly found himself homeless or some elderly relative who was sick of the suburbs and thought Avenue C might be a nice change of pace. Desmond often found an image of the tiny, dark apartment floating into his mind when he and Russell were having an especially vituperative argument or when he was feeling closed in by Russell’s stuff, both the physical and the emotional kind. He’d frequently imagined suggesting to Russell that he think about moving back into the studio, but he’d never imagined Russell coming up with the idea on his own. He’d redialed the New York number to ask Russell for clarification, but there was no answer, so instead he lay on his bed and wept his way through the final pages of Dead Husband.

Too bad if Rosemary was asleep or passed out; part of the price of fame was taking calls from troubled fans. She answered her phone with an unpromising rasp. “Friend or foe?” she demanded.

“Neither, I’m afraid,” Desmond said. “Friend of a friend is the best I can do.”

“Ah, Mr. Sullivan. Friend of many friends it seems.” She coughed and cleared her throat.