Free The Unexpected Salami: A Novel by Laurie Gwen Shapiro

shot.”
    “Come again? This isn’t another sniper on Fifth Avenue yarn—”
    “He’s resurfaced. The roommate I saw dead in Australia.” I started to sniffle. Jesus, hurry up, Frank. Tell me what to do. A few seconds to internal combustion.
    “You trying to bug me out? Get the fuck out of here.”
    And into outright bawling.
    “Rachel? You okay? Take a breath. What the fuck is going on? What can I do?”
    “Can you come over?” I impaled out of my mouth. “Maybe we can have him go cold turkey here.”
    “Oh shit, you can’t do that there. Are you crazy? I’ll come over but—”
    “I’m in over my head. Stuart was given money to pretend he was dead.”
    “This is the craziest thing I’ve—”
    “He has no money and he’s strung out on Mom and Dad’s bed and he needs to get off of it or everyone I know is going to be thrown in jail.”
    “He’s in Mom and Dad’s bed? Are you out of your fucking mind? You know what you’re getting into? Addiction is vile—this shit’s nasty. Brice went through this hell with his cousin Tim. Quitting cold is a nice concept, on paper. Tim tried shooting up anything he could get his hands on. Coffee. Laundry detergent—”
    “Laundry detergent?”
    “Christ, Rachel, I’m in the middle of stretching canvas—okay, here’s my RX—take everything out of the apartment, install a drain in the center of Mom and Dad’s room, taper the walls, throw meat in, lock the door, and hose the fucker down every two days.”
    I didn’t respond. Frank hates that even more than my high emergency pitch. In our Jewish-Italian family, silence is the ultimate SOS.
    “Oh, fuck, fine, I’ll bike over. You shouldn’t be alone with him. Give me time to shit and shave. I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
    I brightened a tad. I wasn’t going this alone.
    “If nothing else, I’ll get my comics out of there. I don’t want your resurrected smack addict selling off my
Fantastic Four
number forty-eight, the first appearance of the Silver Surfer.”
    “Frank, please, we have to get him sober—” In times of true duress, I am known to outright squeak.
    “Don’t make that sound. The guy sounds like a loser—he’s already dicked you around. And this isn’t about getting sober, Rachel. He’s an addict. He could hurt you. Keep him calm. Offer him milk or something.”
    Just about the second I clicked the receiver, Stuart rolled into the kitchen with a rank odor and a three-day stubble. He’d put his greasy jeans back on and a red T-shirt I knew from Melbourne. Christ. This was real. “There’s Raisin Bran and
milk
, if you want it.”
    “Raisin Bran? You mean Sultana Bran?”
    “Americans eat Raisin Bran.” I stared at him like Elliot the morning after he found ET. I passed him the box, the milk, a bowl, and a teaspoon. He didn’t touch anything.
    “I’m skint. Could I bot a twenty off you ’til I see you next? I’ll be out of your sight this afternoon.”
    Why did I care one iota about saving this cretin’s soul? Where was his fabled relative in Buffalo? Goddamn. “You’re not going to live on twenty dollars. You need help. Remember last night, you asked me for help?”
    “You were good to put me up here, but I’m leaving.”
    “You’re in no position to leave for anywhere. Where are you going to go? My brother’s coming over to help us sort this through—”
    “You talked about this?”
    “Listen to me will you? Frank’s cool. He’s an artist. His best friend’s cousin went through an addiction—”
    But Stuart was already in the living room, packing his army surplus knapsack.
    I yelled from the kitchen: “I’m going to help you, Stuart! Don’t you see I need to help you?” I stood there, pulling my fingers as far back as I could. When I came out to take a look, Stuart was riding my Dad’s rusting exercise bike at about five miles per hour, staring out the window onto Avenue of the Americas.
    The phone rang. Divine intervention? “Glad I got you,