Panic Attack (8 page)

Marissa turned down the music, and she could still hear her parents going at it; it sounded like they were in their bedroom now. She took a quick shower and was toweling off when she heard her mother shout, “What’re you gonna do then? Get your gun again? Shoot him?”
God, were they still arguing about the gun?
Marissa headed back to her bedroom, passing her father in the hallway. He marched by and went downstairs. He was in sweats and sneakers, probably on his way to the gym.
Sitting on her bed, Marissa texted Hillary, who worked in midtown. They arranged to meet for drinks at five thirty. Marissa typed:

She got dressed quickly— skinny jeans, a black lace cami, and the cute little leather jacket she’d bought last week at UNIQLO in SoHo. As she left the house, she saw her father on the sidewalk, talking to several reporters. They’d probably come back to ask him questions about Gabriela and she could tell he was into it, furrowing his eyebrows and moving his hands a lot as he talked, acting like he was a movie star giving a press conference.

Marissa walked several blocks, through the gates of Forest Hills Gardens to the subway on Queens Boulevard. Riding on the R train, she wore her sunglasses because she was crying and didn’t want anyone to see. She still couldn’t believe that Gabriela was actually
dead.

When she arrived in Manhattan, she had some time to kill, so she went to the Whitney to see the Man Ray exhibit. She’d sent a job application to the Whitney, as she had to practically every other museum in the city, and hadn’t heard anything yet. She’d been applying to a lot of galleries, too, and had gone to an interview to be the “events coordinator” at one downtown, but she’d gotten no job offers so far. Her father had probably been right about how she’d made a mistake by quitting the job at the Met. She should have stuck it out for at least six months to use it as a reference, or until she found something else. She just hoped she found
something
soon; she wanted steady money coming in so she could afford the rent for her own place, or even a share. She hated not having her own money and being so dependent on her parents.

After the museum, she walked to midtown, feeling out of place around all of the oppressive office buildings and stressed- out working people. Downtown was cooler, though all of Manhattan seemed so uppity and into itself that Marissa felt like she just couldn’t connect. She liked Brooklyn a lot better— especially Williamsburg, DUMBO, and RAMBO— But most of her friends were working in the city and always wanted to meet at midtown bars or go out in Murray Hill or, the worst, the Upper East Side.

At five thirty, she met Hillary at McFadden’s at Forty- second and Second. It was the typical midtown after- work bar— lots of suits and ties, lots of uptight people desperately trying to let loose, businessmen calling each other “bro” and “dude.” Marissa felt like she was on a different planet, but Hillary, who had an entry- level marketing job at some ad agency, seemed right at home, smiling, waving, saying hi and even
hugging
people as she entered. Marissa and Hillary had been best friends for years, but lately Marissa felt like they’d been drifting apart. She hoped it was just a phase, though, that Hillary would eventually get over this whole trying- to- act- like- a-yuppie kick and return to acting like her normal self.

Hillary hugged Marissa hello; then Marissa said, “God, I need a drink so badly. Something strong.”
They found seats at the bar and ordered cosmos,“heavy on the vodka.” Hillary had already read about the robbery on Marissa’s blog, but Marissa retold the story anyway.
“Oh my God, that must’ve been so horrifying,” Hillary said.
“It gets worse,” Marissa said, her voice cracking.
Hillary, like all of Marissa’s friends, had known Gabriela. It was almost like Gabriela had been a part of the Bloom family.
When Marissa told Hillary about Gabriela being killed and probably being involved in the robbery, Hillary started to cry, and Marissa cried with her. Hillary said all the expected things—
I can’t believe it, it’s not possible, she was so
young— as they continued to sob together.
Finally Marissa said, “Maybe we should stop crying, this
is
a happy hour after all,” but the attempt at an icebreaking joke didn’t even get a smirk from Hillary.
“It’s so horrible that you have to go through all of this,” Hillary said.
“Yeah, I know it sucks,” Marissa said. “My mom’s worried that the guy who shot Gabriela’s still out there, but I’m not really worried about that. I’m sure the cops’ll catch him.”
“God, I certainly hope so,” Hillary said.
Marissa sipped her drink, then said, “I was so happy when you said you could meet up. It’s been a total nightmare at home. My mother’s angry, so she’s snapping at my father, and, of course, my father’s taking it out on me, as usual. He actually said I have to stop drinking and smoking in the house, treating me like I’m some kind of party animal or something. Meanwhile, I barely smoke or drink at all. But their fighting, that’s the worst. I swear, it was like when I was a teenager all over again. I really don’t know what’s wrong with them. If they can’t get along and can’t stand the sight of each other, why don’t they just get divorced?”
Suddenly Hillary’s eyes widened, and Marissa could tell something was wrong.
“What is it?” Marissa asked.
“Nothing, never mind,” Hillary said and took a sip of her drink.
“Come on, what is it? Is it about Gabriela?”
“No.”
“Then what is it? Come on, you have to tell me.”
“It’s really not important.”
“Come on, just tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” Hillary said. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”
“You didn’t say anything yet. Come on, now you
have
to tell me.”
Hillary took another sip of her drink, breathed deeply, then said, “It’s just . . . It’s about your mother.”
“My mother?”
“See? I shouldn’t’ve opened my big mouth.”
“What about her?”
“I mean, with what you’re going through now and every—”
“Come on, just tell me already.”
Hillary waited several seconds, as if trying to or ganize her thoughts, then said, “I heard her and my mom talking the other night. They didn’t think I was home, but I heard them from upstairs.”
“What were they talking about?”
“I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t want to tell you, but—”
“Is it something bad?”
“No. I mean, not
bad
bad.”
“Is my mom sick?”
“No, God no, nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s just she’s . . . well, she’s . . . cheating on your dad.”
Marissa couldn’t believe it. “My
mother
?”
“Sorry, I didn’t want to tell you, especially not now when—”
“You sure you didn’t misunderstand something?”
“Positive. She was talking about how it’s been going on for months and she keeps wanting to break it off but she can’t.”
For months?
“With who?” Marissa asked.
“You know him,” Hillary said.
“Oh God, who?”
“Tony.”
“Who’s Tony?”
“You know— Tony, that trainer guy at New York Sports Club.”
It took a few moments to register then Marissa said, “You mean that big guy with the thick Bronx accent?”
Hillary nodded uncomfortably.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Marissa said.
“Swear to God,” Hillary said. “See? I shouldn’t’ve told you.”
Marissa saw a flash of her mom and Tony together— naked. It was kind of funny.
“Who would’ve thought?” Marissa said. “My mom and a bodybuilder. Good for her.”
“Wait, you’re not upset?”
“Upset? Why would I be upset? If I was my mom I would’ve cheated on my dad years ago. Maybe my parents’ll finally get divorced, put all of us out of our misery.” She finished her cosmo in one gulp, then added, “Honestly, this is by far the best news I’ve heard all day.”

Johnny Long was walking uptown on Eighth Avenue, on his way back from Slate, a pool hall in Chelsea where he’d hustled a hundred- something bucks off some drunken stockbroker, heading toward the touristy bars around Times Square, where he hoped to find a decent- looking woman to screw and rob, when the rain started. It was coming down hard, lightning and thundering, and didn’t seem to be letting up. He waited it out for a while under an awning, then dashed across the street to the Molly Wee Pub on Thirtieth and Eighth, figuring he’d wait out the storm there.

When he entered the Irish bar, he noticed five women checking him out. This wasn’t unusual; women checked him out wherever he went. His looks had always been his biggest asset and his biggest liability. It was great to look hot when he wanted to pick up a woman, but during a stretch at Rikers being known as “Johnny Pretty,”“J. Lo” and— the worst—“Jenny from the Block” had caused him seven and a half months of total hell.

Johnny often got mistaken for Johnny Depp, and not just because they had the same first name. He was bigger than Depp, more muscular, but their faces looked alike— both had that sleepy, washed- out look— especially when he let strands of his longish, greasy dark hair fall over his light blue eyes. He also got mistaken for Jared Leto every once in a while, or one of the other guys in 30 Seconds to Mars.

He sat at the bar, ordered a club soda with a wedge of lime— he didn’t touch alcohol— and checked out his options. Two of the women were with guys— not impossible, but it made things a little harder, and he wasn’t in the mood for hard. So it was down to the thin girl with dark hair who was at the table with a group of friends, the girl with dark curly hair or her blond friend at the end of the bar, or the older blonde who was alone at a table near the door. He wasn’t attracted to any of the women, not that that mattered.

He sipped his club soda and looked up at the basketball game on TV, deciding to let fate decide for him. It would save him some work, and besides, the odds of picking up a woman were much better when he let the woman make the first move. If he went over to one of the women his chances would still be very good, but it would require much more charm and effort, and if it turned out the woman was married or had a serious boyfriend there was a chance Johnny wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But he knew if he did nothing, just sat and waited for a woman to come over to him, he would almost definitely score.

Although he wasn’t looking at any of the women, he could feel their eyes on him. He just knew that they wanted him so badly, that they were just dying to be with a hot guy like him, a Johnny Depp look- alike, for chrissake. At one point, he looked casually beyond the bartender and in the mirror behind the bar saw that the blonde and the girl with the dark curly hair were still looking in his direction, obviously talking about him. The dark- haired girl was probably saying something like “God, he’s so cute,” and the friend was egging her on, saying, “Go ahead, talk to him, what’re you waiting for?” That was the way it always happened. It was so predictable it was almost boring.

Sure enough, about a minute went by, and then Johnny heard, “Excuse me?” He looked over and saw the girl with the dark curly hair. She was overweight, and there was nothing particularly attractive about her face. She was someone Johnny would normally pass in the street and barely notice.

She was blushing badly and looked even less attractive closer up in brighter light. Her makeup looked caked on, especially around her eyes, which weren’t blue or even green. He could tell that she was terrified and it took all her nerve to go up to a guy as good- looking as he was and actually say something. He also knew that his initial reaction to her was key: She wasn’t just going up to him to hit on him; they were actually hooking up unconsciously. He had to show her instantly that he was attracted to her, but more importantly that he was a good guy, someone she could trust.

He smiled widely, letting her see his perfect white teeth, and looked right in her eyes like he was totally enamored with her. He knew humble was the way to go and said, acting totally blown away and flattered, “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Haven’t you heard that before?”
“Never,” he said. “Wow, you really made my day.”
He maintained eye contact, letting her notice his light blue eyes, which

women often complimented. In fact, just last night the woman he’d picked up in Brooklyn told him that he had the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen. He wound up screwing her, but he’d gotten away with only about a hundred bucks and no jewelry. Hopefully this woman would be a bigger score.

He held her hand for a few seconds longer than necessary, letting her know that he liked her, that he was
interested.
It was so easy to pick up women; at least for him it was. He knew he didn’t have to come on strong and try to impress them with a fancy job and make them laugh nonstop. Women wanted to be
noticed,
and they wanted to be
respected.
All you had to do was be attentive, listen to a woman, show her that you cared about what she was saying, and you were halfway there. It was so simple that it always amazed Johnny when he saw guys blow easy lays by going on and on about themselves. What were they trying to do, scare the women away? Yeah, Johnny knew his looks helped him out a lot, made him even more irresistible, but even an ugly guy could pick up practically any woman he wanted, if he could make her feel special, like she was the only person in the world that mattered.

Johnny made small talk with Theresa—
Where are you from? Do you live around here? What do you do for a living?—
but instead of just firing off the questions machine- gun style like the average guy, he really listened to the answers and of course, he maintained eye contact the whole time. She said she worked as an office manager at a PR agency, which disappointed him because it didn’t sound like she had big bucks. Still, she seemed pretty well off— middle class at least— and he was encouraged when she dropped that she lived alone. Roommates were always problematic.

He didn’t say a word about himself until she asked him; then he did his best to tell her what she wanted to hear. Since she’d mentioned she lived in Queens, he told her that he was born in Queens and still had a lot of family there. He was actually from Brooklyn and was an orphan, but he wanted to have a connection to her, and it seemed to work. Because she was an office manager, he told her he was “a con sul tant for a financial services company.” If she’d had a lower- or higher-level job, he would’ve told her he did something else for a living, but he wanted to have a career that was on her level. In other words, he didn’t want to be too far above her or too far below her. Also, whenever he met women with white- collar jobs he loved saying he was “a con sul tant for a financial services company” because the job title sounded so ambiguous that he could easily bullshit about what he actually did on a day- to- day basis if the women happened to ask any questions. But the women rarely questioned him about his job, at least not right away, and these were usually one- night stands anyway.

His other brilliant move— which practically sealed the deal— was playing the Catholic card. He noticed she was wearing a crucifix, so he casually mentioned that he had gone to church last Sunday. Her eyes brightened and she said, “Wow, I go to church all the time.” He gave her some crap about how important spirituality was in his life and how sad it was that “the country was getting away from all that.” Then a few minutes later she actually said, “God, it’s so great to meet a guy who goes to church,” as if she seriously believed she’d met her Catholic Prince Charming on a rainy night in an Irish bar around the corner from Penn Station. At times like these, Johnny’s lies amused him to the point where it was hard not to start laughing hysterically, but as always he managed to contain himself.

Johnny knew Theresa was dying to screw him now, that in her mind he was the greatest guy she’d ever met and she couldn’t wait to introduce him to her parents and all her friends. Of course, she might give him a hard time about having sex tonight, doing the whole playing- hard- to- get/wanting- to- take- itslower routine, but he knew that with a little gentle persuading and pouring on a little more charm at the appropriate moment— this was where his good looks and trustworthy eyes really paid off— she wouldn’t be able to resist him.

Then her friend, the blonde, came over and said she had to get home. This was the last hurdle, and it was a major one. If Theresa had driven her friend to the bar (unlikely, since she’d mentioned she’d gone out tonight right after work) or her friend was staying at Theresa’s place (also unlikely, because she would’ve brought this up already) then Johnny’s pickup attempt could be shot. If this were to happen it wouldn’t be any big deal really, because he could simply pick up someone else— or, let’s be serious, let someone else pick
him
up— at this bar, or, now that the rain had stopped, he could continue on to Times Square and pick up a tourist at a bar around there. He knew he could find a more attractive victim, though it would be a shame because he was oh so close with Theresa.

“Gregory, I’d like you to meet my friend Donna,” Theresa said. “It’s great to meet you,” Johnny said. “I love that jacket. Where’d you get it?” Actually it was a cheap- looking denim jacket that looked like it was from a

thrift shop.
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said, blushing the way Theresa had. “Actually,
I got it at Daffy’s.”
“Really? Wow, I love it.”
That was perfect— complimenting the friend, getting her to like him, too. Predictably Donna told Theresa that she was ready to leave. She said something about how she had to get up early tomorrow, which sounded to Johnny
like a lame excuse since tomorrow was Saturday and odds were she didn’t have
to work. She probably just felt self- conscious, sitting at the bar by herself not
getting hit on, and wanted to leave, even if it meant taking her friend with her
and— and as far as she knew— ruining a budding love connection. Theresa seemed disappointed and torn, and Johnny knew exactly what she
was thinking:
Would he have more respect for me if I left?
But the fact that she
wasn’t leaving told Johnny that she one hundred percent wanted to stay; she just
needed a way to justify it to herself.
“Hey, if you’d like to stay I’ll make sure you get home safely.” Maybe anyone
else delivering this line would’ve come off as a sleazeball, a player, but not
Johnny. He always seemed sincere and caring.
“Wow, that’s so nice of you,” Theresa said.
Again Johnny had to resist the urge to burst out laughing.
The girls talked it over for a few moments while Johnny looked away, sipping his club soda, giving them space, and then Donna announced, “Well, I’m
going home, it was really nice meeting you.”
“You too, hope to meet you again sometime,” Johnny said, thinking,
Yeah,
like that’s gonna happen.
Donna left, and Johnny knew the last obstacle had been removed— it was
pretty much home free from here.
And he didn’t waste any time. After he said something funny and she laughed,
he leaned in and kissed her. He didn’t slobber over her with an open mouth. It
was a simple, classy kiss. He kept his lips against hers for several seconds and then pulled back and said, sensitively yet with passion, “Do you want to get out
of here?”
A few minutes later, they were in the cab. He was a total gentleman— kissing
her, of course, but not trying to get in her panties or anything like that. The cab
ride to Astoria might cost him about thirty- five, forty bucks, and he hoped that
it was worth his while, that he wasn’t wasting a whole night with this woman. During the cab ride she said everything he expected her to say.
I don’t usually do this. Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? Maybe we should wait
.
Playing the game, he kept saying things like “Hey, if you don’t feel comfortable,
I can go home.” Giving her every opportunity to back out of it. Yeah, right. In Astoria, he was disappointed when they pulled up in front of a modest twofamily house. He was hoping she lived in one of the new yuppie condos they’d
put up out there; it would’ve been an indication that this was going to be worthwhile. Still, he was trying to be optimistic, not acting in any way disappointed. As soon as they entered her apartment, he switched on his passion button
and began to give her the full Johnny Long lovemaking treatment. He kissed her
lips softly, pushing her hair back away from her face, telling her over and over
how beautiful she looked. They went into the bedroom and began to make love.
He asked her if she had candles and incense, knowing that women always loved
that crap. She said she didn’t have incense but had candles and went to get them. She returned to bed, the candles lit, and Johnny began to make love to her
the way only Johnny Long could. He knew he was the best lover in the world,
and not only because women often told him he was. One day he’d gone to the
library and read books by the so- called Casanovas, and those guys didn’t know
anything he didn’t know. In one book, some French guy claimed he’d been with
over a thousand women and had satisfied all of them. Johnny laughed when he
read that— no one could give a woman more plea sure than Johnny Long. The
last time he’d counted he estimated that he’d been with 450- plus women, but
he was only thirty- one years old and planned to be in the thousands by the time
he was thirty- five.
Johnny knew that writing a book about his own sex techniques would be
impossible because he had no techniques. He couldn’t tell people to do this or
do that and you’ll get a woman off every time, because nothing worked every
time with every woman. Women were like trees: They were all different. It was
all about instinct, getting into the woman’s head, feeling what she was feeling. He kissed Theresa very slowly and softly on her mouth and her neck, then moved to her breasts and stomach and inner thighs and finally worked his way lower. The entire time, like when he was talking to her at the bar, he was very attentive, picking up on the cues she gave him and playing off them. Like a super sex computer he instantly pro cessed the information she was giving him and transformed himself into her ideal lover, the man of her dreams. He pleasured her for a long time with the perfect intensity, and then he began to make love to her at the exact pace she wanted. She climaxed easily, moaning, “Oh, Gregory, oh, Gregory.” For a moment he’d forgotten he was Gregory and thought
she’d confused him with somebody else.
He got her off four times, and he knew there was no chance she was faking.
No one could fake orgasms with him because he knew, he always knew. Afterward, he held her in his arms and gently stroked her hair and kissed her ear,
gently sucking on her lobe for a while.
Later, when she finally fell asleep, he got out of bed, dressed silently, and got
to work robbing her apartment.
He started with her purse, scoring $237— not bad at all for purse money; it
more than covered the cab ride, so already the night was a success. He easily
found her jewelry box in the top drawer of her dresser and took everything,
noticing a couple of necklaces, both sterling, and rings that he thought would
get him several hundred dollars for their gold value alone. With a little luck
this would turn out to be a great score, and he knew that as long as he got away
cleanly, he had almost no chance of getting caught. Theresa had no real information about him, and she probably wouldn’t even report the crime to the
police. Johnny wasn’t sure why the women he screwed and robbed almost
never tried to rat him out. Part of it probably was that they felt so ashamed and
embarrassed about what had happened that they didn’t want their friends and
family to find out about it, but Johnny liked to think that it was mainly because
he’d left them so satisfied, giving them the best sex of their lives, so that in the
morning they’d decided that, yeah, losing their money and other valuables
sucked, but what did they
really
have to complain about?
He was about to leave the bedroom when he noticed, on the night table, the
gold crucifix Theresa had been wearing at the bar. He snatched it and, on his
way out, smiled, thinking how he’d have to go to church later and confess. He
was still giggling about that one as he left the building and headed toward the
subway station.