Panic Attack

by Jason Starr

  Several seconds later the door opened, and Marissa was there in a red dress, with a big scoop neck giving a nice view of her cleavage, and black leggings and black boots with heels that made her at least two inches taller. She was wearing more makeup than usual, including a bright red lipstick that she must’ve picked to match her dress.

  She kissed him hello, lightly on the lips, and said, “It’s so good to see you,” and he said, “Yeah, you, too.”

  “Can I take your coat?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said, and he took it off, watching her put it away in the hallway closet.

  “Come on, I’ll give you the tour,” she said.

  She led him straight ahead, saying, “Back here’s the kitchen . . . ,” but Johnny was looking over at the staircase, at the spot where Bloom had killed Carlos. It looked normal, like nothing had happened there. There was no damage on the stairs, no bloodstains or bullet holes in the wall. This was what rich people did, Johnny figured—they killed people in their houses and then did a little wall repair, a little paint job, and went on with their rich, happy lives. Yeah, they didn’t care about scum like Johnny and Carlos. They thought they were so high and above everybody else, but now look who was in charge. They thought they’d gotten rid of their problem, they were safe, protected, but now Johnny was back in the house—even better, he’d been invited back to the house. Who else but Johnny Long could’ve pulled off a stunt like this? He’d already thought he was the greatest Casanova on the planet and the modern-day Jackson Pollock, but now he felt like there was nothing he couldn’t do.

  Johnny followed Marissa into the kitchen, then into the dining room. She made some joke about how he should “try to ignore” her parents’ decorating. Meanwhile, the house looked like a palace compared to the shitholes where Johnny had lived. The kitchen had all stainless steel appliances, with one of those refrigerators with an ice dispenser on the door. Johnny had always dreamed of having one of those, being able to have a Coke with ice whenever he wanted. Like it could be the middle of the night, whenever, and he wanted ice, and it would be there. He wouldn’t have to deal with pouring water in trays, having to bend the tray to get the cubes out, and all that bullshit. The ice would just be there all the time, waiting for him. Yeah, he would’ve killed to grow up in a place like this and have half of what Marissa had. Didn’t she know how lucky she was?

  Well, it didn’t matter because she was going to be dead soon anyway. After dinner Johnny planned to go up to her room with her and fuck her and then kill her. Then he was going to kill her parents—maybe torture them with the switchblade a little first just for the hell of it—and then rob the house and go on with his life.

  As she went on, saying in that bored tone, “And this is the living room . . . ,” Johnny was looking around for things to steal. Those vases looked like they had to be worth something, and he had to remember to find that silverware Carlos had mentioned, and of course the diamond ring. It was too bad Johnny could only take things he could carry. Jesus, check out the leather couch and matching love seat and armchair. Johnny felt like he was in one of those showrooms at Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s. Sometimes he’d go in there to hang out for a while, just to imagine how rich people lived. He’d sit in one of those twothousand-dollar massage chairs, wondering what it would be like to come back every day and get a nice massage, then go into his Jacuzzi. He bet the Blooms had an amazing bathroom upstairs, all marble, with a Jacuzzi or at least a big, roomy bathtub.

  When they got back to the foyer, Adam Bloom was coming down the stairs. He looked even more stuck-up and into himself than the last time Johnny had seen him. Check him out in those jeans and a sport jacket, the black button shirt underneath, loose, not tucked in, to try to hide his gut. Johnny had a flashback to the night of the robbery on that same staircase, Bloom screaming, Get the fuck out of here!

  “Hello,” Adam said, smiling widely when he reached the bottom of the stairs. “You must be Xan.”

  He sounded all uppity, like he thought he was so much better than the rest of the world just because he lived in this big house in Forest Hills and had Dr. in front of his name. Did he think those letters made him better than everybody else? Did he think they protected him?

  Yeah, probably.

  Johnny saw Marissa roll her eyes a little; then she said, “Xan, this is my dad.” “Adam Bloom.” He held out his hand for Johnny to shake.

  Johnny squeezed Adam’s hand firmly—feeling sick, but not showing it— then said, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Sir. Man, Johnny was on tonight.

  “You, too,” Adam said. “You, too.” Was he going to let go of his hand already?

  Finally he did and added, “I’ve heard a lot of great things about you.”

  Johnny knew this was total BS. Marissa definitely didn’t seem like she had the type of relationship with her father where she went and told him everything that was happening in her life. She’d probably barely mentioned him to her father.

  Remembering how Marissa had bad-mouthed Adam yesterday, basically calling him a cold-blooded killer, Johnny said, “Yeah, and I’ve heard a lot of great things about you, too.”

  Then Johnny looked up and saw this extremely hot older woman coming down the stairs. He knew this had to be Marissa’s mother—she kind of looked like Marissa, same skinny body type—but he was surprised because he didn’t expect her mom to be so goddamn sexy. She was in a black top with tight jeans, showing off her shape, and there was a lot to show off. She must’ve been in her late forties, but she had nice toned arms, great legs, high tits. Well, at least they looked high with all the pushing up that was going on. Johnny had always had a thing for older women, and he thought Mrs. Bloom was much hotter than Marissa.

  She continued downstairs, and Johnny watched her the whole way. Then Marissa said, “Xan, this is my mom. Mom, Xan.”

  He could tell that Mrs. Bloom was into him in a big way. If he was in a bar, looking for a pickup, she would’ve been the first woman he’d zero in on. The attraction was there, yeah, but there was more to it than that. A lot of women were attracted to Johnny—hell, just about every woman on the planet had the hots for him—but when they really wanted him, he picked up on a vibe of desperation, of longing. He could always spot an unhappy woman, a woman who had something missing in her life and was waiting for some guy to come along to give it to her. Mrs. Bloom definitely had that look.

  “Wow, Marissa,” Johnny said, “you didn’t tell me your mother was gorgeous.” This was the perfect opening because it made Mrs. Bloom blush bright pink, and Johnny could tell that Adam took this as a compliment, too. “I like him already,” Mrs. Bloom said, totally flattered.

  “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bloom.” Johnny held her hand gently. He noticed she was wearing a wedding band but no engagement ring. The ring was probably upstairs in her bedroom, like Carlos had said.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, smiling, looking into his eyes. “You can call me Dana.”

  Oh, yeah, she was definitely into him, there was no doubt about it. Maybe he’d bang her later just for the hell of it—tie Adam up, make him watch.

  “Come on,” Adam said to Johnny. “I’ll get you a drink.”

  Johnny let Adam walk ahead of him toward the living room. Marissa looked annoyed, but Johnny smiled at her and her mother—his two women—then followed Adam.

  Adam asked, “So what can I get you? A vodka and orange juice? A glass of wine?”

  “Oh, I’m not a big drinker,” Johnny said. “Really?” He sounded impressed.

  “Yeah,” Johnny said, “but I guess, since this is a special occasion, a glass of wine would be okay.”

  Adam poured two glasses of wine—some cheap merlot, still had the $6.99 sticker on the bottle—then raised his glass and said, “Za vas.”

  They drank, and then Adam said, “So I understand you’re from Russia.” “Well, not from Russia. My father’s father was Russian.”

  “Our
family’s originally from Russia,” Adam said. “Well, Belarus actually— Minsk.”

  “Moscow,” Johnny said, smiling.

  “Terrific, that’s terrific,” Adam said. “And the rest of your family?”

  “French and German on my mother’s side, Italian and Irish on my father’s side. I even have a little American Indian on my dad’s side.” Johnny hadn’t prepared any of this; he was just winging it.

  “Wow, so you have a real multicultural family,” Adam said. “You must’ve had an interesting childhood.” Suddenly he sounded like a shrink.

  “I did,” Johnny said, “and I was a very happy kid, too.” Hey, he might as well go all the way with the bullshit.

  “That’s good,” Adam said. “Unusual nowadays.”

  He laughed in an uppity way, reminding Johnny of somebody, but who? “Where’s your family live now?” Adam asked.

  “California.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “San Diego.”

  “And I understand you’re an . . . artist.”

  Artist, like it disgusted him to say it. Might as well have been saying “bum” or “faggot.”

  “That’s right,” Johnny said proudly.

  “And this is something you plan to do full-time?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Can I ask how you support yourself?”

  Johnny was tempted to say, Well, you’re gonna be supporting me for the next couple of years or so, Dr. Bloom. But instead he said, “I have a benefactor.”

  Thank you, Pollock.

  “Really?” Adam said. “That’s wonderful. Anyone I might’ve heard of?” “She’s a big-time art collector on the Upper East Side, a friend of the Guggen-

  heims. Yeah, she really loves my work.” “Wow. That’s very impressive.”

  Marissa came into the living room and said to Johnny, “He’s not grilling you, is he?”

  “No, no,” Adam said. “Johnny was just telling me about his burgeoning art career.”

  “His art is amazing,” Marissa said proudly, putting an arm around Johnny’s waist. “He has so much range.”

  “I’d love to see your work sometime,” Adam said. “Do you have exhibitions, gallery openings?”

  “Dad,” Marissa said.

  “I’ll probably have something going on in a couple of months,” Johnny said. “Well, you’ll have to be sure to invite us.”

  “I definitely will.” Johnny was smiling at Adam, thinking, I’m gonna be fucking your wife and daughter so hard later.

  Dana came into the room and announced that dinner was about to be served. Johnny immediately excused himself and went with Dana into the kitchen to help her serve the food. She’d made a salad, some kind of tomato vegetable soup, meatloaf, and mashed potatoes with gravy. He thanked her for going to all the trouble of cooking dinner for him and told her how much he loved the way the house was decorated. Dana seemed to appreciate the compliments very much, and at one point—when she thought he wasn’t noticing—he saw her checking him out, looking him up and down. When she opened the refrigerator to get something, Johnny took a good, long look at her ass and was seriously impressed. Marissa had a flat ass, but Dana’s butt cheeks were meatier and she had wider hips. Cool, tonight Johnny would get a little variety.

  At the dinner table, Johnny was his usual charming, likable self. He had everyone laughing, and he could tell Marissa and Dana both wanted his body. Adam did a lot of talking, going on about himself, obviously trying to impress Johnny, and Marissa had been right before, using the word “interrogation,” because that was exactly how Johnny felt when Adam started asking him questions again, like he was being questioned by a cop. And now Johnny realized who Adam reminded him of, not a cop but Father Hennessy.

  Father Hennessy, Father Fucking Hennessy, used to rape Johnny every Thursday afternoon in his office at the church, telling him about all the trouble he’d get into if he ever finked on him, how Johnny would get kicked out of St. John’s and wind up living on the streets alone. Hennessy was an uppity guy like Adam Bloom, always asked a lot of questions. He lived in an apartment in Queens, but he owned a summer house, somewhere out on Long Island, maybe the Hamptons. He used to keep a picture of the house on the desk in his office, and when Johnny was bent over the desk with his pants down trying to “stay quiet” he’d stare at the picture, imagining what it would be like to live there, how happy he’d be. Afterward, Hennessy would get all friendly. What did you learn in school today? What’s your favorite subject? What do you want to be when you grow up? On and on with the questions. Johnny had planned to kill Hennessy one day, get revenge, but he never got the chance. Hennessy died of a stroke when Johnny was thirteen. All the other kids went to the funeral, but Johnny stayed in his room at St. John’s. Later that night Johnny snuck off to the cemetery and took a big fat shit on Hennessy’s grave.

  “More wine?” Adam asked, holding up the bottle of merlot. He was into his fourth glass and starting to slur.

  “No thank you,” Johnny said, still nursing his first glass. He had a lot of work ahead of him tonight, and he didn’t want to be drunk during it.

  As Adam added more wine to his own glass, he said, “Johnny says he’s not a big drinker. That’s very impressive. You must have a lot of discipline.”

  “Well, I’m sure it takes a lot of discipline to be an artist,” Dana said.

  “That’s true,” Johnny said, smiling at her, wanting her. “It takes a lot of passion, too.”

  He let that one hang there, looking at her for an extra beat or two.

  “But I think it’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?” Adam said. “I mean, choosing a career in art when you say you had a happy childhood. Artists are generally brooding and unhappy and troubled—you know, tortured souls, like van Gogh.”

  He said “Gogh” in this weird, uppity way, like he was starting to throw up. “Come on, Dad,” Marissa said. “Can you just stop it?”

  “What?” Adam said. “It’s a fact, and I’m just wondering how Johnny overcame it.”

  “How he overcame his happy childhood?” Marissa asked.

  “Yeah,” Adam said. “I guess that’s exactly what I’m wondering about.”

  “It was hard,” Johnny said coolly. “I guess if I’d been an unhappy kid, the art would come easier to me, you know? But I don’t think anyone’s ever really happy. I mean, look at you, Dr. Bloom. You have this great house here, a beautiful family, I’m sure you make a really good living, but I bet there are some things you’re unhappy about, right? You’re not one hundred percent happy, are you?”

  Adam suddenly looked uncomfortable, and Dana was looking down at her lap, and Marissa had a little smile, like she was telling herself some private joke.

  “No,” Adam finally said. “I guess nobody’s one hundred percent happy.” “Exactly,” Johnny said. “I guess all of us have darkness inside us somewhere.

  Some of us just have to dig a little deeper to find it, that’s all.”

  Johnny could tell Adam was impressed, and he’d impressed the women, too.

  He was such a deep, sensitive guy.

  Throughout the rest of the meal, Adam continued drinking and asked more and more questions, and Johnny stayed on his game, giving the perfect answers, scoring points with the entire family. It was so easy to be liked; all you had to do was say the right things, tell people what they wanted to hear. When Dana mentioned that she’d done some gardening earlier in the day, Johnny told her how “fascinating” that was and asked her a lot of questions about the type of flowers she grew—annuals or perennials?—and whether she grew fruits and vegetables and said he’d always loved to garden. At one point, Adam commented he’d strained his back playing golf, and then Johnny started bullshitting with him about golf, asking him questions like “What’s your handicap?” and “What’s your favorite course?” and lying about all the golf he’d played as a teenager. Whenever he could, he complimented the Blooms, telling them how nice and kind and interesting they were. Of cour
se, at least four or five times, Adam dropped that he was a shrink—he was so freaking proud of himself— and Johnny stroked his dick, telling him how exciting his work sounded and how much respect he had for people “who actually helped people.” Johnny could tell all this crap was going straight to Adam’s head.

  It was such a blast—getting the Blooms to like him, sucking them in, making them think he was this great guy. Meanwhile, only he knew the truth, the game plan, what was really going to happen. Only he knew that they all had only a few hours left to live. He felt so powerful, like God must feel—in total control, totally messing with their lives.

  Johnny helped Dana clear the table and load the dishwasher, and then he helped her reset the table for coffee and dessert, blackout cake. Adam had an after-dinner drink—a shot of brandy—and was officially smashed. Dana and Marissa were a little tipsy, too, but Johnny wasn’t even buzzed.

  After helping Dana with the dessert dishes, Johnny returned to the living room. Adam must’ve gone to the bathroom or something; Marissa and Johnny were alone for the first time all evening. Marissa came over and put her arms around Johnny’s waist. Her breath smelled like chocolate and wine.

  “So how’d I do?” Johnny asked.

  “You did amazing,” she said. “My dad was just telling me how much he likes you, and he’s never said that about any guy I’m dating.” She pulled herself in close to him and looked at his lips, whispering, “You want to come up to my room?”

  “Yeah, I’d love that,” Johnny said. In the foyer he added, “Can you just get me my jacket? I need something in there.”

  “Sure,” Marissa said, smiling, probably thinking he had to get condoms.

  She brought him his jacket, and then they went up to her room. As she went in ahead of him, he looked down the hallway, figuring that was her parents’ room down there at the end.

  She put on Enya’s Watermark—did every woman in the world have this?— and then locked the door and took him by the hand and led him toward the bed. Like yesterday, when they started kissing her hand moved toward his crotch, and this time he didn’t move away.