Panic Attack

by Jason Starr

  “A couple of nights ago, before your mom’s funeral. Yeah, I’m pretty happy with them, too. I guess I was just inspired.”

  “Inspired by what?”

  “I guess by what happened to your mom. It’s been very intense.”

  Marissa was looking at the painting on the easel, noticing the deep shade of red. “It’s weird, isn’t it?” she said. “I mean, the way something awful can bring out art, the way art comes out of tragedy . . . I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m such a total mess right now.”

  “Here you go,” Xan said, handing her the soda and then sitting back down next to her.

  She took a long sip, then said, “I don’t know why everybody’s picking on you when you’re so great.”

  “Who’s everybody?” Xan asked.

  “Well, you said my grandma was giving you the evil eye, right?”

  “Yeah, but I wouldn’t say she was picking on me. You said it was because I’m not Jewish, right?”

  “Yeah, but still. And then there’s what Darren said at the funeral.” “What did he say?”

  “I didn’t tell you?” Xan shook his head.

  “Oh,” Marissa said. “I was such a mess that day I didn’t know where I was half the time. But, yeah, he came up to me, I think in the chapel, before the service started and paid his respects, you know, told me how sorry he was. I don’t think you were there. I think you were with my father.”

  “And then he said something?” Johnny asked.

  “Yeah, but don’t get upset or anything. It was just Darren being Darren. He can be so annoying sometimes. Anyway, he said something to me like ‘So you’re still with that crazy guy, huh?’ Or, no, maybe it was like ‘You’re still with that lunatic, right?’ If I wasn’t so upset, already, grieving, I would’ve gotten really pissed off. I mean, first of all, there I was at a funeral, my mother’s funeral, so why is he talking about you at all? It’s so disrespectful. And I knew he was just saying it because he was jealous, because I haven’t talked to him in days but he read on my blog and heard from other people about how into you I am.”

  “So what did you say to him?”

  “I don’t remember really,” Marissa said. “Something like ‘What’re you talking about?’ And he was like ‘You want to know what he said to me the other night?’ He being you. So then he said it was when he kept bothering me at the bar and you went over to talk to him, you know, the night we met. He said you said to him that if you didn’t leave me alone you were going to cut off his dick and feed it to him.”

  Marissa smiled, trying to show how ridiculous she thought the whole thing was, but Xan remained deadpan and said, “You didn’t believe him, did you?”

  “Of course I didn’t believe it. I knew he was just saying it to upset me, but that makes it even more disturbing because he was trying to upset me at my mother’s funeral.”

  “What I told him was that he was causing a scene and he should leave the club before the bouncer kicked him out.”

  “Yeah, I know, I figured you said something totally innocuous like that. But can you believe how pathetic Darren is that he’d actually make something like that up? . . . Is it hot in here?”

  “I don’t think so,” Xan said. “Have some more soda.” Marissa drank some more, then said, “I feel a little dizzy.” “Want me to open a window?”

  “Yeah, can you? Maybe it’s talking about Darren, it’s getting me sick.” Xan opened one of the windows. The breeze felt good.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you,” Marissa said. “I knew it was ridiculous, but I just wanted to tell you.”

  “I’m not upset at all.” He sat back down next to her. “Feeling any better?” “No, not really. I didn’t eat yet today, that’s probably it.”

  “Drink some more soda, that’ll help.”

  She took a few sips, then said, “It’s so weird.” “What is?”

  “I don’t know.” She felt very disoriented. “Just how my father and Darren are picking on you, of all people. You’re the best thing in my life right now. Honestly . . . I don’t know what I’d do without you . . . Wow, I feel really dizzy.”

  “Here,” he said. “Lean on me.”

  It was hard to see clearly. She wasn’t sure where she was. She was looking at a painting. It was very red.

  Everything had been going great for Johnny until that damn dog started barking at him. He couldn’t believe it when he left the house with Marissa and saw the woman walking the mutt. She had to be walking it right then? What were the odds? He was hoping the dog wouldn’t notice him, but no luck there. As soon as he saw Johnny, he went after him, like he wanted to bite his head off.

  The woman struggled, pulling on the leash with both hands like she was trying to win a game of tug-of-war. Walking away down the sidewalk, Marissa said to Johnny, “That was so weird. I’ve known Blackie for years and I’ve never seen him get like that before.”

  “I know, it’s always been that way for me with dogs,” Johnny said, trying to make it into a joke. “I think they think I smell like a cat or something.” He was hoping that Marissa would forget about the whole damn dog thing and that no one else would make any connection about it either.

  But what was that old saying, bad things come in threes? Well, number two was when she got the phone call from her father. She went into the kitchen area to talk to him, but Johnny, sitting on his couch, heard the whole conversation—well, her part of it, anyway—and it was enough to tell him that something else had gone wrong. Her father wouldn’t have gotten suspicious about him for no reason, and it sounded like the police believed her father, which was even worse. Johnny wondered if there was something he’d overlooked, some evidence he’d left behind or something.

  Johnny wasn’t about to take any chances. He wasn’t going to just hang out in his apartment and hope the cops didn’t show up to bust him. No, Johnny wasn’t a gambling man, especially when it came to the safety of his own ass. He knew he wasn’t above screwing up and getting caught, and he was smart enough to know that sometimes shit happens that you can’t control, which was why he always had a backup plan—and not just a plan B. He had plans C, D, E, and F, too.

  It was a good sign that Marissa hadn’t told her father where Johnny lived. The name Xan Evonov wouldn’t help the cops out, and it would probably take days for them to figure out that his real name was Johnny Long; by then he’d be long gone, living under a new name, somewhere far away from New York. Although he would have to give up the fantasy of living in the Blooms’ house, he could still get all the money and still watch Adam Bloom die in pain. Hey, like Meatloaf says, “Two out of three ain’t bad.”

  When Marissa ended the call with her father, Johnny made sure she’d turned her phone off. It was an iPhone, and he knew those had GPS. He didn’t know how badly the cops wanted to talk to him, but he didn’t want to take any chances that they’d try to track him down by tracing Marissa’s phone. Next, he needed to subdue Marissa, so when he poured her a glass of Coke he slipped a roofie into it. Johnny occasionally had to drug the women he hustled, so he always had plenty of Rohypnol and chloroform on hand. He only used drugs to rob women, though, never to rape them. Every woman Johnny had ever seduced had gone to bed with him willingly. Johnny knew that rape was the worst thing you could possibly due to a person; murder was a favor compared to rape. When you kill somebody, they’re gone, they’re done feeling pain. But when you rape somebody, the pain goes on and on. Besides, he didn’t want to scar his record as a Casanova. Someday, when somebody wrote a book about him, or they made a movie, or movies, when Johnny Long became a legend, he didn’t want to be like those athletes who were caught using steroids. He didn’t want there to be any doubts about his achievements.

  When Marissa passed out, Johnny carried her to his bed and tied her up and taped her mouth shut. Yeah, he had the rope and tape ready—you always had to be prepared. He made sure her nose wasn’t covered by the tape and she was breathing. He needed to keep her alive, for a little while anywa
y.

  He went out, stole a Toyota, and parked it in front of his building. He’d been gone less than an hour, and Marissa was still unconscious. He went around his apartment and packed a backpack with clothes, toiletries, and whatever else he could fit into it. He was bummed that he’d have to leave his Bloodworks behind. He hoped when the landlord cleaned out the place he was smart enough to save the paintings, or at least give them to some gallery or art dealer. When Johnny Long became the world’s most famous Casanova, how much would those pictures go for? A few hundred thousand each? More? Yeah, probably.

  When it got dark out, Johnny untied Marissa and removed the tape from her mouth; she moaned when he did this but remained unconscious. Then he walked her—well, really carried her—out of the apartment and down the stairs to the street. It was perfect because if anyone noticed it would look like she was drunk and he was helping her get home.

  He had her in the car, ready to go, but he couldn’t bear to leave the paintings. He rushed back up and took all six of the Bloodworks. They wouldn’t fit in the trunk but were just barely able to fit in the backseat area, thank God. He couldn’t think of anything else he needed and, with Marissa passed out next to him, he headed happily out of the city.

  ADAM MUST’VE tried calling Marissa fifty times, and he still couldn’t get through. He’d left a few messages, but the other times he ended the calls as soon as he heard her voice mail greeting.

  “Something awful’s happening,” his mother said. “I know it is.”

  Adam was getting sick of his mother and her psychic hunches. He knew that if he were alone he wouldn’t be nearly as panicked, but with his mother lurking nearby, on the verge of hysteria, it was impossible to stay calm.

  “Call Clements again,” she said.

  “I left a message for him ten minutes ago.” “Maybe he didn’t get it.”

  “He got it.”

  “How do you know?” “Because he did, okay?”

  “Maybe he found out where Xan lives. Maybe he knows something.” “If he did he would’ve called us.”

  “You don’t know that. Maybe he—”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Adam said. “Let’s just calm down.” Unconsciously he called Marissa again, reached her voice mail, and clicked off, then said, “The problem is we’re too caught up in this, okay? Chances are none of this has anything to do with Xan and we’re getting hysterical for—”

  Adam’s cell started ringing, and he nearly jumped. He checked the display and said to his mother, “Clements.” Then into the phone he said, “Hello?”

  “How many times did you call me?” Clements asked. “A few,” Adam said. “Did you find out—”

  “There’s no reason for you to call me more than once,” he said. “You just have to leave one message and I’ll get back to you. Leaving more than one message just wastes my time and yours.”

  Adam resented the lecture. He asked, “So did you find out where Xan lives or not?”

  “He doesn’t seem to be listed anywhere in Brooklyn,” Clements said. “We checked out the Alexander Evonov from Brighton Beach, but he died three weeks ago. What about you? Did you reach your daughter?”

  “I’ve been trying. I’m pretty sure her phone’s off.” “Why’s it off?”

  Adam didn’t feel like explaining the whole thing, so he said, “I don’t know, maybe it ran out of charge or something.”

  Adam’s mother was saying, “Give him her number. Give him her number.” “Do you want her number?” Adam asked Clements.

  “Yeah, okay,” Clements said. Adam gave it to him, and then Clements added, “But you keep trying her, too, and when you get through, call me back. But don’t call me just to leave messages, because that only wastes time on my end, okay?” During the next few hours, Adam tried to watch TV with his mother, but every five minutes or so he called Marissa. He kept getting her voice mail, and his mother’s nervous agitation was driving him crazy. He had to get away from her, so he went upstairs to the PC in his office and did more searches, trying to find Xan’s address or any information about him, but he couldn’t find anything. Then his phone started vibrating, and he saw that he’d received a text message from marissa cell. “Thank God,” Adam said. Then he read the message:

  if you wannna see the little bitch again call me in one minute clocks ticking

  For several seconds he was confused, unable to compute the words’ meaning. Then it set in that Marissa hadn’t sent the message, that the message was about Marissa. He read it a few more times but couldn’t focus. Finally he realized that someone was threatening to kill his daughter, but Adam, still scattered, didn’t know how he was supposed to call back when there was no number to call. Was he supposed to call back on Marissa’s phone? Adam frantically clicked send, knowing the minute was probably already up.

  “Barely made it,” Xan said.

  Jesus Christ, they’d been right about him.

  “Where the hell’s my daughter?” Adam nearly shouted.

  “Hey, take it easy, Doc. You don’t want me to do something I’d regret, do you?”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “I think we need to talk about what I want.” “Put her on the phone, damn it.”

  “Are the cops there?”

  “I said put her on the phone.”

  “Hey, you wanna see your little bitch alive again? Do you? Huh? Do you?” Adam was suddenly aware of how absolutely terrified he was. He was shiv-

  ering.

  “Please don’t hurt her,” he said. “Please, please don’t hurt her.”

  “That’s all up to you right now, Doc. If you do what I tell you to do and you stop interrupting me, you’ll see her again. If not . . .”

  “You goddamn son of a bitch,” Adam said.

  He couldn’t believe this was actually happening, that Xan had done this to him, to them.

  “See?” Xan said. “That’s what I’m talking about right there.” “I’m listening, okay?” Adam said. “I’m fucking listening.”

  “That’s good, but if the cops are listening in, or you’re recording this conversation, or you even tell the cops you spoke to me, then you’ll never see your daughter again. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is. If I see one cop at the meeting spot they’ll never find your daughter’s body. I guarantee that.”

  “Meeting spot? What meeting spot?”

  “Hey, didn’t I say I’m gonna be asking the questions?” Adam heard his mother’s footsteps in the hallway.

  “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” he said. He went to the doorway, leaned his head into the hall, and whispered to his mother, “It’s just a friend of mine from college.”

  “What friend?”

  He could tell his mother didn’t believe him.

  “I’ll be right off,” he said and shut the door. “Was that the old biddy?” Xan asked.

  Adam wanted to scream at Xan, but he said as calmly as he possibly could, nearly whispering in case his mother was trying to listen in, “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

  “Yeah, you will do whatever I tell you to do because this is my thing, I’m calling the shots here. You’re not used to that, are you, Doc? You’re used to being the big shot, the man in charge. I bet you don’t let your patients talk a lot. I bet you like to do all the talking. You know, I saw a shrink once. Yeah, when I was at the orphanage, they thought I was ‘troubled’ so they had me talk to this old man shrink—well, he seemed old at the time, but he was probably about your age. Man, I hated that guy, acting like he was so above me, acting like just because he was in the chair and I was on the couch he had all the power, and I could tell he was getting off on it. But now the tables are turned, now I’m in the chair and you’re on the couch. How does it feel to be on the couch, Dr. Bloom?”

  “It doesn’t feel good,” Adam said, trying to placate Johnny, the way he would a patient. He remembered something Carol had once told him. If the patient wants to feel powerful, let him feel powerful.

&
nbsp; “You’re damn right it doesn’t feel good. It feels like shit, and that’s how I want you to feel, like the piece of shit you are.”

  “I understand,” Adam said.

  “You understand? What do you mean, you understand? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I understand how you feel.”

  “You don’t understand how I feel. Nobody understands how I feel.”

  Xan was raising his voice. He sounded unstable, insane. Adam couldn’t believe that this was the same guy who’d been over to the house for dinner, whom he’d accepted and liked.

  “I want to give you what you want,” Adam said. “Just tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

  “Yeah? And what if I told you I want to see your daughter’s head on a plate?

  Could I have that?”

  Adam was squeezing the phone so hard he heard it starting to break. “Don’t hurt my daughter,” he said as calmly as he could, but he knew it prob-

  ably sounded like a threat.

  “There you go, talking down to me again, telling me what to do. Is that any way to talk to a man who has a gun to your daughter’s head?”

  “How do you want me to talk to you?” Adam asked, shaking again, starting to cry.

  “I want you to shut your mouth and listen to me when I tell you what to do.

  You think you can do that?”

  Adam knew Xan didn’t want him to answer, so he didn’t.

  “Good,” Xan said. “You’re learning. Twelve noon, tomorrow, I want one million dollars in cash, in unmarked fifties and hundreds. You’re gonna bring it to the parking lot of the ShopRite on Miron Lane in Kingston, New York. If the bills are marked or if I see a cop, a single cop, or a detective, or anyone I don’t like, I’m not gonna show up and the little bitch dies.”

  “I don’t have a million dollars,” Adam said. “Then get it.”

  “How’m I supposed to do that by noon tomorrow?” “Your problem, not mine.”

  “I need more time.”