JOHNNY DIDN’T waste any time hooking up with Marissa. First thing Saturday morning he texted her:

 

hey had great time last night wanna hang today? hope so! lemme know! xan

 

Xan. Just typing that stupid name cracked him up.

He knew there was zero chance she wouldn’t get back to him. He didn’t peg her as the game-playing type who would play hard to get. No, she was definitely an all-or-nothing girl, the type who decided she was into one guy and one guy only and blew off the rest of the world.

As usual, his instincts were dead-on because she texted back:

 

I’d love to! Call me in a few!!

 

With exclamation points no less. Talk about being primed.

They spoke on the phone for about a half hour. They could’ve gone longer— hell, all day—but Johnny knew how important it was to always leave phone conversations on a high point, to leave them wanting more. Nobody was better on the phone than Johnny Long. He knew exactly what to say to girls to get them—well, there was really no other way to put it—totally wet. He was so charming, so funny, so—what was the word?—personable, yeah, personable, and girls ate that shit right up. He knew he could pick a name out of the phone book, call the girl up, and there was a pretty good chance he’d be able to screw her. He’d actually done this one time just for fun, to see if he could pull it off. He called a couple of dozen women, pretending he was a cable guy from Time Warner. Well, that was the opening, but when the women starting talking to him, he turned on the Johnny Long charm. Yeah, a bunch of them hung up on him, and some were going to let him come over to check out their cable, but he wasn’t convinced he’d score with them. But it was all about percentages and he finally hit pay dirt with a woman on Staten Island. She was in her sixties and had gone back for seconds on the ugly line, but what difference did that make? She invited him over to her house, where he checked out her cable—actually fixing a problem receiving premium channels—and then screwed her twice and got away with a few hundred bucks in cash and jewelry. It proved that Johnny Long wasn’t just eye candy. He could use his voice and charm to seduce women, too.

Johnny invited Marissa to spend the afternoon with him at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and naturally she thought it was an amazing idea. She’d actually said, “Wow, that’s an amazing idea.”

He met her at two o’clock on the top of the steps at the main entrance, and when he saw her approach he was impressed with how good-looking she was. In the bright sunlight her hair looked shinier than it had last night, and there was no doubt that she had a hot little body. She was in preripped jeans, some trendy-looking black lacy top, and a short black leather jacket.

To sound like he knew his shit, before he’d met her he’d gone to Burger King and logged on to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Web site and memorized info about twenty or so paintings. So when they went inside and she asked, “So what do you want to see first?” he said, “How about The Storm? That’s one of my all-time favorites.”

“Oh my God, I love nineteenth-century French romanticism,” she said, obviously trying to impress him.

He’d only picked The Storm because it looked so sappy, so girly, with the guy and the girl running in the wind, their clothes coming off, and him trying to protect her. It looked like something that would be on one of those faggy books with Fabio on the cover, and he figured every girl in the world was looking for a guy like that, a guy who would save his girlfriend, do anything to keep her safe, even if she was kind of fat and not very hot.

As they looked at the painting, he told her some of the crap he’d read online about it, going on about the romance and passion in the painting and how he tried to get “that feeling” into his own work. She said, all serious, “The Storm always reminds me of Rodin’s sculptures, such as Eternal Spring.” He knew she was just repeating some uppity crap some uppity teacher at Vassar had told her or she’d read in some book. Johnny wondered how much Adam Bloom had spent to send Marissa to college—probably a hundred grand. A hundred grand and she didn’t know any more than Johnny did after spending one morning in Burger King.

They went into one of the little rooms off to the side—“the Impressionist wing”—and she showed him some of her favorite pictures, acting like she was a tour guide, going on and on about them, using big college-type words like “symmetry,” “aesthetics,” and “illusionistic.” Johnny didn’t understand half the shit she was saying, and he wondered if she did either. She took him to other “wings” of the museum, walking him around until his feet hurt. All the pictures looked the same to Johnny, and the artists sounded the same, too— Monet, Manet, Pissarro, Picasso, how did anybody keep track of who painted what? While she was blabbing away, trying to impress him with how much she knew about paintings nobody except other uppity people gave a shit about, Johnny was looking at her with an interested expression, like he was totally gripped, but inside he was laughing his ass off, thinking about the things he was going to do to her and her family when the time was right.

After the museum, he was expecting her to invite him back to her place. Taking her up to see that Storm painting, showing his deep, sensitive side, had pretty much sealed the deal. Walking down Fifth Avenue, alongside Central Park, she even hooked her arm around his and said, “It’s amazing. I feel so normal around you, I feel like I can be myself.”

“Yeah, me, too,” he said, trying to look sincere.

She invited him out to some party later on, but he said he couldn’t make it, that he had plans. His only actual plan for the night was to hit some bars and pick up a woman or two, but he’d already spent a couple of hours with Marissa today and didn’t want to spend too much time together too fast. If he wanted this to turn out right, it had to be a slow build.

They stopped at a Starbucks for Frappuccinos; then he walked her all the way downtown to the subway at Fifty-ninth Street. He offered to ride with her back to Forest Hills, but she said it was okay, she could go alone, and he decided not to push it. He made out with her for a long time near the subway entrance, and when she was all worked up he said good-bye, leaving her wanting more.

He didn’t suggest seeing her again on Sunday, figuring three days in a row might’ve made him seem too available, and a girl always wanted a guy to be a challenge even if she was dying to tear off his clothes. But they got together again on Monday, going to see a movie. He was hoping she’d ask him to pick her up at her place, so he’d have a chance to meet her father, but for some reason she insisted on meeting in front of the movie theater on Forty-second and Eighth. They saw a horror movie—her idea—which was perfect as far as he was concerned because they spent the whole time snuggled in the back, making out like teenagers, pawing at each other like they hadn’t gotten any in years. Yeah, right.

At one point she whispered in his ear, “God, I want to fuck you so bad.” He was surprised—she was a raunchy little thing; he didn’t expect that.

He knew he had to handle this right, and he whispered back, “I want to take it slow.”

He saw her again on Tuesday, for lunch at Dojo in the Village. Yeah, it was a cheap place to take a date, but that was the whole point. He had to play up this starving-artist thing because he knew that was what turned her on. If he was trying to scam a Paris Hilton type, he would’ve been wearing Armani and it would’ve been Le Cirque all the way. But with a wannabe bohemian chick like Marissa, talking about how he couldn’t pay his rent next month and how he’d been living on ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese was the way to go.

On Wednesday night something happened that nearly ruined everything. Johnny met Marissa in the East Village, and after a couple of drinks at a bar on Avenue A, they went to the Knitting Factory, where the Limons, some new retro Latin punk band she was into—she’d called them “the Ramones meet Ricky Martin”—were playing. They’d been in the place for only a few minutes when Johnny felt a tap on his shoulder and heard, “Frederick, is that you?”

Johnny looked over his shoulder and saw a woman—not so bad-looking, late twenties, maybe thirties, with straight brown hair and bangs. She didn’t look at all familiar, but he’d used the name Frederick with various pickups.

“Sorry,” he said, “you got the wrong guy.”

He turned back toward Marissa, rolling his eyes slightly, but he had a feeling the woman wouldn’t let it go.

She didn’t, saying, “Like hell you don’t, you son of a bitch. Where’s my fuckin’ money?”

He looked at her again and said, “Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Actually, she was starting to look familiar, but he couldn’t place her face yet.

As he started to turn away again, she grabbed his arm and said, “You took two hundred fucking dollars from my pocketbook and, oh, yeah, some jewelry, too, but it wasn’t worth shit.”

Now he remembered. A couple of months ago he’d picked her up at a bar, Max Fish on Ludlow, not far from where they were now, and he’d stolen some cash and some jewelry that had turned out to be gold plated; waste of his goddamn time. He usually didn’t like to return to neighborhoods where he’d scored for at least six months for this very reason.

“I’m telling you, you have the wrong guy,” he said, shaking his arm loose. He noticed that Marissa was starting to look a little worried, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he was being hassled or because she was starting to believe the woman’s story.

“Give me my money back or I’m calling the fuckin’ cops,” the woman said, flipping her cell phone open.

“You’re out of your mind,” Johnny said. Then he took Marissa by the hand and said, “Come on,” and led her toward the other end of the bar.

The woman followed them, shouting, “I want my money back, Frederick!” A bouncer came over and asked what was going on. Johnny calmly explained that he had no idea who the woman was. The woman continued to go on about how Frederick had stolen money from her, sounding more and more crazed and hysterical. At one point she shoved the bouncer, and he grabbed her and pulled her out of the bar. Then the bouncer apologized to Johnny and Marissa for the “inconvenience” and bought them a round on the house. Johnny, turning on his charm, bonded with the bouncer—they were both from Queens, around the same age—and after a few minutes they were like old buddies.

Johnny and Marissa bonded, too, talking about how “weird” it was that the woman had mistaken him for that other guy and flipped out like that. It turned into a big joke, and Johnny knew that Marissa couldn’t wait to tell her friends about it; he figured she’d probably blog about it, too. This was yet another example of how golden Johnny was, how he could do no wrong. Something that could’ve been a disaster and ruined his plans had turned into something that had scored more points with Marissa, bringing them even closer together.

Johnny was hoping that Marissa would invite him home with her tonight, but again she wanted to take the subway home alone. He insisted on going with her because it was past midnight and “you never know what kind of maniacs are on the subways at this time of night.” She agreed, but when he was walking her back to her house, she was acting uncomfortable, not talking very much, and when they got to her house she barely kissed him good-bye and rushed inside. He had no idea what the hell was going on. He knew she was into him— that was obvious—so there had to be some reason she wasn’t inviting him in. It wasn’t like she’d never taken a guy home with her before. She’d talked about a couple of guys she’d had over to her house since graduating from college, including that skinny little dork Darren. Johnny wanted to ask her if something was wrong, but he figured it was better if she brought it up herself. He didn’t want to push too hard and blow all of his plans.

The next day, Thursday, Johnny called Marissa in the morning and asked her if she wanted to meet him for lunch in Brooklyn. She said she’d love to— not exactly a surprise—and he met her outside the Smith–Ninth Street subway station and rode the bus with her to Red Hook, where they went to some trendy coffee bar where Johnny had seen a lot of artsy types go. They talked for a while, holding hands the whole time, and then he took her back to his place. He’d been working hard to try to make his studio apartment look like a place where an artist would live. He’d picked up some more paintings from thrift shops and, a couple of days ago, had bought four paintings of bowls of fruit from some guy on Craigslist who lived about ten blocks away. He’d done a few more of his own paintings, too, in the Jackson Pollock style, and he thought they were at least as good as that shit in the Met.

On the way over to his place he gave her some BS about how “nervous” he was about her seeing “his work.” She told him how silly he was acting and said she was sure his paintings were amazing.

In the apartment, he watched her reaction closely as she looked around. He could tell she was seriously impressed.

“Wow,” she said. “You really have a lot of range, don’t you?” “Thanks,” he said.

“You use oils and acrylics, huh?”

He had no idea what he was talking about, but he said, “Yeah, I like to do a lot of everything. I mean, I don’t like to limit myself. I want to blow the whole thing wide open.”

Wasn’t that the line in Pollock? Eh, something like that.

Admiring the paintings he’d bought on Craigslist, Marissa said, “Do you do your portraits from real life or photographs?”

“Real life,” he said.

“Wow,” she said. “Impressive.”

She turned toward the wall where he’d hung up a couple of his own paintings and said, “So you’re into modern and abstract, too, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You see the Pollock influence, right?”

Influence. He was on a roll, all right.

“They’re very Pollockesque,” she said. “You and Pollock have a very similar controlled freedom in your styles. I love the use of gray—very Jasper Johns. I also see the homage to Picasso in your use of blue.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I was going for,” he said. “Johns and Picasso. Yeah, I’m so glad you noticed that.”

She continued to admire the paintings while he was thinking about how this whole art gig was so perfect for him. It was all about bullshitting, and nobody could bullshit better than Johnny Long.

When the love fest for his artwork ended, he cracked open a couple of Heinekens and sat with her on the couch.

A few minutes later, she was snuggled close, wrapping her leg over his legs, saying, “I’d love to watch you work sometime.”

“That would be great,” he said, “but nobody’s ever watched me before. I might get nervous, you know?”

“You don’t have to get nervous around me,” she said, and she put her beer on the coffee table. She kissed him, rubbing his chest with one hand, then said, “Maybe I can . . . help you.”

“What kind of help do you have in mind?” he asked, playing along.

“Maybe some of this,” she said, kissing his lips. “Or this.” She kissed his neck. After a while, she moved one hand over his crotch, then unsnapped his jeans and started to reach inside.

Naturally he was ready for her, but he shifted back a little and said, “I think we should wait.”

“Wait for what?” she gasped, wanting him so badly.

“Until we get to know each other better.” It was so hard to deliver these lines with a straight face. “I mean, we’ve only known each other for less than a week.”

“So you’ve never slept with somebody you’ve known less than a week?”

Only about four hundred and fifty before you, baby.

“But this feels . . . different,” he said. “It feels . . . special.”

She smiled, blushing. “You really mean that?” “Yeah,” he said. “Why? Doesn’t it feel special to you?”

“It feels very special to me,” she said. “I’m just not used to hearing guys say things like that to me. I’m used to guys trying to get into my pants.”

“I’m not most guys,” he said.

“You’re definitely not most guys,” she said.

They kissed for a while longer. He was glad, because if he’d had to talk right then, not laughing would’ve been impossible.

When he was sure he’d composed himself he said, “I guess I also feel a little uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable about what?” she asked.

“Well, you’re living at home with your parents. I feel like I should meet them first before we . . . you know.”

That was the way—make out like he was too shy to say “have sex.” That was him all right, Shy Johnny.

Marissa moved her leg off of him and shifted away a little and suddenly seemed upset. Johnny hoped he hadn’t taken this playing-hard-to-get routine too far.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s not you, it’s just . . . I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Johnny held her hand, squeezing it tightly to show how much he cared, then said, “I’m gonna have to meet them eventually, right? If my parents didn’t live so far away I would’ve already brought you to meet them.” The other night he’d

told her his parents lived in San Diego.

“It’s just really complicated,” she said. “God, I wish I wasn’t living at home.

It’s just so hard, especially with my father and his mood swings.” “Mood swings?”

“Not ‘mood swings,’ mood swings. I mean, he’s not manic-depressive. But one day he’s aloof, in his own world, and the next day he wants to be this involved father. Suddenly he has all these rules—I can’t drink in the house, even a glass of wine, and he made me throw out my pot even though I barely smoked at home. Then I came home the other day from the museum and my freaking bong was gone—it was handmade, from Guatemala, and he threw it in the garbage. Oh, and I have to let him know when I’m coming home at night, the exact time, like I’m a teenager again. He knows I’m dating you, so the other night he made this big stink about how I can’t bring you up to my room and you can’t stay over or anything until he meets you.”

“So let me meet him,” Johnny said. “What’s the problem?”

She had that concerned look again. “There’s something I haven’t told you,” she said.

He thought, Uh-oh, VD. Not that this really bothered him. He’d had crabs before, and he’d knocked out a case of gonorrhea last year. VD was part of the job when you wanted to be the next Casanova.

“I mean, you probably heard about it on the news,” she continued, “but maybe you didn’t make the connection.” She waited, as if trying to find the right words, then said, “Our house was robbed last week.”

“It was?” Johnny thought he sounded convincingly surprised.

“Yeah, it happened when we were all asleep in the middle of the night,” she said. “I heard the burglars in the house and woke up my parents, and then my father went and shot one of them.”

One of them, like he and Carlos had been what, two cockroaches? Isn’t that what people said when they were trying to squash bugs: I got one of them, but the other one got away?

“Oh, that’s right, yeah, yeah,” Johnny said, like it was all coming to him now. “I think I read something about that in the paper. Yeah, the shooting in Forest Hills by that shrink. Wow, that was really your father?”

“I’ve been afraid to tell you,” Marissa said, suddenly talking faster, full of nervous energy. “I’ve been afraid that you’d, I don’t know, judge me. Maybe I was just being crazy—I do that sometimes, get all neurotic and paranoid, overthink everything—but that’s what I thought. It’s not true, right? You won’t hold it against me, will you?”

“Relax, baby,” Johnny said, squeezing her hand, letting her know that he’d always be there for her. “You know I’d never do that to you.”

He held her and kissed her for a while; then she said, “I’m still so pissed off at my father for doing what he did. It was so stupid, so totally thoughtless, and the thing is I don’t even think he feels guilty about it.”

“Really?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah, he’s been in this weird denial phase or something,” she said. “I mean, even the morning after, he was just going about his life, acting like nothing happened. You would think a psychologist would be more in touch with his feelings, but with him it’s the total opposite. I don’t think he has any idea how he’s feeling, ever.”

Johnny remembered being in the car outside Bloom’s house, with the gun in his hand, seeing Bloom strutting down the block in his sweat suit, like he didn’t have a worry in the world.

Well, you have something to worry about now, asshole.

“So you think what they were saying in the news was true?” Johnny asked. “Your father wanted to kill the guy?”

“Between me and you,” Marissa said, “yes, I do. I think my dad just lost it, in that moment and wanted to shoot him. I don’t think he’s a crazy person—I mean, he’s not psychotic—but he holds stuff in, he’s wound up, you know? It was also the middle of the night, he was tired, so, yeah, maybe he wasn’t thinking rationally. He was angry that someone was in his house and he just went too far. He gets that way sometimes, does things without thinking.”

Johnny couldn’t wait to kill Adam Bloom, watch him die in pain. “That’s rough,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”

“Yeah, I know, it was pretty scary and traumatic,” Marissa said. “But the most terrifying thing was there was somebody else in the house that night.”

“There was?” Johnny was acting shocked.

“Yeah, the cops think it was our maid. Did you hear about what happened to her?”

“No, I don’t think I . . . Wait, wait, I did hear something. She was hurt, too, wasn’t she?”

“She was killed, in her apartment.”

“Oh, man, that sucks,” Johnny said. He hoped Marissa didn’t start crying, get all gushy and girly about it.

“Yeah, it was incredibly sad,” she said, “but I don’t know, that just doesn’t make sense to me that our maid actually robbed our house. We were really, not like best friends, but really friendly, you know? Oh, and we got this note under our door, a kind of death threat.”

“Really? Who left it?”

“That’s the thing, nobody knows. My dad’s convinced it was a prank, but he’s constantly making up stories, trying to rationalize everything. He’s so screwed up, if you met him you’d never guess he was a psychologist. But maybe that’s the way it works—maybe if you want to cure people’s craziness, you have to be a little crazy yourself.”

Johnny put his arm around Marissa and said, “It sounds like your family’s going through a lot right now. If you don’t want to bring me home to meet them, I understand, but I guess I should meet them eventually . . . I mean, if we’re gonna be a couple.”

Her face brightened, and she said, “You really mean that?”

“Of course,” he said. “You think I’d want to go out every day and every night with every girl I meet?”

Finally he’d said something that wasn’t a total lie.

She said, “You’re the most amazing guy I’ve ever met.” He couldn’t argue with that.

The next morning, Marissa texted Johnny:

 

my parents want u to come 4 dinner tonite can you make it at 7??

 

Johnny waited about fifteen minutes, not wanting to seem overeager, then replied:

 

Id be honored

 

This was it—the big night. He wanted to clean up his look a little, but not too much, so he trimmed his sideburns, but he left his hair long and wild and greasy. He chose his outfit carefully—black jeans, a black turtleneck, Doc Martens. He loved the idea of going in all black. He looked perfect for the occasion—like an artist but also like an assassin.

He arrived at the house—what did rich people say?—fashionably late, at ten after seven. As he expected, there was no sign of any cops. The robbery had been over a week ago, and it probably wasn’t even a hot case anymore. He checked to make sure his .38 Special and his four-inch retractable switchblade were safely inside the inner pocket of his leather jacket, and then he rang the bell.

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 course, 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.

“Can you turn the music down a little?” he asked. “It’s distracting me.”

Actually the music wasn’t distracting at all—nothing ever distracted him when he was in the zone—but he wanted Adam and Dana to be able to hear all of the sex noises loud and clear.

Back in bed, Johnny gave Marissa the full Johnny Long lovemaking treatment. He took his time with her, using all of the techniques he’d mastered over the years. He worshipped her body, paid attention to what turned her on and what didn’t. Finally, when she was practically begging for it, he went down on her. She was moaning softly at first, but when he really got into it, she lost control, probably forgetting where she was. He stayed down there for a long time, pleasuring her again and again.

When he was through with her, she was so blown away, so thoroughly satisfied, that it took her several minutes to recover, to be able to speak.

“My God,” she said. “That was amazing. I’ve never come like that before . . . ever.”

Maybe women always said things like this to men in bed, but in Johnny’s case they meant it.

“There’s more where that came from,” he said.

They had sex, and Johnny got her off in a way no guy ever had before. After all, what was his competition? She was only twenty-two years old. She’d probably been with, at most, ten guys in her life, and they were probably all immature, unskilled lovers like that dork Darren. Yeah, like that weasel really knew how to satisfy a woman. She’d never been with a real man before, a true Casanova, and she couldn’t get enough of him. As he built toward his own orgasm, he grunted louder and louder, until he was practically screaming, so Adam and Dana would have no doubt what was going on in their daughter’s bedroom.

Lying in bed with Marissa afterward, Johnny was waiting for her to fall asleep so he could shoot her, put his plan in motion, when she whispered, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Whenever Johnny heard that word, “love,” he wanted to laugh. Love was such bullshit. It was just a word that people said to each other because they thought they were supposed to say it, because they’d heard people in movies say it.

“Really?” Johnny said, playing along. “Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

“No,” she said. “I know how I feel. It’s different than it is with other guys.

I feel really attached to you.”

Wow, Johnny was impressed—with himself. He’d really pulled this thing off perfectly. It was one thing to pick up a woman at a bar and screw her— practically any guy could do that—but how many guys could get a random girl to say “I love you” in only a week?

“I feel the same way,” he said sincerely. “You do?” Her eyes got big.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I feel a really strong connection with you. I didn’t think it was possible to fall in love with somebody so quickly.”

He didn’t know how he was able to say all of this without throwing up. She was so excited that she started kissing him and rolling around with him on the bed, saying things like “Oh my God” and “I’m so excited.” Johnny didn’t get it, how one word, “love,” made people so happy. Sometimes he felt like he was the last sane person on the planet.

Johnny was pretty excited himself, but not for the reasons Marissa thought. He was just getting off on this whole situation—getting a girl to say she was in love with him and then killing her and her parents, ending all of their stupid, meaningless lives; it just didn’t get any better than that. The only bummer was that very soon, within an hour or two at most, it was all going to end. He’d get away with the engagement ring, other jewelry, and whatever else he could carry out of the house, but he’d put so much work into this, getting Marissa to fall for him, getting her family to fall for him, that it felt like a waste not to get more. Johnny figured Adam Bloom had to be worth millions; the house alone had to be worth at least a couple of million. It seemed crazy to just walk away.

One thing about Marissa, she loved to talk, and she was so happy and “in love” that she wouldn’t shut up. She kept yapping away about all this boring stuff, about how she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with her life, how she loved art but she wasn’t sure she wanted to work in a gallery, yadda, yadda, yadda. She’d been thinking about moving to Prague, but now that she’d met Xan she wasn’t so sure about that anymore. She was thinking of just applying to grad school if a job at a museum didn’t come through. Johnny acted like he was interested, occasionally giving her suggestions like “You should do whatever makes you happy” and “You have to follow your heart.”

“So what do you think of my parents?” Marissa asked. “I think they’re great,” Johnny said.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, they’re good people, and I love them, but it’s so hard to live here with them sometimes.”

He nodded, like he felt so sorry for her. Yeah, right.

“It was funny,” Marissa said, “when you talked about them being happy, because they’ve been so miserable lately, fighting all the time. I mean, it’s been pretty stressful, with the shooting and all the media attention, but they’re definitely not the world’s happiest couple.” Suddenly she looked like she had a big secret, and she said, “You won’t believe what I found out the other day.”

“What?” Johnny asked, looking across the room at his leather jacket, on the chair by the desk.

“My mom’s cheating on my father,” she whispered.

“Really?” Johnny said it like he was surprised. Actually, he’d spotted her right away as the type who played around, who was always looking. Johnny Long was never wrong about a woman, ever.

Marissa told him she’d heard through a friend that Dana was cheating on Adam with this guy Tony, some trainer at her gym. So she went for the jocks. That wasn’t very surprising to Johnny either. Cheating women always went for the opposite of what they had at home.

Marissa wanted to screw again, and Johnny thought, Jesus, what was it going to take to make this girl fall asleep? Another mind-blowing orgasm seemed to do the trick. Marissa was curled up into Johnny, her head resting on his chest, starting to doze. It was almost midnight, so Johnny figured Adam and Dana were probably in their bedroom, asleep or falling asleep.

When Marissa started snoring slightly, Johnny knew he could kill them all right now. Put one in Marissa’s head, then kill her parents; it could be all over in five minutes, ten tops. But if he killed them tonight all he’d get was the money and the jewelry in the house. He had a better idea—a way to get all of Adam Bloom’s money, plus his cars, his house, and everything else.

The only downside was he wouldn’t be able to kill them all tonight. No, to make this thing work he’d have to kill them off one by one.