by Jason Starr
Ignoring him, Clements said to Marissa, “I understand you were close with Gabriela.”
“Yes,” Marissa said, trying her hardest not to cry. “I was.” “Did you talk to her at all during the last few days?” “Monday,” Marissa said. “I saw her Monday.”
“Did she mention anything to you about how she needed money, or about how she’d gotten back with her old boyfriend?”
“I had no idea she even had a boyfriend.”
“So there was nothing unusual in her behavior?” “Nothing at all. She was her usual happy, smiley self.”
“Well, she was apparently very good at keeping secrets,” Clements said. “Did she ever mention anything to you about drug use?”
“Gabriela?” Marissa said, shocked. “Are you kidding? She was totally anti-drugs.”
“Sanchez had a history of heroin addiction,” Clements said. “It’s likely that since he had a relationship with Gabriela she was using as well, at least when they were together.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Marissa’s dad said.
“I can’t believe that either,” her mom said. “The money’s one thing. Anybody can get desperate, make a mistake, but drugs? I don’t think she’d be able to hide that from us.”
“You’d be surprised what people can hide when they put their minds to it,” Clements said.
There was an awkward silence in the room for several seconds—Marissa noticed that her mom and dad both seemed uncomfortable—then her dad asked, “So’s that it?”
“Yeah,” Clements said, getting up. “For now.” Marissa and her dad stood, too.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” her mom said, remaining seated. “That’s it? There’s a killer out there, a killer who was probably inside our house last night, and you say that’s it?”
Her dad said, “You don’t know—” and her mom shouted at him, “We do know! Why do you think she got shot today? Because somebody was trying to shut her up, that’s why! And you shot the other guy! You killed him and you think he’s not gonna come back here?”
“Okay, try to calm down,” Clements said.
“Why the hell should I try to calm down?” her mom said. “Do you have any leads? Do you have any idea, any idea at all who shot Gabriela?”
“We’re working on it,” Clements said.
“Oh, you’re working on it,” her mom said. “That makes me feel so much better. You’re just so good at reassuring us. Meanwhile, you could’ve saved her life. Last night, if you weren’t here asking us about my daughter’s bong you could’ve talked to Gabriela sooner, stopped her from getting killed, and found out who the other guy is. Now you’ll never find him, and he knows who we are, he knows where we live, he’s been in our house!”
“I’m sorry,” Marissa’s dad said to Clements.
“You don’t have to apologize for me, you son of a bitch!” her mom screamed.
“You caused all this—you and your stupid gun! How many times did I tell you to get rid of that stupid thing?”
“Here comes the blame,” her dad said.
“I’m blaming you all right!” she screamed. “Who else should I blame?”
“See? I knew you couldn’t hold back forever. You’ve been dying to blame me.
Go ahead, keep going, let’s hear all that rage.”
“I told you if you had that gun in the house something horrible would happen someday. You didn’t listen to me, and, what do you know, something horrible happened. What a shock!”
“Horrible!” her dad shouted. “That’s a good one, I love that. No, horrible would’ve been if you and Marissa got killed, that would’ve been horrible. You should be thanking me instead of yelling at me!”
“You wanna be thanked? Okay, thank you! Thank you for fucking up my life!”
“Can both of you just stop it already?” Marissa screamed as loudly as she could.
Finally there was silence as Marissa’s parents remained glaring at each other, breathing heavily. Then Clements announced, “I’ll keep you informed, and you let me know if anything comes up on your end.” Then he looked at Marissa’s mom and said, “And despite what you think, Mrs. Bloom, we do know how to do our job, and I think we do it very well.” He put his pad away in his pocket, then said, “Sorry again for your loss,” and left.
Marissa remained with her parents in the dining room, watching them exchange looks. Then her father said, “That was brilliant, insult the whole NYPD, why don’t you?” and that set her mom off again. Marissa couldn’t take it anymore and went up to her room. She heard her mother shouting, “You still think everything’s okay? You think it’s going to all miraculously blow over?—and then she turned up her stereo—more Tone Def—to drown her parents out.
She hoped this wasn’t just the beginning, that her parents weren’t going to start having marital problems again. In high school, it had seemed like her parents were on the verge of divorce, at each other’s throats 24/7, and they always argued about the stupidest things. Like her dad would leave some dirty dishes in the kitchen sink or pee on the toilet seat, and her mom would lay into him about it. Or her dad wouldn’t like a look her mother had given him or her tone of voice, and it would lead to a huge fight. And, because her dad was a psychologist and they were in marriage counseling, they would both go into this weird therapy-speak in their arguments that only led to more fighting. Like during a fight her mother might say,“You’re so annoying” and her father would say,“You’re generalizing” or “There you go with your rage again,” and then that would lead to a fight. Or sometimes they would be arguing and her mother would say, “You’re being defensive,” and her father would fire back, “There you go, projecting again,” and they’d be off, shouting at each other in their ridiculous mumbo jumbo about who was projecting and who was being defensive. Of course there was never any resolution to their fighting; no one ever won or conceded. It seemed like they had the same argument over and over again, like an annoying song stuck on repeat play. Marissa never understood why they bothered to stay together. If they couldn’t get along, why make each other miserable? Why not just get divorced? She’d hoped they weren’t staying together for her, because she would’ve preferred that they just split up and move on with their lives. What kid wanted unhappy parents?
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:
cant wait I SO have to get out of this crazy fucking house
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 organize 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 blo
nde 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 on the street and barely notice.
“Did anybody ever tell you you look just like Johnny Depp?” she asked.
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.
