He took in as much information as he could, then went home and crashed. In the morning, he got to work right away, knowing that this Marissa Bloom thing would be a lot more complicated than his usual pickup. If he wanted to do this thing right, really pull it off the way he wanted to, he’d need a whole new ID. For one- night stands he could make up any story about himself that he wanted because the girl never had a chance to check out any of it. But with Marissa he was going to have to build up her trust in him, get her to really like him and know him, or at least believe that she knew him. He might have to actually date her, even bring her back to his place, so everything would have to add up.
He went to Brighton Beach and met with this guy Slav who sold dead Russians’ IDs. For three hundred bucks Johnny got a Social Security card and a driver’s license and a brand- new identity: Alexander Evonov. Although Johnny was Irish- Italian, he had dark features and figured he could easily pull off the Rus sian story, say his grandfather was from Moscow or wherever.
Next, if he was going to say he was an artist, he was going to need some art stuff around his apartment. Made sense, right? He stopped at an art supply store and bought paint, an easel, a smock, and a bunch of drop cloths to spread around. He figured he’d need some art around the house, too, so he went to a Salvation Army and a couple of thrift shops and picked up whatever paintings he could find. Some were of mountains, others were of people and street scenes, and some were just shapes and colors and looked like they were by that guy Marissa had mentioned in her blog, something Polish- sounding, something- sky? Kalinsky, Kazinsky, no, Kandinsky. Yeah, that was it. Of course, the paintings Johnny bought didn’t look like the same person had painted them, but he already had a story ready to explain that. He’d say he was into a lot of different- what was that word he’d seen in Wikipedia?-movements. Yeah, he’d say he was into a lot of different movements.
Johnny stopped at Blockbuster and took out Frida and Pollock. After he watched the movies he figured he’d be all set as far as art was concerned, but something about the name, Alexander Evonov, was bugging him. It just didn’t sound cool enough. It was no Johnny Long, that was for sure, but he couldn’t expect to come up with a fake name as cool as his real name. He was stuck with Evonov but figured he could fiddle with Alexander, come up with something more hip. Alex? No, there were a million Alexes in the world. Al? Nah, sounded like an old man. He thought about Xander, then thought, Why not just Xan? Yeah, Marissa Bloom, a girl who lived in an uppity house in Forest Hills but who was trying so hard to look cool with that jewelry and the pink streaks in her hair was going to love meeting a guy named Xan.
On his way back to his apartment he passed a newsstand so he checked out the papers and saw the headlines trigger happy and gun crazy. Reading the articles at the newsstand, Johnny couldn’t help cracking up. At one point he had to catch his breath, he was laughing so hard. Adam Bloom was the joke of the city; they were comparing him to Bernie Goetz, for chrissake. Was this too beautiful or what? He was so glad he hadn’t shot Bloom yesterday. If he had it would’ve been like doing the guy a favor, putting him out of his misery. But little did the guy know, his misery was only beginning.
Man, Johnny was loving this, imagining that cocky rich shrink, reading the papers today, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot, probably wishing he’d never been born. Well, it was going to be like he’d never been born very soon, but first Johnny wanted to make that asshole really sweat, and he knew exactly what to do next.
He took the subway to Forest Hills. He walked right up to the Blooms’ door and slid a note he’d written underneath. He loved this, being so close to the house, like he was rubbing it in the guy’s face, showing the guy, I don’t give a shit, I can get as close to you as I want. I can even screw your daughter, you son of a bitch, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
There was nothing he liked more than screwing with people’s heads, and this was going to be his biggest mindfuck ever.
Back at his apartment, he watched Frida and Pollock,fast- forwarding through the boring parts- okay, most of both movies- but he picked up some good info and buzzwords. He spent the rest of the evening setting up his apartment to make it look like an artist lived there. He hung a few paintings on the walls, spread a drop cloth on the floor, and set up the easel with a canvas on it. He put the paints on the palette and then, trying to do what that guy Pollack did, spread some paint around, just kind of winged it at the canvas, letting it clump and drip. He used blue and yellow mostly, then threw in a little green and why not some red and black in the corners? He stood back and looked at it. Hey, he didn’t think it looked so bad, at least as good as Pollock’s shit.
Although he still felt like he had to work out a few details in his head, he didn’t think he’d have any trouble convincing Marissa he was Xan Evonov, the up- and- coming artist.
In the morning he walked several blocks to a coffee bar that had Internet terminals. He wanted to read more about Marissa, see if she mentioned where she was going to be over the next few days, but he started to panic when he saw a new entry up: i’m moving to prague. He thought she was moving now, which would’ve screwed up all his big plans, but he relaxed when he realized that it was just something she was talking about doing. Then, toward the bottom of the page, he saw the heading where i’ll be tonight, and underneath it Marissa had written: I’ll be checking out the greatest band in the world, Tone Def. They’re on at ten o’clock at Kenny’s Castaways! Everybody should come!
Could she have possibly made things any easier for him? Not only did he know where she was going to be, he knew the exact time, no less.
For the next hour or two, Johnny read more of Marissa’s blog, working out in his head things he’d say to her and his plans for what would happen after. He was so prepared and had so much more information than he had for his usual pickups that he was afraid he’d overdone it. He had to be careful to let stuff come out naturally, not to say anything to her or about her that he wasn’t supposed to know.
At around ten, he showed up at the club, paid the five- dollar cover, and went inside. He looked around near the bar and didn’t see Marissa, and then he went farther in toward where the band was playing. Man, what shitty music. Was she serious with that “best band in the world” crap? Johnny knew if she wasn’t screwing the bass player there was no way in hell she would’ve liked this garbage, and when Johnny saw the bass player up there, strangling the bass, trying to look like Kurt Cobain, burnt- out with the hair over his eyes, he couldn’t help smiling. If that was the guy she went for, some wannabe like that guy, there was no way she’d be able to resist Johnny Long, the real deal.
Johnny looked toward the front of the stage, thinking she’d be up there with the other groupie types. He didn’t see her- but wait, there she was, standing next to a few other girls. She looked better in person than she did in the pictures. She had a sweet little body and what looked like a pretty nice ass. He didn’t look at her for very long, though, knowing how important it was for her to notice him first. He got into a good position, off to the side about ten feet away from her, and looked toward the stage. After a little while, although he was still staring straight ahead and couldn’t see her at all, he could feel her eyes on him. He knew she was checking him out, noticing how hot and sexy he was, but he had to play this right. Timing was everything with a pickup, and he had to give her a chance to really notice him, build up a fantasy in her head about who he was. She didn’t just have to like him, she had to want him.
At the perfect moment, when he sensed she was about to look away, he turned and gave her the Johnny Long smile. He knew that the way a woman reacted to his smile was as good as him asking her to have sex with him and her answering yes or no. If she looked away quickly the answer was no; the door was closed. If she didn’t look away but reacted like she’d been caught doing something, the door wasn’t completely closed, but it would take some work to open it all the way. Ah, but if the woman smiled back and didn’t look away at all, then the door was open, and in Marissa Bloom’s case there was no doubt about it. Her door was wide, wide open.
He went over to her, maintaining lots of eye contact, and asked her if she wanted to get a drink at the bar, and naturally she said yes. He let her walk ahead of him, loving the way her little ass looked in those tight jeans. He liked the little tee she was wearing, too, how it showed the angel tattoo on her lower back. Tattoos on the lower back were always a good sign. He’d never met a girl with one of those who didn’t love to screw.
At the bar, he put his greatest asset to work- his irresistible charm. As he expected, she loved that he’d shortened his name to Xan, and saying that he’d call her Rissa from now on had been unplanned but ingenious. Having a pet name for her communicated to her that he wanted to see her again, that he expected to see her again, but he didn’t have to come out and say it, which would’ve made him seem way too pushy so early on. He bet he was the only Casanova in the world who knew this trick.
When the conversation got into art, he really hit his stride. It was obvious that she was thrilled to meet an artist, and it impressed her more than if he’d told her his last name was Trump. He dropped all the names of her favorite painters but did it in a casual way, like Wow, we both love the same paint ers, isn’t that a big coincidence?
