The Furies Read online

  “I thought they were your brothers. They look like twins, almost.”

  “They’re brothers, but not mine. I went to high school with them in Connecticut. They both work on Wall Street now. I called them this morning when I got into town and they promised to buy me a drink.” She moved a bit closer and lowered her voice. “They feel sorry for me. They’re making tons of money, and I’m still living at home with my parents.”

  John pulled out the stool for her. She sat down, crossing her legs again, and set her wineglass on the bar. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. It took all his strength to stop himself from gawking at her cleavage. “So, uh, you still live in Connecticut?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, and it’s boring as hell. I moved back home after I got my bachelor’s in social work. I thought I’d be there for just a month or two, but it’s taking forever to find a job.”

  “Welcome to the club. I’ve been looking for almost a year. I work construction to pay the bills.”

  “I’m going to another job fair tomorrow. Luckily, I found a cheap hotel in Brooklyn to stay tonight.” She leaned toward him, resting an elbow on the edge of the bar. “What about you? You live in New York?”

  A beam from one of the overhead track lights illuminated the right side of her face, and John noticed a thin faded scar on her temple. Looking closer, he saw another faint scar just below her left ear and a tracery of lines on the side of her neck. He wondered how she’d been injured, wincing as he viewed all her scars. She must’ve been in a car accident, he thought, a pretty bad one. But judging from the faintness of the marks, he guessed it had happened a long time ago, when she was very young.

  He was studying her so carefully he almost forgot to answer her question. “No, I’m from Philly,” he said. “I came to New York just for the day.”

  “What part of Philadelphia? I have some friends there.”

  “They probably don’t live where I do. It’s a rough neighborhood.”

  “What, North Philly?”

  “Yeah, Kensington.”

  She nodded. “I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard of it. Lots of drugs and gangs, right?”

  He wasn’t surprised that Ariel knew about the place. Kensington was such a notorious slum, it was mentioned in most of the social-work textbooks. John had seen some of those books himself, back when he was taking classes at the community college, and when he read the descriptions of Kensington he wanted to tear out the pages. They weren’t even close to the truth. The neighborhood was a hundred times worse.

  But he didn’t want to talk about Kensington or its gangs right now. The last thing he wanted to do was scare Ariel away by telling her he was once a soldier with the Somerset Street Disciples. He tried to change the subject. “Yeah, there’s gangs, but there’s good people, too. And if you stick with the good people, you can stay out of trouble.”

  She cupped her chin in her palm as she stared at him. Her index finger stroked the faint scar below her ear. “So who kept you out of trouble?”

  There was that directness again. She didn’t waste any time. He couldn’t think of a way to dodge the question, so instead he was honest with her. “Well, first it was the army, but that didn’t last long. I didn’t take well to the discipline, so they kicked me out. And then I got some help from a priest, believe it or not. Father Reginald Murphy of Saint Anne’s Church. He was the oldest, toughest priest in Philadelphia. All the gangs were terrified of him.”

  “You belonged to his church?”

  “Nah, I’m not even Catholic. But he saw me running around the neighborhood with all the other thugs, and for some reason he made it his business to save me. I’m still not sure why. He never told me.” John winced. It still hurt to think about the old man. “And now I’m just trying to return the favor, you know? Trying to get a job where I can do something good. Maybe point a few kids in the right direction. Do the same thing for them that Father Murphy did for me.”

  “You’re talking about him in the past tense. Is he dead?”

  John nodded. He opened his mouth, ready to tell Ariel that Father Murphy had died in his sleep. But that was a lie, and after a moment John realized he couldn’t tell it. He couldn’t tell her the truth either, so he just sat there with his mouth open, trying to think of something to say.

  Then Ariel surprised him. She leaned closer and rested her right hand on his forearm. “Let me ask you something, John. Do you believe in God?”

  He narrowed his eyes and stared at her. Oh, shit. Is this gorgeous girl a Jesus freak? His heart sank as he considered the possibility. Maybe she was trying to proselytize him. But a bar was an odd place to look for converts.

  “No, I don’t believe.” He frowned. “Do you?”

  She shook her head. “No. It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The world’s a mess.” She lifted her hand from his forearm and waved it in a circle. “I mean, look around. There’s no way that a loving God would create such a screwed-up world. God and heaven, it’s all just a fairy tale. It’s amazing that anyone still believes it.”

  Now John was even more surprised. The girl wasn’t a Jesus freak—she was a philosopher. He stopped frowning. This was the kind of conversation he enjoyed. “You know what else doesn’t make sense?” he said. “When something bad happens, the church always says there’s some mysterious reason for it. They say you have to accept all the shit that happens in life because it’s part of God’s divine plan.”

  “Yes, exactly.” She nodded and took a sip of wine. “I hate that, too. It’s like saying, ‘You’re not smart enough to understand God, so don’t even try to make sense of things.’ It’s so condescending.”

  “It’s worse than that.” John raised his voice. “If someone did that to me for real? If someone fucked me over and tried to apologize by saying, ‘It’s all part of my mysterious plan’? I’d be pretty damn pissed.” He wanted to say something stronger, something about shooting the motherfucker in the head, but he restrained himself.

  “I’m with you, John.” Ariel raised her wineglass and took a bigger sip this time. Then she set down her glass, which was nearly empty, and rested her hand on his forearm again. “We agree that God doesn’t exist in the universe right now. But here’s what gives me hope: there’s a chance that God will exist in the future.”

  “What?” He assumed this was a joke. Ariel was playing with him. “What are you talking about?”

  She looked straight at him, locking her eyes with his. “It’s simple. I believe we can change the world. We can make it a better place. And then God will be born.”

  “Uh, I think I lost you.”

  “We can make it happen. We can turn ourselves into angels and turn the earth into heaven, a real heaven. That’s our purpose in life—to bring God into the world.”

  Ariel was so close, only inches away. He could see the reflections of the track lights in her green irises. She wasn’t joking. Her face was absolutely serious. John couldn’t help but marvel at how serious she was. “So it’s like the Christmas story? We’re all headed for Bethlehem, waiting for Baby Jesus to be born?”

  She considered the idea for a moment, skewing her eyebrows in thought. Then she smiled. “Yes, that’s right. You’re a clever man, John Rogers.” She raised her glass once again and finished off her wine. “And you deserve a reward for your cleverness. I’m going to buy you a drink.”

  His throat tightened as Ariel turned around to get the bartender’s attention. Even though they’d just agreed that God didn’t exist—at least not yet—John directed a silent plea toward heaven. Her phone number, Lord. I need her number.

  And the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, answered John’s prayer.

  He and Ariel spent the next three hours talking. At some point during the second hour, Ariel’s Wall Street friends got tired of flirting with the waitress; they shook hands with John and kissed Ariel goodbye before heading for another watering hole. Then someone turned up the volume
of the bar’s loudspeakers and the room reverberated with the din of Lady Gaga. There was nothing to eat except the baskets of popcorn that the bartender placed in front of them, but John didn’t care. He was having the time of his life. He’d never met a girl like Ariel before. It was so easy to talk to her, so effortless. He told her stories about his mom and growing up in Kensington. He even told her a little about Carol, his ex-wife, which was a subject he usually avoided. Ariel was a great listener, always asking questions and making smart observations. It was amazing, he thought, that such a young woman could be so wise.

  Finally, at 11:00 P.M., she looked at her watch and said she had to go. Her hotel was in Bushwick—a dicey part of Brooklyn, especially late at night—and she was planning to take the subway. John immediately offered to drive her there instead. It was only a half hour out of his way, he said. After dropping her off at the hotel, he could take the Verrazano Bridge and I-95 to get back to Philly. And because he’d had only two drinks all night, he added, he was perfectly sober. Ariel thought it over for a few seconds. Then she leaned toward him, slow and sexy, bringing her lips close to his ear. “That would be nice,” she whispered.

  As they left the bar, arm in arm, and strolled down West Fourth Street toward where his car was parked, John should’ve realized that it had all happened too easily. But the thought never occurred to him. He was too damn happy.

  TWO

  The hotel was shabbier than John expected. Bushwick was a neighborhood in transition, with trendy restaurants and clubs at the western end and seedy tenements to the east. The Evergreen Inn was closer to the eastern section. As John drove down Evergreen Avenue he saw dark, vacant lots and boarded-up storefronts sprayed with graffiti. It wasn’t as bad as North Philly, but it didn’t look too safe. The hotel itself was an old, weather-beaten row house with a small neon sign over the entrance and a bunch of shifty teenagers loitering on the sidewalk outside. The kids stared at John’s car, a battered 2006 Kia, as he pulled up to the curb. It’s a good thing he drove a shit heap, he thought. The car was hardly worth stealing.

  John shut off the engine and turned to Ariel. “All right if I walk you inside?”

  She didn’t say anything. Instead, she just smiled and reached for his hand. John’s heart pounded against his breastbone. He knew what was going to happen next.

  Eager as a schoolboy, he escorted her to the hotel’s entrance. One of the teenagers whistled at Ariel as she and John walked by. They stepped into the Evergreen Inn and rushed past the night clerk, a scruffy, bearded dude who was reading the New York Post behind his desk. He looked up from his paper and grunted, “Good night,” and then they bolted up the narrow staircase. Ariel was still holding John’s hand. When they reached the third floor she let go of him and reached into her purse for the key to room 302. Then she opened the door and they stepped inside. They were in each other’s arms as soon as the door closed behind them.

  John had to lower his head to kiss her, and though he stayed on his feet he felt like he was falling. Ariel’s lips tasted of salt and white wine. She shivered in his arms, her shoulder muscles trembling under the thin silk of her blouse. The only sound in the room was the whisper of her breath, which mingled with his own.

  After a minute or so they pulled apart. Ariel reached behind her and hit the light switch, and John surveyed the room. It was small but clean. A queen-size bed took up most of the floor space, and behind it was a window with dark gray curtains. There was a night table next to the bed and a big ceramic lamp with a yellow shade, but no chairs and no TV. Ariel took his hand again and led him to the bed, which had a cheery blue cover and two large pillows. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else to do.

  She slipped off her shoes as they sat on the edge of the bed. Then she looked John in the eye and squeezed his hand. “Are you okay with this?” she asked.

  Amazing, he thought. She was ten years younger than him, and she was asking if he was okay. “Oh, I’m more than okay with it. I’m freakin’ ecstatic. You’re wonderful, you know that?” He lifted her hand and kissed her smooth knuckles. “But what about you? How do you feel?”

  “I don’t do this very often. Almost never, in fact. I guess you made a big impression on me.” She reached for the lapels of his jacket and peeled them over his shoulders. John wriggled his arms out of the sleeves and let the thing drop to the carpet.

  “I feel the same way,” he said. “I was bowled over the minute I saw you. I didn’t think I had a chance.”

  “Why not?” She grasped the knot of his tie and loosened it.

  “You’re so beautiful. And smart. I’m just a regular guy.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, John Rogers.” She undid his tie and threw it across the room. Then she started unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re special. Don’t ever forget that. You’re one in a million.”

  He kissed her again as she took his shirt off. Then he gripped the fabric near the bottom of her blouse and eased it out of the waistband of her skirt. She helped him pull the blouse over her head, and then he reached both hands around her and unhooked her bra. The lacy cups slid from her breasts, which were a wonder to behold. He stared at them for so long that Ariel had to tap his nose to get his attention.

  “Come on, you,” she said. “Take off my skirt.”

  She lay down on her back, sinking into the soft mattress. John’s hands trembled as he reached for the clasp on her skirt and undid it. He couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t get over how lucky he was. He wasn’t drunk, but he still got a little dizzy as she lifted her butt off the mattress to make it easier for him to slide her skirt down her legs. Her eagerness was inexplicable, but it was also a turn-on. Without pausing he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of her panty hose. He yanked the nylon down her legs along with her panties, which were damp at the crotch. Then he started fumbling with his belt and kicking off his shoes, in a mad rush to get naked and lie down beside her. As he struggled with his zipper, though, he belatedly realized he didn’t have a condom. He froze, awkwardly perched on the edge of the bed. Noticing his hesitation, Ariel looked up him and smiled.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’m on the pill.” She sat up and helped him take off his pants and boxer shorts. Then she lay back down on the bed and pulled him on top of her.

  Her skin was so warm. John grasped her shoulders and kissed her breasts. He felt like he was falling again, diving from a great height into a deep, warm pool. Ariel clutched his back and murmured, “Oh, sweetness.” Then she spread her legs and reached for his erection, gripping it firmly. John felt the wetness between her legs as she started to guide him inside her.

  Then he heard the gunshot. It came from the corridor outside the door to their room. The noise was muffled by some kind of silencer; it sounded more like a snap than a boom, but it was still unmistakable. John’s reaction to the sound was automatic: he pushed Ariel off the bed and they both hit the floor.

  Another shot echoed in the corridor. Keeping his head low, John picked up his boxer shorts from the carpet and pulled them back on. He’d heard lots of gunfire when he was a soldier for the Disciples, but silencers were unusual. The only people who used them were the Italian guys in the South Philly gangs, the mafia types. As he scrambled into his pants and grabbed his shoes, he noticed that Ariel was putting on her panties. The girl wasn’t screaming or crying. She moved quickly and silently, staying low as she slipped into her blouse and skirt. Then she opened her purse, which was also on the floor, and pulled out a Glock semiautomatic pistol.

  That sight was even more startling than the gunshots. John felt a jolt of alarm. For a second he thought Ariel was going to shoot him. But instead she took cover behind the night table and aimed her Glock at the door. “Stay down,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “Jesus, what’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, John. I’ve put you in danger.”

  “Are you a cop? Is that it?”

  “No, I’m not. Just be
quiet now, okay?”

  While he struggled to make sense of things—if Ariel wasn’t a cop, what the hell was she?—three more gunshots sounded in the corridor. Then the door burst open, its flimsy frame splintering, and a man holding a pistol staggered into the room. But he didn’t fire at them. He stayed close to the doorway and flattened himself against the wall, as if taking cover from a shooter in the hallway. A moment later he reached around the broken door frame to fire at his pursuer. He carried a Glock too and held it expertly, keeping the gun steady as he pulled the trigger.

  John recognized the man—he was one of the two brawny guys who’d accompanied Ariel at the bar in Greenwich Village. Judging from the way he handled his Glock, John guessed that he didn’t really work on Wall Street. He moved like a Special Forces soldier or a paramilitary bodyguard, someone with plenty of training in firearms. But why would Ariel need a bodyguard?

  The man fired again down the hall. Then he swung his head toward Ariel and pointed at the window behind the bed. “You can go out the fire escape,” he whispered. “I’ll hold them off here.”

  “Who are they?” Ariel asked. Her voice was calm, which was pretty remarkable considering the circumstances.

  “Sullivan’s men. At least a dozen.”

  John had seen enough. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and started to dial 911. “I’m calling the cops,” he said. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re—”

  Ariel snatched the phone out of his hands and flung it against the wall. The look on her face was pure ferocity. “The police won’t get here in time. Do you want to stay alive?”

  Another barrage of gunfire erupted in the corridor, and the bullets slammed into the door frame. Ariel’s bodyguard lurched to the side, raising his arms to shield himself from the flying splinters. John realized in that instant that he was in the middle of a gang war. These gangs were different from the ones he knew—the Disciples, the Bloods, the Latin Kings—but the violence and viciousness were the same.