Crime Plus Music by Jim Fusilli Page A

party at the Factory in Union Square only a few blocks away. When we leave by the side door, it’s snowing. What could be more perfect, I think. I open my mouth and a flake lands on my tongue and melts away. I follow along at the back of the pack and then, it’s easy for me to slow down and peel off without anyone else realizing.
    The Chelsea is right nearby. No one will miss me.
    I STAND IN FRONT OF the hotel and gawk. To get inside I would have to buzz and I don’t have a reason. So I crane my neck and try and imagine which one was Patti’s room. There’s a black metal latticework that looks like a row of balconies. The snow is really coming down and crystals catch in my eyelashes. The clothing I’m wearing is soaked in sweat. My mom would admonish me: “You’ll catch your death.” Is it possible to actually catch death, can you trap it in a net then tuck it into a jar like a lightning bug?
    And then, without warning, I start sobbing. And can’t get myself to stop. My vision blurs. I’m gasping. “Please oh please,” I manage to get out, and I have no idea who I’m saying it to.
    I’m losing it completely when two women step out of the bar next to the Chelsea. One of them shoves the other. Hard. She totters, but regains her footing, “What did you do that for?”
    â€œI saw you making eyes at him.”
    â€œI wasn’t.”
    â€œYes, you were!”
    They are both wearing leather mini skirts and high heels and one of them has on this white fur coat.
    â€œSlut!”
    â€œSays who?”
    Wait, their voices. I realize those aren’t women just as one of them turns and sees me, and says, “What the fuck are you gaping at?”
    â€œYeah, bitch, what’s so funny?”
    â€œNothing,” I mutter and hurry away.
    A LL I CAN THINK OF when I get back to the hotel is running a hot bath and sinking into it. So, it’s a surprise when I open the door to the room and find Johnny sitting, yogi style, on my bed.
    â€œWhere were you?”
    â€œI just went for a walk,” I say.
    â€œA walk?”
    â€œTo the Chelsea,” I admit. “I just wanted to see it,” though I’m embarrassed. It all seems to silly, my devotion to her. And the way I broke down.
    â€œYou should have told someone.” Johnny is up and he’s moving toward me. “I was worried. We all were. You can’t just run off like that, Julie.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I tell him.
    â€œAre you?” he asks and that’s when I realize he’s really pissed off at me. “It was fucking embarrassing not to have you there.”
    â€œLook,” I begin which is when he slaps me. I put up my hand because it stings.
    â€œDon’t you ever do that again, do you hear me? I’m supposed to be in charge of you, you understand?”
    â€œOkay,” I say.
    â€œOkay?”
    I can smell the funk coming off of him, the sour smell of sweat, the sweet smell of pot, the burnt smell of cigarettes, and of course, the alcohol. I try to move away, but he has me flush up against the wall. He’s leaning over me, and then I blink and it comes back, all of it, him on top of me, him breathing hard, choking me, and then jamming himself inside of me.
    â€œIt was you!” I say, as much in wonder as in horror.
    Which is when he punches me in the stomach, once, twice, three times and I crumple and slide down onto the floor. They’re not stars you see, they’re little slivers of your brain floating away. He drags me by my feet across the rug and then he pulls off my jeans and rips off my underwear, one of his hands is over my mouth as he does it. I’m smothering and I try to squirm away, but I can’t.
    I give up. I tell myself he’ll be done and when he’s done it will be over and then, and then, and finally he grunts and pulls off of me, stands up, zipping his jeans and says, “You won’t