prologue

Prologue:

THE FAVOR

Lower Manhattan - 1995

. . .The club, like a huge breathing organism, fed off the energy of the young bodies
in motion. The walls, ceilings, and floors had their own pulse, and the large space was
thick with a moist mixture of sour sweat and sweet perfume. The drinkers and posers
by the bar moved in place, bumping and grinding, while those on the dance floor
worshipped the gods of chaos. They threw themselves at each other, smacking into and
head butting one another, inflicting and receiving pain. Squirming torsos were raised
overhead and passed above the crowd by a sea of arms, then dropped to the floor and
stepped upon. The dancers were urged on to greater pandemonium by the refrain Nails,
the group’s leader, and Lucy, the lead guitarist, shrieked at them. The devotees knew
the words well and chanted along.
“Punish me, punish me - I need reaction! Punish me, punish me - I need sensation!
Punish me, punish me - I need attention! Punish me, punish me - I need affection!”
Dressed in black leather from head to toe, Nails roamed the front edge of the stage,
slamming chords on his electric guitar and spitting at the crowd, who spat back. It was a
pagan ritual with the true believers loving and hating the high priests. They adored yet
wanted to smash their idols: the source of good and evil. Nails protected his temple
from those who stormed the gates and kicked them off the stage, back down into the
roiling mass of worshipers.
But even more sovereign than Nails were the two hit-men, who decided it was
time for real punishment to take place. They stepped forward to Nails’ amplifier,
alongside the drummer, who was too absorbed in his racket to notice the menacing
pair. The squat thug bent down and yanked the electric cord attached to Nails’ guitar,
spinning him around. When he spotted the two hit-men and recognized the danger,
Nails’ wrath turned to fright. He froze all movement, except for his widening eyes, as
the tall sinewy gangster pointed the .45 at his forehead. Nails saw the blurred projectile
burst from the smoking barrel just before the bullet ripped into his brain.
The force of the single hollow point splattered blood onto the crowd, and Nails’ body
flew backward off the stage. His corpse was caught by outstretched arms and
passed above the heads of the delirious throng. The dancers reacted to the spurting
blood and exposed gray matter as if they were fake and the martyr act a new addition to
the group’s show. The crowd loved it and took part. Some stroked while others beat at
Nails’ flesh. Even the drummer and bass player believed it was staged and pumped up
the rhythm, abetting the riotous blood orgy. Only Lucy understood what had happened.
Her cries were full of real pain and horror, but no one noticed the difference in her
voice.
In the small bedroom on Mulberry Street, Matt felt Rita pushing his arm, trying to
wake him. But he didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to hear what his sister had to tell
him. He didn’t want to know for sure that his life had changed in a most dangerous way.

h ome