Down in the Zero

by Andrew Vachss

  "I'll meet you in the garage at ten," I told him. "Wear some dark clothes."

  He was there on the dot. Dressed in black pants, black hightops and a black satin Raiders jacket with silver sleeves.

  "You have any fluorescent paint around?" I asked him.

  "I don't think so. Why?"

  "I was worried maybe that outfit wouldn't stand out enough," I told him, pointing at the jacket sleeves.

  He nodded his head, turned around and went back to the house. If he was sulking, I couldn't see it. Good. He was back in a minute, this time wearing a heavy black sweatshirt with a hood.

  "It was all I could find. Okay?" he asked.

  "Perfect," I said.

  He started for the Lexus. I held up my hand. "We'll take this one, I told him, pointing toward my Plymouth.

  He gave me a dubious look, but climbed in without another word. I turned the engine over. The kid gave me a look. "That doesn't sound stock."

  I pulled out of the garage, turned onto the main road. "You know where the bridge is? The one that girl jumped off of?"

  "Sure. Take the next left."

  The Plymouth tracked flat around the curve, its independent rear suspension communicating to the wide tires. I fed it some throttle coming out of the turn, swooped past a white Cadillac and slipped back into the right lane.

  "All right!" the kid said, so softly it was almost to himself.

  I gave him a sideways glance. "You like cars?"

  "I love them. For my eighteenth birthday, Mom let me go to racing school. It was great. They had Formula Fords and everything. That's why I got the Miata—that was one of the cars they used in the school."

  "You want to race?"

  "Oh yeah! More than anything."

  "You gonna do it?"

  "Well, not professionally. I mean…my mother says I could race on weekends, maybe. Like a hobby. Some of the guys here do it. Like rallyes and gymkhanas and stuff. But that's not real racing."

  "You any good?"

  "I…think so. It feels good, you know? I can't really explain it."

  "Am I going the right way?"

  "Yeah. You turn at the crossing…I'll show you where it is."

  I followed the kid's directions, slowing down when we got close. The bridge was really a concrete overpass between two pieces of rock. It looked like the gap had been hacked out a hundred years ago. No water underneath. No road either, just dark stone. We parked the Plymouth, got out and walked over.

  The barrier was stone too. It looked old, weathered, with big pieces chipped away. The railing had a bubble in it, where you could stand and look down—maybe it was scenic in the daytime. The railing was waist–high—you couldn't just fall over, it would take a real commitment.

  A car swept by behind us. Not even eleven at night and it was pretty deserted. The paper said the girl went over sometime after two in the morning.

  I took out my pencil flash, flicked it over the stone barrier. Nothing. The top of the barrier was flat. It was so clean it looked scrubbed. No graffiti, no chiseled hearts. I bellied up to it, looked down.

  Into the Zero.

  "You okay?" It was the kid's voice.

  I turned around. "Sure. Why?"

  "You were…standing there so long. I thought you were…"

  "What? Gonna jump?"

  "No! I didn't mean that."

  "I'm okay. I was just trying to feel it."

  "Feel it?"

  "What she felt."

  The kid nodded like he understood. But his hands were shaking. I lit a cigarette. Smoked it through. Snapped the red tip into the Zero.

  "You want to drive?" I asked him.

  He started tentatively, getting the feel of the controls—the way you're supposed to. He gave it too much gas coming out and the Plymouth got sideways on the dirt. The kid didn't panic, just turned the wheel in the direction of the skid and powered right out.

  "Wow! This bad boy's got some juice!"

  "All right, don't get us arrested now."

  "I'm okay," the kid said, leaning into a curve. "Where do we go now?"

  "We're done for tonight," I told him. "Just head on back."

  The Plymouth reached the main road. The kid gave it the gun, the torque jamming him back against the seat. He adjusted his posture, a grin slashing across his face.

  "Okay if I take the long way?" he asked.

  I nodded. The kid pulled off the highway, found a twisting piece of two–lane blacktop. He kicked on the high beams, drew a breath when he saw they were hot enough to remove paint.

  "Can you downshift it?" he asked.

  "Stomp the pedal and it drops down. Or you can flick the lever one stop to the right. But watch it, the rear end gets loose easy.

  "This is great! How'd you get a car like this?"

  "It was supposed to be the prototype for a super–taxi," I told him. "Got an over–cored radiator, oil and tranny coolers, steel–braided lines. It won't overheat even if it sits in traffic for an hour. It weighs almost five thousand pounds—the bumpers will stop a rhino."

  "Yeah, but underneath…I mean, the way it grips and all."

  "There's no beam axle back there, Randy. It's an IRS, understand?"

  "Sure. And big tires. But that wouldn't make it grab the way it does. I'll bet this is what a NASCAR stocker feels like."

  "I never drove one."

  "Me neither—they don't have those kind of races around here. But I've seen them on ESPN."

  "You like that kind of racing too?"

  "Any kind," the kid said.

  He had the Plymouth wailing by then, flitting over the surface of the blacktop. We might as well have been in the West Virginia mountains with a trunk full of white lightning. I reached into the glove compartment, popped a cassette into the slot, turned it on. "Dark Angel" throbbed through the speakers, darker than the night outside, with more hormones than the monster engine.

  "Jesus!" the kid yelled. "What's that?"

  "That's Judy Henske, kid."

  He gunned the Plymouth around a long sweeper leading back to the highway, a huge grin plastered across his face, Henske's sex–barbed blues driving right along with him.

  "I gotta try some of that Chinese food," he said.

  The kid parked the Plymouth expertly. It's a gift, driving like that—he already handled the big car better than I did.

  "You want me to—?"

  "No, that's okay," he said. "I'll be all right over there. I'll just leave the intercom open, okay?"

  "Sure."

  Upstairs, I called Mama's. She told me it was all quiet, nothing happening.

  "You want Max?" she asked.

  "No. Not now, anyway."

  "Okay."

  I lay back on the couch, closed my eyes. I'd told the kid about the car but not where it came from. A young man gave his life for that car, a long time ago. Spent every minute of his time, every dollar he could lay his hands on—it was his dream. He hired me to find out if his wife was stepping out—he knew something was wrong between them, just didn't know what it was. It was an easy job—the wife copped to it right away. She was stepping out all right. With another woman. Told me all her husband cared about was that damn car—she needed dreams of her own.

  I didn't tell the guy the truth. He was a young guy, maybe a year or two older than Randy. I figured he might do something stupid.

  It was me who did something stupid. His wife told him the truth, even told him she'd told me. He got hot about it. Told me he wasn't going to pay me for my work. I walked away.

  Next time I saw him, he was in the Tombs. Killed his wife. He didn't want to hire me—he just didn't want his bloodsucking lawyer to get his car. Told me he understood why I did it—because I thought it was the right thing. That's why he did what he did, too.

  But he knew it wasn't.

  I told him he could do the time. It'd probably get busted down to manslaughter—it wouldn't be so bad. He didn't want to hear it. He signed the Plymouth over to me, said goodbye. They
had a suicide watch on him, but it didn't do any good. He went into the Zero.

  That bridge where the girl had gone over…I could feel the pull.

  When I came downstairs the next morning, I saw the kid sitting on the back step to the big house.

  "Want some breakfast?" he asked. Looked like he'd been up for a while—his eyes were fresh and bright, hair combed.

  "Sure," I told him. "You gonna cook it?"

  He gave me a funny look. Opened the door and stepped inside. He showed me a few different kinds of cold cereal. "They delivered milk," he said. "And I could make toast. There's orange juice too, okay?"

  "Great."

  "What are we gonna do today?"

  "I think I need to talk to some parents. Of the kids who died. I got the addresses, figured I'd start around ten."

  "It's only eight now."

  "So?"

  "So…I was wondering…do you think I could take a look at the car? In daylight?"

  "Let me just finish this first," I told him, nodding at my breakfast. "Take your time," the kid said, bouncing with impatience.

  I opened the garage doors. The kid backed the Plymouth out onto bluestone. Then he made a slow circle of the car, as respectfully as a child approaching an unknown dog he'd like to pat. He crouched low to the ground next to the rear tires, running his hands over the tread. He got up, went into the garage. came back with a canvas tarp. He laid that on the ground, slid himself under the car. I smoked through two cigarettes by the time he came up for air.

  "I wish we had a lift," he said. "I asked my mother about it—we got plenty of room. But she said she didn't want a mess.

  "Couldn't you rent one someplace else?"

  "Yeah!" he said, as if the idea had never occurred to him before. "Could we open the hood?"

  "It doesn't open," I told him, sliding behind the wheel. I threw the switch from under the dash, opened the hinges on each side of the car, and swiveled the whole front end forward, exposing everything from radiator to firewall.

  "Oh man!" the kid said. "I knew a guy who had a setup like this. With an old Spitfire. But I never saw it on a big car."

  "I gotta make some phone calls," I told him, starting for the steps.

  He didn't answer, lost in the engine bay, muttering something to himself.

  I slid a cassette into the stereo, adjusted the volume down low, let the music flow over me as I did a final run–through, trying to match the addresses I had with the street map I'd bought in the city—I didn't want to have to bring the kid with me when I went calling on the dead girl's parents, but I didn't want to drive around their neighborhood and call attention to myself either.

  Seven kids by now.

  I needed a cover story too. I'd have to ask the kid if his mother's name was known around there.

  The door opened. Fancy. In her white tennis outfit. She walked over to the couch, sat down, crossing her legs, displaying a round thigh all the way up to her hip.

  "I see you have Randy working," she said. "I asked him if he wanted to play, but he said he was doing something with you."

  "Maybe some other time," I told her.

  "He used to be such a nice boy."

  "You mean he used to do what you told him?"

  "Yes. That makes a nice boy. A nice man too."

  "You already figured out that I don't qualify, right? So what can I do for you?"

  "You didn't…" she started to say, just as Randy walked in.

  "Burke, where's the battery? I could see the lines, but they just go back. Is it under the back seat?"

  "In the trunk," I told him. "Next to the fuel cell."

  "You got one of those too? Listen, I got this dynamite idea, okay? Now don't say no before I—"

  "We were talking," Fancy told him, throwing a hard look his way.

  "You were talking," I told her.

  The kid chuckled. Two bright red dots popped out on her cheeks, dark under the tan. "Yes, master," she purred, her voice thick with sarcasm.

  I lit a smoke. The kid shifted his feet awkwardly.

  "What's that song?" Fancy asked, cocking her head toward the stereo.

  "Judy Henske, right?" the kid piped up. He was on the money. Her fire–throated version of Champion Jack Dupree's ground–zero blues, "My Real Combination for Love." I held up an open palm. The kid slapped it in acknowledgment, a delighted grin on his face.

  "You're quite the expert," Fancy said.

  The kid ignored her. "Burke, what I was gonna ask you—"

  I shook my head. He got it, dropped whatever he wanted. Fancy got it too. "I need to talk to your 'caretaker' for a minute, Randy. How about if you go back downstairs, play with your cars?"

  I nodded an okay at the kid. He took off without another word.

  "What?" I asked her. "I don't play tennis."

  "You don't play much of anything, do you?"

  "No."

  She stood up quickly. "I could help you," she said softly, turning her back to me, leaning her elbows on the top of the couch. "You don't want some of this," she purred, flipping up the short white skirt to flash a pair of red panties. "You'll want some of that." She turned around, facing me, hands on hips. "I know this place. Randy doesn't. You have questions, a man like you. Come over tonight. To my place. And I'll answer them."

  I held her eyes, watching for the game.

  "What time?" I asked her.

  She told me midnight, gave me the address.

  I stood next to the kid, watching Fancy's sleek black car whip out of the driveway.

  "That's a costly ride," I said. "What's she do for a living?"

  "Do? Nothing, I don't think. I told you—she just plays around with her plants and all. Her folks were rich, probably left her a bundle," he shrugged. Like it was an everyday thing.

  "Okay," I told him. "Here's what I need you to do. I'm going to pay a call on that girl's parents. The Blankenships. Maybe they know something, maybe they don't—it's worth a quick look. I'm going to take the Lexus. I want you to lead the way, in the other car, see? Once I go in, you take off. Head back here…the guy may call to check on me. What I'm gonna tell him, I'm working for your mother, okay? She hired me to look into the suicides 'cause she has a kid of her own that knew them, see? They call, that's the story you tell. When I come out, I'll call you, arrange a place to meet. Got it?"

  "Sure."

  "Okay. I'm going upstairs to change. Be down in fifteen, twenty minutes."

  He threw me a half–salute. Then he went back to mooning over the Plymouth.

  I shaved carefully. Put on the gray business suit with the chalk stripe. White shirt, wine–colored silk tie. A black leather attaché case and I was in business. I checked through my stock of ID's, found the business cards that listed me as a private investigator, complete with telephone and fax numbers. I knew a lawyer who let me front him off in exchange for some favors. One of his phone numbers was a dead line— his secretary would answer any calls and cover for me no matter who was asking.

  I walked downstairs, ready to ride. The kid looked me over.

  "How do I look?" I asked.

  "Like a cop. A mean cop."

  "Close enough. You ready to ride?"

  "Sure. Uh…"

  "What?"

  "Could I…take the Plymouth?"

  "Drive carefully," I told him, handing him the registration papers. "Juan Rodriguez?" he asked, looking at them.

  "A close personal friend of mine," I told him.

  The Blankenship house was small, almost a bungalow, but set well back from the road on a big piece of ground. The curtains were drawn in front—no signs of life. A blue Saturn station wagon sat in the driveway—the garage door was closed.

  I pulled into the driveway as the Plymouth moved away ahead of me, the kid driving sedately while I had him in my sights.

  The house was white shingle with a gray slate roof. The front door was painted a dark shade of red. I tapped gently with the iron knocker. I was just about to try again when the door
opened. The man standing there was about my age, shorter than me, slim–built. His light brown hair was cut short, receding at the temples. He was wearing a white shirt with a button–down collar over a pair of chinos. One of the buttons on the collar was undone. He wasn't wearing a belt. And he'd missed a few spots when he shaved that morning.

  "What is it?"

  "Mr. Blankenship?"

  "Yes. What is it? Are you from the police?"

  "No sir. I'm a private investigator. Could I come in and talk to you for a few minutes?"

  He stepped back, but not far enough—I had to brush against him as I walked by. The living room was trashed: overflowing ashtrays, containers of take–out food, a raincoat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a month. I sat on the green cloth couch, facing a brown Naugahyde easy chair, figuring the chair for his. I reached in my coat pocket, took out a small notebook and a felt–tip pen, looked up with an expectant expression on my face. He was still standing, hands clasped behind him, watching.

  "A private investigator? Who hired you…one of the other kids' parents?"

  "Yes sir. Mrs. Lorna Cambridge."

  "Cambridge? That wasn't one of the names."

  "No sir. Her son Randall went to school with some of the kids. He's the same age. She was concerned…frightened, really. And she thought I might be able to look around, maybe be of some help."

  "What could you do?"

  "I don't know, to be honest with you. It's a mystery. There doesn't seem to be any reason…"

  "There's got to be a reason," he said, sitting down in the brown chair. "There's got to be."

  "Yes sir. Could you tell me, was there anything in your daughter's behavior that might have led you to suspect…"

  "You mean like drugs?"

  "That. Or alcohol. Problems in school. With a boyfriend. A pregnancy. Anything."

  "Diandra had problems. All kids that age have problems, right?"

  I nodded, waiting.

  "Her mother and I, we used to get into it about her grades. And she had a smart mouth …at least to her mother." He fumbled in a shirt pocket, came up empty. He felt around with his right hand, located a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, lit it with an old brushed aluminum Zippo. "I haven't smoked in fifteen years, he said ruefully. "Before this happened…"