Down in the Zero b-7

by Andrew Vachss

  "She was a player too?"

  "I don't know…now. I sure didn't think so then. She was a bit older than me. I thought she just wanted some fun. That's all we did. She never asked me a word about business, didn't ask what I was doing over there, nothing. I asked her once, why she worked there. She said she was gonna meet a rich man, get married. It was a good place to meet a rich man, I remember her saying that."

  "Look like she scoped the dope."

  "Yeah. The last time I was in the joint, she gave me the high sign. I went to the Men's Room and she was there. Inside. I thought she wanted to get it on, but she wasn't after sex. She told me she saw this Rex the night before. Meeting a government man. I asked her how she knew. She told me I wasn't the only boyfriend she'd ever had. 'Don't come back, love,' is what she said. And I never did."

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know. I went back to the hotel, packed my stuff and got out. Called a number back in the States, left word where I was. I just waited on the recruiters. When they came to the new hotel, I told them I got nervous…spotted a federale in the place where they'd put me up. They took it okay— said I was smart to be spooky— made me describe this Rex. They didn't get mad about me looking to score for myself…like they expected it. Couple of days later, I went over to Cherry's house. The landlady said she moved out. I was there maybe another week, then I shipped out."

  "Never saw her again?"

  "Never."

  "So what finally happened?"

  "They bounced me around. London to Geneva to Lisbon, then to Angola, then to the island. I found the plane easy enough. Then I went over. After a while I came back. Never saw any of them again. It didn't come up until those South Africans came to me with that end–user certificate scam…the phony gunrunners, remember?"

  "Yes, my brother," the Prof said, serious now. That was when Flood came into my life.

  She won't be back either.

  "I wouldn't know her…this Cherry. if she walked in the door. It was a long time ago."

  "Want to ride the rocket?" the Prof asked, leaning forward. "Here's what the kid told me— get down to the sound."

  The Prof reached over, glommed another of my smokes. Took a minute to fire it up to his satisfaction, like it was a five–dollar cigar, working with a convict's sense of time, killing it the way it was trying to kill him.

  "They all rotten–rich, where this kid lives. Got all the things, you know what I'm saying? They all do everything the same way— there ain't but one kinda vines to buy, one kinda way to wear them, one kinda car to drive, right? It's all groups. Some of them ride horses, some ride Mercedes. Their folks are all someplace else. With their activities," he sneered. "They got crews, but they got no loyalty, see? Savage little bastards. Our boy, he was a tanker— the same nitrous they slip you in a dentist's office. Other ones, they played with Jello–shots. Some tranq'ed it through. Whatever makes your head dead, Fred."

  "So what's he scared of? There's no more draft…and his kind don't go to jail."

  "You ever watch TV? Ever see those ads…your kid's fucking up big–time, maybe he needs some of our fancy psychotherapy? A few weeks in our little hospital, you get yourself a brand–new kid. No more drugs, no more booze, no more bad temper. That's this Crystal Cove joint he was talking about."

  "He's afraid they'll send him there?"

  "Maybe. They sent his pals, a whole bunch of them. And they all come back. Talk about how great it was. They don't seem no better to him— they go right back to whatever lightning they was riding before they went in. But they're different."

  "How?"

  "The kid don't know. Here's what he says: half a dozen kids…kids he knows, kids he ran with…they checked out on the do–it–yourself plan. Stepped over. First two went out from an exhaust pipe. One drowned herself. Couple more overdosed on downers. And the last one, he ate a gun."

  "They do that…"

  "None of them left a note, bro."

  "So?"

  "He won't say why, but he thinks they got done. And what he's scared of, it's gonna happen to him."

  "So the move is…"

  "He can't run, son. Something's going down in that town, and he thinks it's coming for him, Jim."

  "He wants…what?"

  "A bodyguard, way he says it. Make sure he don't have himself an accident. But that plan don't scan, man. Got to be something else…"

  "Where's the money?"

  The Prof's voice dropped. He was talking without moving his lips, out of the side of his mouth. In the jailhouse, you talk two ways: loud when you're selling tickets, quiet when you're plotting. I leaned forward, tuned in.

  "You be fucking surrounded by money, schoolboy. Up where the kid lives, the whole scene is green."

  "Yeah, but…"

  "You don't like the bet, you can always jet," the Prof rapped. "Take the case, Ace."

  It didn't take me long to pack. Michelle dogged my steps, harassing me with questions. All I had was an address— told the kid I'd be there by nighttime.

  "I don't know how long this is gonna take," I told her. "You can stay here, long as you want."

  "About a New York minute is as long as I want, baby. This place is creepy enough with you here— I'm not staying one single night alone."

  "Whatever you…"

  "Yes, I know. I'll find a sweet little crib someplace, don't worry about me. Soon as you have a safe number, get it to the Mole."

  "Okay."

  "Now remember what I told you to watch for?"

  "Yeah, yeah. What they wear, how they wear it, what they wear it with…"

  "Don't be such a sarcastic bastard. How am I going to help you if I don't know the territory?"

  "I said okay, Michelle. Soon as I know, you'll know, all right?"

  "Shut up. And pack this too," she snapped, tossing a package at me.

  It was a silk jacket, midnight blue. Soft as down, almost weightless. A pair of pleated pants of the same material, a slightly lighter blue.

  "It's beautiful, Michelle."

  "You got that right, dummy. That jacket's a genuine Marco Giallo. You can wear it with a pair of jeans, over a T–shirt, you still make a statement. Put on a nice shirt and a tie, you can walk in anywhere. Understand?"

  "Yes. Thanks, honey."

  "It gets crumpled, you just turn on the shower, all hot water, fill the bathroom with steam, hang it up for a couple of hours, it'll be good as new.

  "Okay."

  "Take the alligator boots too. Just wear them all the time, like a trademark. They'll never know you don't belong if you stand apart…got it?"

  "Yeah."

  "And don't do anything stupid."

  "I got it, Michelle."

  "I love you, baby," she whispered, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.

  After she left, I packed the things she bought for me. And threw in a gray summer–weight business suit and some other stuff, just in case I had to work a straighter crowd.

  I crossed the Triboro through the Bronx, took 95 North to the Connecticut Pike, rolling east, driving just past the speed limit, staying with the Exact Change lanes. The Plymouth's tach never saw three grand, its monster motor bubbling, so far within itself it was almost asleep.

  Just off the side of the road, the carcass of a dead dog. Couldn't cross the highway, but he made it to the other side.

  I threw one of my Judy Henske tapes into the cassette slot just past the bridge— I was already across the state line by the time I heard it stop to switch sides. I hadn't heard a note. If her flame–throwing angel's voice couldn't get through to me…

  Stay focused, I told myself. Stay inside. Think about the money.

  I kept with the Pike to Exit 18, turned north, following the kid's directions. Soon it got real empty, even for the suburbs. Big pieces of land, wood fences that wouldn't keep anyone out, street signs on high posts with names that were supposed to make you think of colonial America and horses.

  The roads got narrow. Curvy blacktop. Lik
e moonshine country without the hills.

  The house was set back only a short distance from the road. I drove just past it, like the kid said, turned back into a crescent driveway and parked. I could see a big garage through the rearview mirror, on the other end of the driveway. I popped the trunk, grabbed my duffel bag and walked through the quiet night around to the back door.

  The lights were on. I rang the bell. The door jumped open— the kid must have been waiting.

  I stepped past him into a huge kitchen. It had a nook with a round table set into a bay window, a restaurant–size stainless steel double–door refrigerator, a matching triple sink, more built–ins than I could count.

  "Anybody else around?" I asked him, walking through the kitchen, past a dining room dominated by a long, rectangular table, going down a couple of steps into the living room.

  "No. Just me. I've been waiting…"

  "Yeah. Okay. I'm here now. Like I said. Just relax."

  "You want a drink or something?"

  I shook my head no. Kid probably thought I swilled rye by the quart. Next thing he'd ask me if I was packing a rod.

  I sat down on a long, cream–colored couch, facing a panoramic window that looked out toward the road. I looked around. The Prof was right— the joint stunk of money. I half closed my eyes, thinking about being alone in the place for a few hours. Jewelry, cash, gold coins, bearer bonds, who knew? Sure, I'd be a suspect, but so what?— I was born a suspect.

  A phone rang, a soft, insistent trill. The kid reached over behind him without looking, came out with a white cordless. He pulled out the antenna, said "Hello" in a shaky voice. Like he was waiting on bad news. Expecting it.

  As soon as he heard who it was, his face switched from fear to petulance. He held the phone to his ear for a minute, listening. Occasionally, he tried to get a word in edgewise, but the caller wasn't having any.

  "It's late…"

  The kid cocked his head, listening.

  "I have company and— " he said.

  More listening, shaking his head.

  "No, you can't come here. Not tonight. Just find some other fucking place to party, okay?"

  He put the phone behind him, still watching me.

  "My…friends. They know nobody's going to be home for a while, so…"

  "They gonna listen to you?"

  His face flashed white, like it never occurred to him that his pals wouldn't stay away.

  "Yeah. Sure! I mean there's other places, right?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, there are." Pouty little creep.

  "Whatever you say, kid," I assured him. "Is there a garage or something…where I can park my car?"

  "Sure. Out by the stables. Come on, I'll show you."

  As we walked around, I got a better sense of the place. Behind the house was a big slab of land, rising up to a flat plateau. "Three and a half acres," the kid told me, like I had any idea of what an acre was. "That used to be the stable," he said, pointing to a two–story thing that looked like a barn. "We use it for a garage now."

  He opened the door and I backed my car in between a beige Lexus sedan and a red Mazda Miata roadster. The Plymouth looked like a rhino at a tea dance.

  "Yours?" I asked him, pointing at the Mazda.

  "Yeah. Graduation present. It's last year's," throwing it off.

  He closed the wood doors to the garage. No lock. I saw a flight of steps around the side of the building.

  "What's this?"

  "It's to the caretaker's apartment. Above the stables."

  "Caretaker?"

  "For the stables. When we had horses. There's nobody there now."

  I looked up at the dark windows. "You got electricity up there?"

  "Sure. It's real nice, actually. Mom says we're gonna rent it out, one of these days."

  I lit a cigarette, thinking how peaceful it was out there, when I heard the thump of rap music on the move. Gravel crunched in the driveway. It was a white Suzuki Samurai, a topless little jeep, loaded with people. The driver stomped on the brakes, cutting a Brodie in the dirt. A big blond kid vaulted over the side just as a dark BMW sedan pulled in behind.

  "Oh fucking shit !" the kid half moaned next to me.

  The blond kid muscle–walked over to where we were standing, a brawny, cocky guy, moving with a linebacker's menacing grace.

  "Hey, Randy! Heard you were lonely, so I brought you some company."

  "You can't— " the kid started to say.

  The blond cut him off with a chop of his hand. "Hey! I got it. No problemo, pal. We're just gonna use the upstairs, okay? We're not going near the house, don't get yourself all excited."

  "Not here," I said, stepping forward.

  "Who the fuck are you?" the blond kid asked, head swiveling on a thick neck, giving me a stare that might have frightened a quarterback.

  "The caretaker," I told him. "Mrs. Cambridge hired me to look after the place while she's away. I'm living there…" jerking my thumb at the upstairs apartment.

  "Oh yeah? Then we'll just— "

  "Leave."

  The blond kid stepped closer, expanding his chest. He was wearing a loose T–shirt over surfer baggies, barefoot. "Look, man, you don't…"

  I caught his eyes, smelled the beer. Thought about my steel–toed boots and his bare legs, wrapped my hand around the roll of quarters in my pocket. Reminded myself to get off first if he dropped a shoulder…and not to hit him in the head. Feeling how good it would be to hurt him— letting him feel what I felt.

  "Nice babysitter your mommy hired for you, Randy," he sneered. "Some old dude asshole rent–a–cop."

  Somebody laughed, behind him.

  He eye–tested me for about five seconds— as a bully, he was a rank amateur. "See you around," he finally said, turning his back on me, climbing into the jeep.

  The little white car tore up the driveway on the way out, the silent BMW in its wake.

  The kid wasn't overcome with gratitude. "Now you've fucking done it," he said, nasty–voiced.

  "What's the big deal?" I asked him.

  "They'll be back. Nobody says no to Brew…he's an animal."

  "Brew?"

  "Brewster Winthrop. He's like the…leader around here."

  "The leader of what?"

  "Of…us, I guess. I dunno."

  "What's he do?"

  "Do?"

  "Yeah. Besides his little drive–bys. Does he work, go to school, what?"

  "He's in college. Or he was, anyway. Now he's home."

  "Don't worry about it."

  "That's easy for you to say."

  "Look, kid, it isn't all that important, all right? It bothers you so much, give him a call, tell him to come back and trash the place to the ground. I'll go over to the other house and get some sleep."

  "I can't do that. My mother would…"

  "Yeah. Okay. Just let it rest."

  I lit a smoke, feeling the knots in the back of my neck relax.

  "You weren't scared of him?" the kid asked.

  "No," I told him.

  He gave me a funny look— I let it slide.

  We walked back over to the house. "Maybe I should sleep over the garage tonight," I said. "In case your pals make a comeback."

  "No! I mean…I thought you were gonna stay…"

  "You can sleep over there too, all right?"

  "I don't…I mean, it'll be okay. There's an intercom, anyway."

  "Intercom?"

  "I'll show you," he said over his shoulder, flicking on the stereo in the living room. Soft string music flowed, so faintly I could barely hear it. He walked up the stairs, me right behind. The second floor was bigger than it looked from the outside, four bedrooms, two of them master–size. I followed him to the end of the house. "This is hers," he told me, tilting his head in that direction.

  The room was huge, with high ceilings, one of the walls almost all glass. A side door opened into a bathroom: stall shower, separate tub with Jacuzzi jets, a phone set into a niche
in the wall within easy reach. A double sink with an elaborate makeup mirror surrounded by tiny lights. All pink marble with a faint white vein running through it. The floor was the same motif in glistening tile.