Down in the Zero b-7

by Andrew Vachss

  The kid didn't seem to notice, munching away, washing it down with a couple of Cokes.

  It was late afternoon by the time the list was ready. He had the names for all six checkouts, phone numbers for three, a street address only for one.

  "It was all in the papers, the other stuff," he said, handing it over, not meeting my eye.

  "You didn't really know these kids, did you?"

  "Not close, you know. But I knew them."

  "Yeah. You tell anyone why I'm here?"

  "No. I told them you were the caretaker, like you said."

  "Your mother had caretakers before?"

  "Once. Once she did. Last year.

  "What happened to him?"

  The kid shrugged his shoulders. People come, people go. Cleaning women, pool boys, groundskeepers, caretakers…all the same to him.

  That's what you get in a town where their idea of fighting racism is giving the maid a raise.

  "Whose idea was it…to call me in?"

  "Mine, I guess."

  "Your mother didn't say anything?"

  "She always says the same thing. Every time she leaves. If I get into trouble, I should call you. It just never happened before."

  "Okay. I'll take this, get started tonight."

  "Started?"

  "To look around, that's all. I'll only be gone a few hours."

  "Can I…"

  "It'd be better if you didn't come along…"

  Troy and Jennifer. Lana. Margo. Brandon. Scott.

  Just names. Nothing in the kid's list to make them into people. Maybe he was right— the papers wouldn't cover this up— it wouldn't affect property values like a killer shark haunting the beaches. Tomorrow, I'd see if the local rag had a morgue.

  I picked up the phone, punched in the number for the restaurant. It wouldn't matter if it appeared on their long–distance bill— the kid already knew it.

  It rang three times. Then "Gardens."

  "It's me."

  "That woman call again. Say for you to leave an address next time."

  "Address?"

  "She say, you not talk to her, then she write you a letter, okay?"

  "Yeah. Give her the Jersey box, okay, Mama?"

  "Sure."

  "Anything else?"

  "The Prof… see if you have message for him."

  "Just tell him nothing yet, okay?"

  "Sure. You finish soon?" "I don't know. Maybe." "Maybe not so good, there." "Maybe not."

  "Okay."

  I hung up the phone. Belinda, still calling. Even if she could keep Mama on the line long enough to run a trace, she'd only get the number in Brooklyn. We ran a series of bounces to the restaurant, changed them all the time. The Jersey P.O. box wouldn't help her either. It's a dead–drop— I've never been there. Every couple of weeks, one of Mama's delivery guys cleans it out, leaves everything at one of the noodle factories off Broome Street. Max stops by at random, picks up the load. He brings the mail back to his temple— I look at it whenever I have a chance. It's not fast, but it's safe. The lady cop wants to write me a letter, I'll get it. And the best she'll get is an answer.

  I sat and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Not even thinking, just waiting for dark.

  I watched the bands of light shift across the back fields. When the last thin strip fell into the ground, I closed my eyes.

  It was just past ten when I came around. It was country–dark outside then. Rich and quiet–feeling, no neon–knives to dice it into pools of shadow.

  I tapped the keys on the phone, holding the stiff cardboard in my hand. It was picked up on the second ring.

  "Hello?"

  It sounded like her…but not quite. As if she was a little juiced.

  "Could I speak with Fancy please?"

  A muffled giggle. Then…"Sure. Hold on…"

  "It's been dark for a while," she said, coming on the line.

  "So?"

  "I said to call after dark."

  "Oh…that was an order, then?"

  "Sure. Don't you like orders?"

  "No."

  "You'd like mine."

  "Not so far I don't."

  "Don't be such an adolescent. You're too old for boy–games, aren't you?"

  "What do you want?"

  "Ouch! I don't like cold things."

  I lit a cigarette, not saying anything. Closed my eyes. It was no contest— she didn't know about waiting.

  "You want to start over?" she whispered.

  "Tell me what you want."

  It was her turn to sit quiet. I could hear a faint undertone, like a humming…couldn't tell if it was her or the line. I ground out my cigarette. Heard her take a breath. Then…

  "You're no caretaker. And I know why you're here."

  "Do you?"

  "Yes. Want me to tell you?"

  "Sure."

  "Maybe I will. Tonight. Late. You know where Rector's is?"

  "No."

  "It's a club. Private club. Get the address from Randy."

  "Okay."

  "In the back, the parking lot makes a kind of bulb…like in a thermometer? Pull in there and wait for me."

  "When?"

  "I'll be coming out around two."

  "Around two?"

  "Yes, around two. You wait for me, understand?"

  "I'll be there at two."

  "Look, you…"

  I hung up the phone.

  I went back over to the big house. Music came from upstairs…loud…but I didn't see any sign of the kid. I found a Yellow Pages near the phone in the kitchen. No listing for any joint called Rector's. I tried 411— nothing.

  I made my way upstairs. The kid was blissed out across his bed, staring at the ceiling. The marijuana stench was heavy. Sticks of incense on his bureau, unburned— no reason for him to mask the smell with nobody around, I guessed. No point asking him any questions.

  I went back over to the apartment. Showered, shaved, put on the outfit Michelle told me would open all these lush doors. In the garage, I helped myself to the Lexus.

  I was in town just after midnight. Passed a few restaurants, scoping it out. Didn't feel right, so I turned toward the highway. Found the Blue Bottle. Pulled in. I didn't get a second glance making my way to the entrance— maybe Michelle was right.

  A blonde girl in a sequined halter top was taking money at the door, a bouncer hovering over her right shoulder in case someone's ID didn't check out. He was strictly Amateur Hour: big, sharp–cut muscles bulging out of an orange silk T–shirt, but his hair was too long, too easy to grab in a fight. And his hands looked like he only used them to pat on his cologne.

  I gave the woman the ten bucks she asked for, moved past her toward the dance floor. As I passed by the bouncer, I tilted my head in a

  "Come over here" gesture. He moved with a bodybuilder's strut, rolling his shoulders with his hands clasped behind his back. When he got close, I turned my shoulder so he came into a space just for us.

  "I was supposed to meet some friends. Not here. At another joint. And I lost the address. Thought maybe you could help me out."

  "What's the place?" he asked me, a practiced hardguy edge to his voice.

  "Rector's."

  He shot me a look. "I'm not sure I know where that is."

  "Sure you do," I told him, opening my hand quickly, letting him see folded green.

  He glanced over his shoulder, turned his attention back to me. "That's a private club, pal. I can't get you in there."

  "Don't worry about it. That's covered. Just give me the directions, okay?"

  He leaned close. "Follow the water to forty–one, take it north a couple of miles. You'll see the sign for Calm's Corners. Just turn in there, follow the road. It's a white house, big driveway out front. You can't miss it."

  "Thanks," I said, shaking his hand, passing the cash.

  I found the sign for Calm's Corners, whatever the hell that was. Turned in, followed a two–lane blacktop ribbon. The house was there, like the bouncer said. Good–siz
ed house, three stories. The driveway was one of those half–moons. From where I sat, I could see a couple of men in tuxedos standing at the front of the house, between two thick columns. Valet parking— that wouldn't work.

  I drove on, looking for an opening. It took me three slow passes before I saw it— a side road that merged with the back parking lot. I nosed the Lexus in cautiously, but nobody was paying attention. The very back of the lot was just like Fancy had said. And empty. I backed the Lexus into the spot she said, checked my watch. 1:19.

  I got out of the car, looked around. The parking lot had no fence— it ran right up against a forest in the back, following the tree line.

  I returned to the car, dropped the driver's side window, watched. I saw cars being parked maybe fifty yards away. The guys in the tuxedos did it mostly, but once in a while somebody would do it themselves. Traffic all coming in…nobody leaving. No pattern to it: mostly male–female couples, but there were some singles too, and some same–sex combos.

  The night was clear, but I couldn't hear anything. Either they ran a real quiet joint or it was soundproofed.

  I waited there until twenty past two. No sign of Fancy. I drove the Lexus out the front way. Nobody paid me a glance.

  I stashed the Lexus next to my Plymouth. The red Miata was gone. I went upstairs, changed my clothes. Almost four in the morning, a good time to have a quiet, leisurely look around the big house. The kid probably wouldn't come back until well past daylight. Whatever had sent him into a panic didn't seem to have much staying power.

  I had just opened the back kitchen door when a pair of high beams flashed against the garage. I slipped away from the house as Fancy's black NSX spun into the driveway, scattering stones as she stood on the brakes, skidding to a stop, the headlights aimed across the back yard. The lights went out, I saw her jump out of the car and slam the door, a long black coat trailing behind her as she marched up the stairs to the apartment.

  I moved out of the shadows behind her, crossing to the bottom of the stairs just as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. I followed, moving quiet.

  I stood outside the door. Heard the sound of glass breaking inside. I stepped in, breathing shallow. The long black coat was thrown over the back of the sofa. The TV screen was cracked, pieces of a heavy glass ashtray scattered all around. From the bedroom, sounds of someone rooting through the drawers. Harsh, heavy breathing.

  I went down the hall. Fancy's back was to me. She was poured into a black leather mini–dress over dark stockings, standing there in bright blue spike heels, wrecking the place.

  "You having a good time?" I asked her.

  She whirled without a word, the black riding crop in her hand, slashing. I spun away, let her momentum carry her past me when she missed, slammed my shoulder into her back and took her down to the carpet. She squirmed, snarling something I couldn't make out. I locked my arm around hers, pinning it close, letting my weight hold her.

  Finally… "Let me up !"

  "Let go of the stick first," I told her.

  Her fist unclenched, the riding crop slipped from her fingers. I shifted my weight from her hips, still keeping her shoulders pinned. Her dress was around her waist. I saw a flash of dark nylon over bronze skin. There was only a slash of black silk between the cheeks of her butt, some kind of thong.

  "Nice, huh?" she whispered over her shoulder, calm now.

  I rolled away from her, letting go my hold. She got to her feet, tugging down the dress, breathing hard.

  "What's all this about?" I asked her.

  "What?"

  "Breaking in here, busting up the place, tearing through my things."

  "I didn't break in here— I have a key."

  "Who gave you…? Ah, never mind. What about the other stuff?"

  "I was angry. You stood me up. People don't do that."

  "I was there. At two, like you said. You never showed."

  "Why didn't you wait?"

  "For what?"

  "People do what I tell them," she said, bending over and picking up the riding crop. She tossed it on the bed, turned to me. "They love to do what I tell them. You think you're something? You're nothing, Mr. Caretaker. I know your secrets."

  "Okay."

  "Okay? That's it? Okay? I know why you're here. I know what you want."

  "Sure."

  "Don't be slick— you don't have the looks for it. I could save you a lot of time, point you straight. That's not your secret— that's mine. You want it?"

  "Maybe."

  "People wait for me, I told you. You can wait too. You know how it works— you want something, you have to pay, yes?"

  "How much?"

  "A lot. Not money. I don't need money. You want to pay, you have to play. Play with me, get it?"

  "No."

  She walked over to the bureau, rummaged around, like she knew what would be in there. Came up with a fat white hurricane candle. She held it out to me.

  "Light this," she said, her voice rough–edged, insistent.

  I cracked a wooden match, held it to the wick. Her hand was steady. When the candle flickered into life, she went back to the bureau, held it in one hand over her head as she swept everything onto the floor with the other. She planted the candle, stepped back, watched the flame in the mirror over the bureau, adjusted it until she was satisfied.

  "Go turn out the lights," she said, still giving orders. "Do it now.

  I stepped back, hit the switch, still watching her.

  The black dress had a wide zipper all the way down the front, anchored with a silver pull–ring the size of a half–dollar between her breasts. It made a metal–singing sound as she pulled it down. She shrugged her shoulders and the dress fell away. Then she stood facing me, hands on hips. Her breasts were bare. A humming sound came off her, not from her mouth. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband to the thong, pulled it slowly over her hips. When she had it worked down to just above her knees, she wiggled her legs and it dropped to her ankles. She stepped out of the little piece of black silk, hooked the toe of a blue spike heel into the pile and kicked the thong over in my direction. I felt it brush against my feet but I never dropped my eyes from her face.

  She turned her back to me. Put one knee on the bed, looked over her shoulder. Climbed the rest of the way onto the bed, on her hands and knees, facing away from me.

  "You want to play now?" she whispered.

  I took out a cigarette. Walked over to the candle, got a light. I took a deep drag, put the cigarette on the dresser top. Her butt looked like a piece of white marble, the dark stockings setting it off like a centerpiece. The spikes of her heels were pointed back at me.

  I took off my clothes, watching, breathing through my nose, something telling me I needed to keep a control card in my deck.

  I hung my clothes over the back of a straight chair. Stepped to her. I put one hand on her hip, touched her deep with the other. She was wet. I entered her slowly. She snapped her hips to the side, throwing me out.

  "Kiss first," she said, not turning around.

  I put my hands on her shoulders to pull her around. She locked her arms rigid, resisting.

  "Kiss my ass," she ordered. "Kiss it good."

  I stepped back. "Not this year," I told her. Calm, not arguing.

  "Make you mad?" she challenged. "Here!" handing me the riding crop, still not turning around.

  I tossed it onto the floor, still watching her. The marble glistened in the candlelight.

  I went back over to the bureau. Took another drag from my cigarette. She didn't move.

  A piece of time passed. I walked back to her, put one hand on each of her cheeks, stroked with my thumbs.

  "No!" she snapped. "Kiss it or whip it, that's all there you get. I don't do vanilla sex."

  I stepped back again. Finished the smoke. Ground it out on the dresser top.

  "Well?" she demanded, her voice thick.

  "I don't like the choices," I told her.

  She looked over her shou
lder, still on her hands and knees. "It looks like you do," she whispered.

  "That's my body," I said. "Not me.