Down in the Zero b-7

by Andrew Vachss

  "Burke!" the kid shouted, looking up and spotting us. "And…Fancy. Wow."

  "You ready?" I asked him.

  "Yeah. Burke, Fancy…this is Wendy."

  The tall girl offered her hand. Black nail polish. I held it for a second, but even the strong sunlight didn't fluoresce wrist scars— if she'd ever secretly tried to visit her dead–and–gone friend, it hadn't been that way. Her eyes were a gentle gold–flecked copper, cheekbones prominent in a thin, patrician face.

  "I love your hair," Fancy told her. "I wish I had it."

  "Thank you," Wendy said. Not blushing, not arrogant either.

  "Give it to him," I told Fancy.

  "Here!" she bounced out, handing the kid the white box.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "Just open it," Wendy told him, standing close, her hand on his shoulder.

  He put it on the hood of the car, opened it slowly. Took out the jacket. "It's beautiful!" he said, holding it up. Wendy took it from him, gestured for him to turn around, helped him into it. The fit was perfect.

  "I love it," he said softly, running his fingers over his name in the red script.

  "Hey, Randy! They said you were over here. Where's your car?" Brewster, with half a dozen kids trailing him.

  "This is it," the kid said, patting the Plymouth's flanks. I admired the big numbers whitewashed on the back door: 303. I guess they assigned them at random.

  "This? You're kidding me, right?"

  "Nope."

  "Far fucking out!" one of his boys said.

  Brewster rolled his head on the column of his neck, like he'd just taken a punch. "Whose jacket you borrow?" he asked the kid, standing close.

  "It's mine."

  "So who's Sonny?"

  "That's me, too."

  "Sonny? What kind of fucking name is that?"

  "It's what his friends call him," Fancy said, stepping up like she was measuring Brewster for a right cross.

  "That's sick, man," Brewster said, laughing. "One of your psycho ideas?" he sneered in Wendy's direction.

  "There's one kind of sickness you'll never get, Brewster," she replied, gently.

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "Brain fever," she said. Two of Brewster's boys slapped a high five. His face flushed. "Don't even think about it," I said to him real quiet.

  "See you out there, wimp," he said, stalking off.

  Sonny swung the front end of the Plymouth forward, exposing the engine and upper suspension. A guy in a little cloth cap stopped by, stood off a few feet checking things out. I watched his face for that superior–snide look, but he was rapt with respect.

  "Is that a four–thirteen?" he asked.

  "It's a four–forty," I told him. "With sixty over.

  "What a monster!" the guy said, open admiration in his voice. "I haven't seen one like that since I was a kid. You going to run her?"

  "He is," I said, indicating Sonny.

  "I guess you got enough torque for a short course," the guy said to Sonny. "But it's got to be carrying a couple of tons unsprung weight."

  "Yeah," Sonny said. "But it loads to the outside wheels pretty good."

  "Can you lock it up? Hold it in low gear all the way?"

  "That's my plan. The automatic's just a three–speed— it probably won't even red–line."

  "Good luck," the man said, offering his hand.

  "Thanks," Sonny acknowledged.

  The man walked away. "You know who that was?" Sonny asked me, answering his own question without waiting for my response. "That was John Margate— he used to race Formula One. Even did the Grand Prix…damn!"

  "I guess he knows the real deal when he sees it."

  "John Margate…the kid mused, chest swelling.

  We watched the races from the roof of the Plymouth, legs dangling down across the windshield. Mostly sports cars: I spotted a sprinkling of Alfas, old Triumphs, an MGA coupe. Most of them handled the course pretty well, with only an occasional spin–out. An electronic board at the finish line flashed the time of each car as it came through. After a while, the course attendants went out on the track, moved the cones around, set them wider, opening things up. The next wave was stronger stuff: a white Nissan 300ZX, a blue Mazda RX–7, even an NSX like Fancy's.

  "Pretty soon," Sonny said. He looked about as nervous as a pit bull facing off against a cocker spaniel.

  We all climbed down. Sonny walked around the Plymouth one more time, stroking the big car, saying something I couldn't hear. Wendy took her long black chiffon scarf from around her neck, tied it carefully to the Plymouth's upright antenna, gave Sonny a kiss. He put on his driver's helmet, donned a pair of leather gloves, and started the engine. The Plymouth growled a warning, ready.

  Sonny put it in gear and pulled off toward the staging area.

  "He's gonna be fine," I told Wendy.

  "I know," she said.

  I looked around for Fancy, couldn't see her. Before I could puzzle it out, she strolled up carrying a cardboard tray with big paper cups carefully balanced, a white cowboy hat on her head.

  "Where'd you get that?" I asked her.

  "There's a concession stand on the other side," she said, handing an iced Coke to Wendy, another to me.

  "I mean the hat."

  "Oh. Some young boy was wearing it— he gave it to me."

  "Come on," I said to both women. "Let's get over to where we can see it."

  The first car through was a lipstick red Dodge Viper. The PA. system gave the guy's name, drawing some polite applause. He couldn't drive to save his life, wiping out on the twisting backstretch, spinning out of control. The car skidded harmlessly to a stop.

  "You get three runs." I looked over at the speaker, a guy in his forties, wearing one of those suburban safari jackets. He looked fully equipped— a clipboard in one hand loaded with crosshatched paper, a monocular on a cord around his neck. "Most of them push too hard the first time through," he said knowingly. I nodded my thanks for the information.

  The next car was a one–seater with some kind of boattail— I didn't recognize it.

  "Herbert Carpenter. Driving a D–type Jaguar," the PA. announced.

  Whoever he was, he was good. Real good. The dark green car zipped through the pylons smoothly, making a sound like ripping canvas. The electronic scoreboard flashed…1:29.44.

  "Best time of the day," the guy next to me said.

  Wendy tapped my forearm. "I'll be right back," she said.

  "Brewster Winthrop. Driving a ZR–one Corvette," the announcer told us.

  The 'Vette was Darth Vader black, bristling with aero add–ons right down to a useless rear spoiler that hovered over the tail like a stalking bird of prey. It charged around the course like an enraged bull, all brutish power and noise. But the jerk could drive, I had to give him that. He smoked past the finish line as the board flashed…1:29.12.

  "All right!" the guy next to me cheered, marking something on his clipboard. He wasn't alone— Brewster got himself a heavy round of applause as he stepped out of his car. He pulled off his helmet, took a little bow.

  "John Margate. Driving his famous Lola." The P.A. wasn't needed— everybody there seemed to know the car. Margate's blue beast slipped through the course like rushing water, fiber–optic threading, glass on Teflon. I didn't need the scoreboard to tell me he was faster than anyone else, but it showed the numbers for all to see…1:27.33.

  "The best!" the guy next to me said.

  It was three more cars before they called the kid's name. "Sonny Cambridge. Driving a… Plymouth."

  "He's gotta be kidding," my tour guide remarked sourly, the monocular screwed into his eye.

  "At least they got his name right," I said to Wendy.

  "I went over and told them," she replied. "I wanted him to hear it." Sonny launched out of the starting gate like a dragster, threw the big car into a long, controlled skid, sliding from pylon to pylon like a bootlegger on a dirt road, a rooster–tail of smoke and pebbles behind him. He kept i
t high on the tach, braking against the gas pedal, cranking the wheel between extremes of full lock. Wailing!

  The timer told the story…1:28.55. The crowd went wild as Sonny stepped out. He kept his helmet on, climbed back inside the Plymouth and motored off to the side.

  We found him in the pit area. "That was great!" I told him. Wendy and Fancy each kissed a different cheek. The kid's face was a sweet shade of red. "I'm gonna skip the second run," he told me. "Unless somebody beats my time. The last run is just two cars— I think John Margate's gonna wait too."

  "Good plan."

  "It was…wonderful, man. I can't tell you…"

  "Let's go back and watch," I said.

  We found a place to stand off to the side. "I can't see," Fancy said. I hunted around, found a sturdy–looking wooden crate, stood it on end. "Try this," I said. She stepped up, posing gingerly on her spike heels, one hand on my shoulder. "It's perfect," she said. "Can you find one for Wendy too?"

  I took a quick walk around, looking. The Viper was getting ready to try again. I caught the glint of sun on glass somewhere to my right. A man in an army field cap, binoculars to his eyes. He took them down. It was Blankenship. I turned my eyes back to the course. The Viper was heading for another DNF. I turned back toward Blankenship. He was gone.

  I found another crate, carried it back. Wendy climbed aboard, balancing herself without difficulty.

  Brewster was the last to run. He rammed the 'Vette through, clipping a couple of cones, but he didn't make the cut…the timer said 1:29.04.

  "It's me and John Margate," Sonny said, fingering the car keys.

  Sonny went first. As soon as I heard the Plymouth on the starting line, I knew he'd bypassed the mufflers— the sound was as ominous as an earthquake tremor. The muscular machine gave off a sustained guttural scream as Sonny slashed through the course. Wendy and Fancy were both yelling something, but I couldn't make it out. Fancy whipped off her sweatshirt, waved it around her head like a flag. Sonny came across the finish line sideways, slid almost off the course.

  1:27.52.

  "Soonnnny!" Fancy screamed, waving the sweatshirt. This time, everybody looked.

  Margate's Lola didn't look like it was going any faster. He razor–sliced the cones, as sure–footed as a tightrope walker.

  1:27.44.

  "Fuck!" I said to myself.

  They awarded the trophies at the edge of the course. Seemed like most of the crowd stayed around to see it. Brewster took his third–place cup like the surly bastard he was. Then they called Sonny's name. The applause was sustained, heavy. The kid took his second–place trophy, held it up for a second to more applause, and walked off. Margate took his first–place prize like a man accepting the mail.

  We all stood together, watching the rest of the presentations. There was a trophy for everything: longest distance traveled, oldest car competing, you name it. The announcer was a jolly–looking fat guy with a full beard. He had a deep, rich voice, like he did it for a living. Then he said: "And now for the crown jewel…Outstanding Driver of the Meet. The vote was unanimous. And the winner is…Sonny Cambridge!"

  Sonny staggered forward, a dazed look on his face. He took the huge silver trophy in both hands, turned to face the crowd. John Margate stepped up, extended his hand. Sonny shook it. Margate raised Sonny's hand high. The cheers sounded like what you'd hear at a prize–fight.

  We waited for Sonny by the Plymouth. He was surrounded by people— I could barely make him out in the throng. When he finally walked over, he had a trophy in each hand. "This is for you, Burke," he said, handing me the second–place cup. "Thanks, man. For everything."

  I shook his hand, not saying anything.

  "You know what?" he said. "John Margate said he wants me to run SCCA. In his car! He's got a couple of Nissans he's been preparing, says I can drive one of them. Isn't that amazing?"

  "Not to me. Class knows class."

  He nodded, not fully absorbing it yet, dumb with happiness. "Wendy," he said. She stepped next to him, copper eyes alive.

  "This is for you," the kid said, handing her the big silver trophy.

  She hugged the cup. I made a motion to Fancy. We started to move off when Brewster walked up.

  "Not bad, wimp," the dummy said. "Maybe someday we'll do it for real, you and me."

  Sonny turned his eyes to Brewster. Different eyes, now. Gunfighter's eyes— calm and hard. "You know the Old Motor Parkway, Brewster? Where it goes off–road, past the tannery? There's a bridge at the end of the dirt road. A rickety old wooden bridge…only room enough for one car at a time. Tell you what…you meet me there tonight and we'll go down that road. First one over the bridge wins."

  "You're fulla shit!"

  "Midnight, okay?"

  "Crazy fuck!" Brewster said, walking off.

  "Sonny…" I said.

  "He'll never show up," Sonny told me. Not a kid anymore.

  It was almost four in the afternoon when we finally pulled out of the airport lot. Sonny and Wendy were going their own way. Me, I needed a pay phone.

  "It's me," I told the Mole.

  "They get in and out?"

  "Yes."

  "They find it?"

  "I don't know yet."

  "About time you put your top back on," I told Fancy as I climbed back into the NSX.

  "Oh, come on. It looks just like a halter, doesn't it? Anyway, I got excited— I wanted a flag to wave, you know?"

  "Yeah. It worked out great."

  "Sonny's so different," she said. "He's really changed."

  "He hasn't changed at all, girl. What happened was he's just starting to be himself."

  "That's how it works?"

  "Sometimes. For some people. Like what you do in your greenhouse— seeds to buds to flowers, right? Depends on the soil, the weather…parasites, crop dusters…the whole works."

  "Is that going to happen to me, Burke?"

  "It already is."

  The scenery swept by the windows of the low–flying car, a green blur. Fancy was quiet, playing with the band of the cowboy hat in her lap.

  "You promise?" she asked.

  "Promise what?"

  "That I'm changing…getting to be me."

  "Yes."

  We neared the turnoff for her street. Fancy put the cowboy hat back on her head, reclined her seat until she was lying almost flat, looked up from under the brim.

  "Can we go back to your place?"

  "It's not a good idea."

  "How come?"

  "People could be…listening, like I told you before. I'm not sure or anything, but I want to play it safe."

  "Is that why you took me…outside that first time?"

  "I guess it was."

  "I…liked it there. Outside. Could we…?"

  "After it gets dark," I told her.

  The parking lot at Rector's was empty, as deserted as yesterday's hot restaurant. I nosed the Lexus through a full circuit, checking, Fancy following in the NSX.

  "I don't see why we have to take two cars," she'd complained, hands on hips in her living room.

  "If someone…a member, say, just happened to pass by, it wouldn't spook them to see your car, right?"

  "Of course not. I told you."

  "Yeah, okay. But if they thought you were with a…client, they wouldn't expect just one car, would they?"

  "I…didn't think of that. Are you always so careful?"

  "That's the real me," I told her.

  The back door was thick, with enough steel plate to do credit to a crack house. Fancy opened a metal box, pushed some buttons, waited.

  Then she inserted her key. I heard heavy tumblers click as the deadbolt snapped open.

  We walked inside. The front room was what you'd expect from a private club for rich people: heavy dark red velvet drapes, a long, plain wooden bench directly across from a checkroom with waist–high Dutch doors. The place was musty with that perfume–smoke–sweat smell…reeking of Last Night.