Andrew Vachss - Down Here

“Not just . . . in a car. Never.”

“Oh. I . . .”

“You don’t know what to say, do you, J.?” she said, a slight edge around the softness of her voice. “If you say you never would have known, it sounds like you’re calling me a liar. And if you say it was obvious I’d never done it before, you’re saying I’m not very . . . good at it, right?”

“ None of that’s right, Laura. Not one word of any of it. Some people, they do things perfect the first time they try. Others, they could do it a thousand times and still . . . not do it very well.”

“I only meant—”

“But what’s really not right about what you said was the other part. It would never cross my mind that you were lying.”

“I thought reporters were supposed to be cynics,” she said, expelling smoke in a harsh jet.

“Cynicism is for adolescent poseurs. A person who’s been around the block a few times learns better.”

“What’s better?”

“Better is knowing some people are liars. I don’t mean they just told a lie, I mean they’re liars; that’s what they do. Better is knowing that even essentially truthful people lie sometimes, for different reasons. Better is knowing how to tell the difference.”

“You know when people are lying?”

“Not always,” I said, reaching over and taking her hand. “But I know when they’re not.”

We were both quiet for a while. Then she said, “I never asked you. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I have a sister.”

“Older or younger?”

“She’s my baby sister.”

“Is that why you asked me, before, if John was protective? Because you were?”

“No. I was just trying to get a picture of the whole family dynamic.”

“But you were, weren’t you?”

“Protective? Sure.”

“You think that’s normal, don’t you?”

“I’m a reporter, not a judge.”

“J., I’m just asking you an honest question. Can’t I get an honest answer?”

“Ask me your question,” I said, watching her eyes.

“If someone tried to hurt your sister, what would you do?”

I saw pieces of Michelle’s childhood, playing on the inside of my eyelids like a movie on a screen. The kind of movie freaks sell for a lot of money. Felt the familiar suffusion of hate for all of them—from her bio-parents, who used her like a toy, to the agencies that treated a transgendered child like a circus freak, to the predatory johns who took little pieces of her in exchange for survival money, to . . . Oh, honeygirl, I wish I had been there, I said to myself. Again.

I waited a beat, still on her eyes.

“Kill them,” I said.

“ Do you have something to pick up?” Laura asked me, as I wheeled the Plymouth into the gigantic parking lot for the Pathmark supermarket in Whitestone. At just after two in the morning, the lot was almost empty.

“Nope,” I said, pulling over to the side. I put the lever into park, opened the door, and got out. I walked around to her side of the car, opened her door.

“You’re leaving the engine run—”

“Just come on,” I said, taking her hand and pulling her around the back of the car. “Get in,” I told her.

“You want me to—?”

I was already on my way back around to the passenger side. We both closed our doors at the same time.

“This isn’t like your Audi,” I said, as she wiggled around, trying to find the best driving position. “The gas pedal isn’t hyper-sensitive, but if you step on it hard we’ll launch like a rocket. The brakes are a little stiff when you first touch them; they take a little pressure. But if you floor them, we’re going to stop. I mean, right now, like someone dropped an anchor into the road behind us.”

“You’re making me nervous.”

“Oh, great,” I said. “The first time I ever let anyone drive my baby and you tell me you’re nervous.”

“J.,” she giggled. “Stop it.”

“Your Audi’s a front-driver. This one’s not. If you get on the gas too hard in a corner, the rear end’s going to want to come around.”

“You make it sound like a ticking bomb.”

“It’s nothing of the kind,” I said. “Only reason I’m saying all this is that it’s a great contrast to what you’re used to driving. Take it slow, get used to it, and it’ll practically drive itself. You’ll see.”

“I . . .”

“Come on, Laura. I’ll bet you’ll be perfect at it, the first time.”

She gave me a look I couldn’t read. Then she put her left foot on the brake and pulled the lever down into drive.

I nodded approval. Laura took her foot off the brake, and the Plymouth started to creep forward. She delicately feathered the gas and we picked up speed.

“There’s nobody around,” I told her. “Give it a little gas.”

“This isn’t so bad,” she said. “I could just . . . Oh! ” she gasped, as the Plymouth shifted stance and shot forward.

I had expected her to deck the brakes, but she just backed off the gas, got it under control instantly.

“It is fast,” she said.

I made her try the brakes a few times, to get used to the pedal.

“I can feel the power,” she said. “Like a huge dog, on a leash.”

“Let’s give it some running room,” I said, pointing toward the highway.

“ What a wonderful car this is, J. It was so nice of you to let me drive it.”

“My pleasure.”

“I was . . . wondering.”

“What?”

“Well, how come you . . . The outside of the car is so . . .”

“Grungy?”

“At least. But it runs so beautifully. Is it the money?”

“If you mean, did I put my money into the engine and the transmission and the suspension and then kind of run out of cash, the answer is ‘yes.’ But it’s been this way for a long while now, and I think I may actually like it better.”

“Better? Why?”

“It’s kind of . . . special-sweet to have something very fine, something that most people wouldn’t even recognize. They’d have to drive my car to know what it was.”

“And you’re not going to let them?” she said, smiling in the night.

“Why should I?” I answered. “I’m building her for me. Not for my ego.”

“What does that mean, for you, not your ego?”

“It means she’s perfect for me. Just for me. I don’t care if anyone else thinks I’m driving a rust-bucket; I know I’ve got a jewel.”

“Is that the way you are—?”

“About everything,” I assured her. “Everything in my life. Right down the line.”

O’Hare was in its usual state of high cholesterol, but the three of us had plenty of time to catch our connector to Cedar Rapids. On the way out, Pepper had ended up seated next to an elderly lady; Mick and I were side by side. By the end of the trip, the old woman wanted to take Pepper home with her. Mick and I hadn’t exchanged a single word.

All they had left at the car-rental agency was an Infiniti SUV. Mick kept calling it a stupid cow every time he had to take a curve.

He found the address easily: a smallish wood-frame house on a side street. Pepper turned around in the front seat so she could face me.

“You want us to go in with you, chief?”

“I think it might help if you did,” I said. “But if Mick’s going to pull his—”

“I’m in the fucking room,” he said.

“Mick!” Pepper said, punching him on the arm hard enough to floor most middleweights. “Come on !”

“The paper says she’s from around here,” Mick said. “She came home. If anyone here scares her, it’s not going to be me. ”