Andrew Vachss: Down in the Zero

The town wasn't much— a long, wide street with little shops. Service stops for the locals, atmospheric joints for the summer people. The street had no pulse.

When we hit the water, I turned right, following a winding road. Seafood restaurants, couple of one–story tavern–types, some smaller office buildings.

A squad car came toward us at a leisurely speed, too fast for prowling but not in a hurry. The kid toked on his joint, unconcerned.

"What's in there?" I asked him. We were rolling past a freestanding building with a big parking lot full of cars, some of them covered with college–age kids. It looked like an upper–class version of a drive–in hamburger joint.

"The Blue Bottle. A nightclub, like."

"You ever go there?"

"Sometimes. It's not really down."

"Where do you hang out, then?"

"Houses, man. In the houses. If you know the circuit, it's always party time."

In the morning, there was a fat housefly buzzing around on the inside of my window screen. I found a plastic squeeze bottle with a spray top— the kind you use to mist houseplants— and filled it from the tap. I gently misted the fly until it stopped moving. Then I picked it up carefully, opened the window, put it outside on the ledge. I watched, smoking a cigarette. Finally, it shook itself and took off. You can't drown a fly.

I dragged deep on the smoke, playing it in my head. Burke, he wouldn't hurt a fly.

Just kill a kid once in a while.

I got dressed slowly. Last night had been a waste. Driving around, looking at not much of anything. The kid didn't seem scared anymore, but every time I mentioned leaving, the panic danced in his eyes. He was going to make a list for me, give me a place to start.

I'd seen his kind before— a herd animal, with no drive to be the bull of the pack.

There was a strange car in the driveway. A black Acura NSX, gleaming in the sun, standing like it had been there awhile— I hadn't heard it pull in. I opened the back door. A woman was in the kitchen, playing with the coffeemaker, her back to me. She was maybe thirty, thirty–five, hard to tell. Medium height, with short black hair cut in a blunt wedge, wearing a white tennis outfit. She didn't turn around, just glanced at me over one shoulder.

"Want some?"

"Some what?"

She made a little snorting noise. "Coffee. That's all I cook."

"No thanks," I told her, opening the refrigerator, tapping the plastic water bottle into a glass. I sat down at the kitchen table, sipping the water. She finished what she was doing, turned to face me, leaning against the counter.

"I'm Fancy," she said.

"You sure are.

"That's my name . I already know yours.

I looked a question over at her.

"Burke, right?"

"Yes."

"You're the caretaker, aren't you? Yes. You look like you could take care of things."

I didn't answer, watching her face. Her eyes were light gray, heavy with mascara and eyeliner, set wide apart with a slight Oriental fold at the corners. Her nose was small, too perfect to be factory–stock. Her chin was a tiny point, emphasized by the broad, square shape of her face. Her mouth was small, the lips almost too thick, slashed with a dark carmine that ran against the light bronze of her skin. A lamp, I figured— this one would know all about skin cancer.

"I was going to wake Randy up, get him to play some tennis with me. Work some of this off," she said, slapping a plump thigh hard enough to leave a welt, a sharp crack in the quiet morning.

"Seems a shame," I told her.

"Playing tennis?"

"Losing any of that."

She flashed a smile. "You like fat women?"

"I like curves."

"Ummm," she said, deep in her throat. "Your mother ever tell you you were cute?"

"No." As pure a truth as I'd ever tell a stranger.

She walked over to the table and sat down, holding her coffee mug in both hands. A diamond bracelet sparkled on her wrist. No rings on her fingers— the nails were long, carefully crafted, the same color as her lipstick. I took out a pack of cigarettes, raised my eyebrows.

"You have nice manners," she said.

"It's not my house."

She nodded, reaching over to push an ashtray in front of me. I fired up a smoke, took a drag. She took the cigarette from my hand, held it to her lips, sucked in so deeply that her breasts threatened the white pullover. When she exhaled, the smoke only came out one nostril. She put the cigarette in the ashtray, turned it toward me so I could see the lipstick smear on the filter.

"Your turn," she said.

I took another drag.

"How does it taste?"

"Hard to tell from such a little piece."

She made that sound in her throat again. Leaned forward. "Let's see if…" just as the kid stumbled through the door.

"Z'up?" he greeted us both.

"I thought we were going to play," the woman said.

"Maybe later," he mumbled, helping himself to coffee.

"Then I'll come back," she said, getting up. As she walked toward the door, I could see the harsh red mark where her hand had marked her thigh.

"She's a bit old for you, isn't she?" I asked the kid.

"Kind of young for you, though," he grinned back.

I tipped my water glass toward him in acknowledgment.

"She's really my mother's friend," he said.

"Kind of drops in when your mother's not around, keeps an eye on you…like that?"

"She keeps an eye on everything, the bitch."

"You don't like having her around?"

"Not really."

"So…"

"She's gonna do what she wants anyway."

"Okay. You got that list we talked about?"

"Not written down, exactly But I could tell you stuff about them if you want."

"Who cleans the house while your mother's gone?"

"Juanita. She comes in three days a week."

"Un huh. And who cooks?"

"I can always call take–out…there's a lot of different restaurants."

"You got a summer job?"

He gave me one of those "Are you crazy?" looks kids his age specialize in.

"So what you do is dress yourself, make a few phone calls, watch TV…"

"Get high…"the kid supplied.

"And wait for the summer to be over?"

"You got it."

"Make the list, kid. I'm not your fucking secretary, understand? You want this done, you got to do your piece."

"Okay, okay. It's no big deal. I just thought…if you wanted to get started right away, it'd be easier."

"Just make your list," I told him. "Do some work."

I went back over to the garage. The NSX was gone— deep ruts in the bluestone where it had peeled out. I dialed Mama's joint.

"Gardens," she answered.

"It's me."

"That woman call again. Two times."

Belinda. Nothing to do there. "Anything else?"

"No strangers."

"Okay. Tell the Prof it's quiet up here. Did Michelle call in with a new number yet?"

"No."

"Okay, take this one down I'll be here for a while."

"Good. Okay. Be careful."

"I am."

I sat there for a while, working it through. Nothing. The kid was a field mouse, that's all. Spooked by the headlights. His list would be useless— cold ground doesn't hold tracks.

The Prof was right about one thing— the whole town was lousy with money. I couldn't see an easy way into any of it. Sooner or later, the kid would need to go out, do something. If I could get him to go alone, I'd have time to look through the house.

I walked back into the bedroom. A stiff white card sat on the pillow, a few words in careful calligraphy on its face.

Call me.

After dark.

F.

There was a number in the lower right corner.

Back at the big house, the kid worked on his list. I watched TV. Every half hour or so the kid would come into the living room, bitching and whining about how it would be easier for him to concentrate in front of the TV— he always did his homework that way. I ignored him each time and he finally stopped.