Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

He made a couple of phone calls. I didn't pay attention. A knock at the back door. The kid got up, came back with a couple of meatball heros, handed me one. I got myself a glass of cold water, sat down to eat. The bread was doughy, with no real crust. The sauce was thin and weak. The meat tasted like aged basset hound. In the city, the only people who'd visit that restaurant would be holdup men.

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.