Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

She worked him over with the riding crop. It went on for a while. Then she stopped, stood hands on hips, saying something to him.

The man turned his head. Fancy hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties, slipped them down over her legs. She walked to the side of the bed, slapped the man's upturned face, bunched up the panties and stuck them in his mouth.

Then she went back to work.

The man finished lying on his belly, his back all lacerated, hips jerking in harsh spasms. The camera zoomed in and out erratically, sometimes focusing on a place where nothing was happening. When Fancy finally unhooked him, he rolled off the bed, the gleaming evidence of his orgasm displayed in the classic Times Square tradition— freaks hate it when you fake it.

The last shot was of the man sitting on the bed, looking into the camera with a dazed look on his sweaty face.

"There's more?" Michelle asked.

"A lot more," I told her.

"Audio too?"

"Yeah."

"This is some sophisticated operation, baby. That's a fixed camera with a remote— a setup like that, you could run it without an operator, so long as the action lasts long enough."

"I know. I met the woman."

"She want you to play too?"

"Yeah."

"It figures. This is the latest thing," Michelle said. "Super–safe sex. No penetration. In fact, no skin–on–skin, you get right down to it. You find a girl who works pro doing this, she probably likes it herself. Most of them, they just found a way to make it pay."

"That's what we need too…a way to make it pay," I told her. The Prof nodded agreement. Clarence watched us. The Mole was busy doing something at his workbench— he hadn't even watched the tape.

I packed everything up, walked topside with the Prof and Clarence, leaving Michelle downstairs. Terry wasn't around.

"What do you think?" I asked the man who taught me so much when I was a kid.

"I think they make a date, play it straight. Even a sap will turn off the tap, you push too hard. You can't keep going back to the well."

"You think they turn over the whole deal, no copies?"

"For that kind of cash? Sure. They must have a real solid rep."

"Like people know they pull this stuff?"

"Remember a few years ago…when that maniac was carving up gays down by the pier?"

"Sure," I told him. A serial killer, heavy into mutilation, stalking the sex–for–sale streets down by the river. The body count was getting up there, the headlines were screaming, and the homosexual community was in panic. A couple of them came to me, said there was good money in it if I could come up with the killer. They didn't have much faith in the cops.

"Remember that guy Robbie?" the Prof asked. "Remember how he ran it down."

I lit a smoke, bringing it back. Robbie owned a small art shop in the area— he was one of the first guys I spoke to when I started the job.

"Nobody's cruising anymore, right?" I'd asked him.

"Oh please !" he snorted. "That's not going to change. A maniac might scare the hustlers, but not those looking for love. Besides, you know someone like that's out there, it adds a little jolt, understand?"

"You think people into that let's–meet–and–beat stuff know somebody's playing with cameras, Prof?"

"Could be, schoolboy. Long as nobody actually got burned, it'd probably just be a turn–on for them. They know they got to pay for their play anyway, what's the difference?"

"It's a sweet racket. They get paid at both ends."

"Listen, homeboy, whatever that kid's mother is, she ain't stupid. We need some proof, and we need some truth."

"I'm going back there tonight. I'll replace all the stuff."

The Prof stepped close, put his hand on my shoulder. "Burke, listen good— if you got the right climate, the weather don't matter, see?"

"No. What's it mean?"

"Take a look, but be ready to book. If you can't walk light, stay outta sight."

"Look, Prof…."

"I mean it, bro. I'm not liking a damn bit of this."

It was around midnight when I pulled into the garage. The red Miata still wasn't there. I couldn't tell if the kid had come and gone, or hadn't come back at all.

The apartment over the garage looked the way I left it.

I walked back over to the main house. It was empty. The hair I'd plucked from my head and anchored with a tiny dot of spit was still in place across the marble seam of the safe. I put everything back.

I had just walked into the apartment over the garage when the phone rang. I picked it up, said "What?" and waited.

I heard some breathing, then the line went dead. I closed my eyes, drifted off.

Later that night, I heard a car pull in. My watch said 3:15. I heard a door slam, walked over to the glass panel in the door. The kid was moving across the lawn, not too steady.

I gave him five minutes, then I went across. The back door was standing open. The kid was sitting at the kitchen table with the lights off, staring at the far wall.

"You okay?" I asked him.

"I called," he said. "I kept calling. You weren't here. I didn't want to come back until I knew."

"That was you on the phone before?"

The kid nodded. "I was going to go up to your place, but I didn't want to wake you up."

"What's going on?"

"Diandra's dead. It happened…I guess a couple of days ago. We just found out."

"Who's Diandra?"

"Diandra Blankenship. She jumped. Off the Old Mill Bridge. Onto the rocks."

"How do you know?"

"They were all talking about it. At the party. We were going to do a couple of tanks, just chill, listen to some tunes. But nobody could really get into it."

"You knew her?"

"Yeah. A little. She was a year behind me in school."

"Didn't the cops come around?"

"Not to the party. They talked to some of the kids. Myron said Brew said they talked to him. She didn't leave a note or anything."

"Get some sleep," I told him.

"Are you going to…"

"I'm going to be right here. Downstairs on the couch. All right?"

He nodded, getting to his feet, moving like he was carrying too much weight.

I didn't know enough. That's where the real risk is— that's why the hardest currency in the world is information. I knew people who had killed themselves— suicide isn't a rare thing in jail. I knew some who did it on the installment plan too— there's hustlers who turn street tricks, use the money to buy dope to make themselves forget. I remember asking one about it once. I was looking for a runaway— he was looking for some cash, so we made a deal.

"Spell 'needle,'" he told me, like it was a secret code.

I played it straight. "N–e–e–d— "

"Stop right there," he said, looking through my face.

I got it then.

But it didn't add up. Rich kids get bored enough, they might do damn near anything, but you don't snuff yourself because there's nothing else to do that day.

And there were too many of them doing it.

Maybe an hour passed. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, watched the occasional car flit past the front window. I took the pencil flash, found my way upstairs. The kid was asleep, face down on his own bed, still dressed.

A light rain started to fall. I lay on my back on the living room couch listening to it tap against the windows.

A burring noise, soft, like an expensive phone. I picked up the nearest receiver…dial tone. The sound kept repeating, so faint it barely registered. I got up, closed my eyes so my ears would work better. Maybe it was some fancy alarm clock. The wall phone in the kitchen had two lines. I switched between them…dial tones on both. The sound kept coming. I stood dead–still, trying to sonar it out. A narrow closet was built into the archway between the kitchen and the living room…there! I opened the door— the sound was louder. I went through the stuff in the closet and found it. In the side pocket of a black leather coat— a cellular phone, as thin as a paperback book. I pulled up the antenna, flipped it open.