Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"Yeah. 'Tell him to call me,' that's what she said."

I didn't say anything. I made the turn onto the road for the house, shoved in the dashboard lighter, fitted a cigarette in my mouth.

"She's a bossy bitch, isn't she?" the kid said.

"Not mine," I told him.

Not my bitch— not my boss either.

I

spread out my notes on the kitchen table, working with what I had. The kid watched me for a few minutes. I expected him to get restless–bored the way they do, but he hung in, quiet.

"You want me to do something?" he finally asked.

"We're looking for a pattern," I told him.

"A pattern?"

"Yeah, stuff all these had in common, you understand?"

"Sure. Like on TV, when they're trying to catch a killer."

"I don't know if we got a killer here, kid. But one thing's for sure— we got enough bodies."

He got to his feet, rubbing his head with both hands. "You want some food?" he asked.

"Sure. Whatever you're having."

He went into the living room to use the phone. I kept my head down, concentrating.

The back doorbell startled me. Randy opened it up, signed something the deliveryman gave him. He opened a couple of paper bags, started assembling stuff on plates.

"I figured you might like Chinese," he said. "I mean…that restaurant in the city and all."

"Sure," I told him. "You didn't give the guy any money. How come?"

"My mother has an account with them. With a few others too. It makes it easier. She says I really won't need cash while she's gone."

"Un huh."

The food was hot. And limp. The soup was thin. The rice clumped, the vegetables sagged. The pork was undercooked. "You like this?" I asked him.

"Yeah, it's great. They don't use any MSG either."

"You need to try some of Mama's cooking someday," I told him.

"What's the difference?"

"Same as between Debbie Gibson and Judy Henske."

"Which is the Debbie Gibson?"

"This stuff."

"Oh." He took a deep mouthful of the food, chewed it experimentally. "So who's Judy Henske?" he asked.

I

t was getting dark by the time I was done playing with the charts I had made.

"You going anyplace tonight?" I asked him.

"Not really. I was just gonna…hang out, you know?"

"Yeah. Okay, I'll see you in the morning."

"Are you gonna do something?"

"Yeah. Take a look around."

"Can I…"

"I'll be back before you," I told him. "And I'll sleep here again tonight, you want me to."

"No, I didn't mean that. I just meant…maybe you want me to come along."

"I'll meet you in the garage at ten," I told him. "Wear some dark clothes."

H

e was there on the dot. Dressed in black pants, black hightops and a black satin Raiders jacket with silver sleeves.

"You have any fluorescent paint around?" I asked him.

"I don't think so. Why?"

"I was worried maybe that outfit wouldn't stand out enough," I told him, pointing at the jacket sleeves.

He nodded his head, turned around and went back to the house. If he was sulking, I couldn't see it. Good. He was back in a minute, this time wearing a heavy black sweatshirt with a hood.

"It was all I could find. Okay?" he asked.

"Perfect," I said.

He started for the Lexus. I held up my hand. "We'll take this one, I told him, pointing toward my Plymouth.

He gave me a dubious look, but climbed in without another word. I turned the engine over. The kid gave me a look. "That doesn't sound stock."

I pulled out of the garage, turned onto the main road. "You know where the bridge is? The one that girl jumped off of?"

"Sure. Take the next left."

The Plymouth tracked flat around the curve, its independent rear suspension communicating to the wide tires. I fed it some throttle coming out of the turn, swooped past a white Cadillac and slipped back into the right lane.

"All right!" the kid said, so softly it was almost to himself.

I gave him a sideways glance. "You like cars?"

"I

love

them. For my eighteenth birthday, Mom let me go to racing school. It was great. They had Formula Fords and everything. That's why I got the Miata— that was one of the cars they used in the school."

"You want to race?"

"Oh yeah! More than anything."

"You gonna do it?"

"Well, not

professionally

. I mean…my mother says I could race on weekends, maybe. Like a hobby. Some of the guys here do it. Like rallyes and gymkhanas and stuff. But that's not real racing."

"You any good?"

"I…think so. It

feels

good, you know? I can't really explain it."

"Am I going the right way?"

"Yeah. You turn at the crossing…I'll show you where it is."

I followed the kid's directions, slowing down when we got close. The bridge was really a concrete overpass between two pieces of rock. It looked like the gap had been hacked out a hundred years ago. No water underneath. No road either, just dark stone. We parked the Plymouth, got out and walked over.

The barrier was stone too. It looked old, weathered, with big pieces chipped away. The railing had a bubble in it, where you could stand and look down— maybe it was scenic in the daytime. The railing was waist–high— you couldn't just fall over, it would take a real commitment.

A car swept by behind us. Not even eleven at night and it was pretty deserted. The paper said the girl went over sometime after two in the morning.

I took out my pencil flash, flicked it over the stone barrier. Nothing. The top of the barrier was flat. It was so clean it looked scrubbed. No graffiti, no chiseled hearts. I bellied up to it, looked down.

Into the Zero.

"Y

ou okay?" It was the kid's voice.

I turned around. "Sure. Why?"

"You were…standing there so long. I thought you were…"

"What? Gonna jump?"

"No! I didn't mean that."

"I'm okay. I was just trying to feel it."

"Feel it?"

"What she felt."

The kid nodded like he understood. But his hands were shaking. I lit a cigarette. Smoked it through. Snapped the red tip into the Zero.

"You want to drive?" I asked him.

H

e started tentatively, getting the feel of the controls— the way you're supposed to. He gave it too much gas coming out and the Plymouth got sideways on the dirt. The kid didn't panic, just turned the wheel in the direction of the skid and powered right out.

"Wow! This bad boy's got some juice!"

"All right, don't get us arrested now."

"I'm okay," the kid said, leaning into a curve. "Where do we go now?"

"We're done for tonight," I told him. "Just head on back."

The Plymouth reached the main road. The kid gave it the gun, the torque jamming him back against the seat. He adjusted his posture, a grin slashing across his face.

"Okay if I take the long way?" he asked.

I nodded. The kid pulled off the highway, found a twisting piece of two–lane blacktop. He kicked on the high beams, drew a breath when he saw they were hot enough to remove paint.

"Can you downshift it?" he asked.

"Stomp the pedal and it drops down. Or you can flick the lever one stop to the right. But watch it, the rear end gets loose easy.

"This is great! How'd you get a car like this?"

"It was supposed to be the prototype for a super–taxi," I told him. "Got an over–cored radiator, oil and tranny coolers, steel–braided lines. It won't overheat even if it sits in traffic for an hour. It weighs almost five thousand pounds— the bumpers will stop a rhino."

"Yeah, but underneath…I mean, the way it grips and all."

"There's no beam axle back there, Randy. It's an IRS, understand?"

"Sure. And big tires. But that wouldn't make it grab the way it does. I'll bet this is what a NASCAR stocker feels like."