Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"I never drove one."

"Me neither— they don't have those kind of races around here. But I've seen them on ESPN."

"You like that kind of racing too?"

"

Any

kind," the kid said.

He had the Plymouth wailing by then, flitting over the surface of the blacktop. We might as well have been in the West Virginia mountains with a trunk full of white lightning. I reached into the glove compartment, popped a cassette into the slot, turned it on. "Dark Angel" throbbed through the speakers, darker than the night outside, with more hormones than the monster engine.

"Jesus!" the kid yelled. "What's that?"

"

That's

Judy Henske, kid."

He gunned the Plymouth around a long sweeper leading back to the highway, a huge grin plastered across his face, Henske's sex–barbed blues driving right along with him.

"I gotta try some of that Chinese food," he said.

T

he kid parked the Plymouth expertly. It's a gift, driving like that— he already handled the big car better than I did.

"You want me to— ?"

"No, that's okay," he said. "I'll be all right over there. I'll just leave the intercom open, okay?"

"Sure."

Upstairs, I called Mama's. She told me it was all quiet, nothing happening.

"You want Max?" she asked.

"No. Not now, anyway."

"Okay."

I lay back on the couch, closed my eyes. I'd told the kid about the car but not where it came from. A young man gave his life for that car, a long time ago. Spent every minute of his time, every dollar he could lay his hands on— it was his dream. He hired me to find out if his wife was stepping out— he knew something was wrong between them, just didn't know what it was. It was an easy job— the wife copped to it right away. She was stepping out all right. With another woman. Told me all her husband cared about was that damn car— she needed dreams of her own.

I didn't tell the guy the truth. He was a young guy, maybe a year or two older than Randy. I figured he might do something stupid.

It was me who did something stupid. His wife told him the truth, even told him she'd told me. He got hot about it. Told me he wasn't going to pay me for my work. I walked away.

Next time I saw him, he was in the Tombs. Killed his wife. He didn't want to hire me— he just didn't want his bloodsucking lawyer to get his car. Told me he understood why I did it— because I thought it was the right thing. That's why he did what he did, too.

But he knew it wasn't.

I told him he could do the time. It'd probably get busted down to manslaughter— it wouldn't be so bad. He didn't want to hear it. He signed the Plymouth over to me, said goodbye. They had a suicide watch on him, but it didn't do any good. He went into the Zero.

That bridge where the girl had gone over…I could feel the pull.

W

hen I came downstairs the next morning, I saw the kid sitting on the back step to the big house.

"Want some breakfast?" he asked. Looked like he'd been up for a while— his eyes were fresh and bright, hair combed.

"Sure," I told him. "You gonna cook it?"

He gave me a funny look. Opened the door and stepped inside. He showed me a few different kinds of cold cereal. "They delivered milk," he said. "And I could make toast. There's orange juice too, okay?"

"Great."

"What are we gonna do today?"

"I think I need to talk to some parents. Of the kids who died. I got the addresses, figured I'd start around ten."

"It's only eight now."

"So?"

"So…I was wondering…do you think I could take a look at the car? In daylight?"

"Let me just finish this first," I told him, nodding at my breakfast. "Take your time," the kid said, bouncing with impatience.

I

opened the garage doors. The kid backed the Plymouth out onto bluestone. Then he made a slow circle of the car, as respectfully as a child approaching an unknown dog he'd like to pat. He crouched low to the ground next to the rear tires, running his hands over the tread. He got up, went into the garage. came back with a canvas tarp. He laid that on the ground, slid himself under the car. I smoked through two cigarettes by the time he came up for air.

"I wish we had a lift," he said. "I asked my mother about it— we got plenty of room. But she said she didn't want a mess.

"Couldn't you rent one someplace else?"

"Yeah!" he said, as if the idea had never occurred to him before. "Could we open the hood?"

"It doesn't open," I told him, sliding behind the wheel. I threw the switch from under the dash, opened the hinges on each side of the car, and swiveled the whole front end forward, exposing everything from radiator to firewall.

"Oh man!" the kid said. "I knew a guy who had a setup like this. With an old Spitfire. But I never saw it on a big car."

"I gotta make some phone calls," I told him, starting for the steps.

He didn't answer, lost in the engine bay, muttering something to himself.

I

slid a cassette into the stereo, adjusted the volume down low, let the music flow over me as I did a final run–through, trying to match the addresses I had with the street map I'd bought in the city— I didn't want to have to bring the kid with me when I went calling on the dead girl's parents, but I didn't want to drive around their neighborhood and call attention to myself either.

Seven kids by now.

I needed a cover story too. I'd have to ask the kid if his mother's name was known around there.

The door opened. Fancy. In her white tennis outfit. She walked over to the couch, sat down, crossing her legs, displaying a round thigh all the way up to her hip.

"I see you have Randy working," she said. "I asked him if he wanted to play, but he said he was doing something with you."

"Maybe some other time," I told her.

"He used to be such a nice boy."

"You mean he used to do what you told him?"

"Yes. That makes a nice boy. A nice man too."

"You already figured out that I don't qualify, right? So what can I do for you?"

"You didn't…" she started to say, just as Randy walked in.

"Burke, where's the battery? I could see the lines, but they just go back. Is it under the back seat?"

"In the trunk," I told him. "Next to the fuel cell."

"You got one of those too? Listen, I got this dynamite idea, okay? Now don't say no before I— "

"We were

talking

," Fancy told him, throwing a hard look his way.

"

You

were talking," I told her.

The kid chuckled. Two bright red dots popped out on her cheeks, dark under the tan. "Yes, master," she purred, her voice thick with sarcasm.

I lit a smoke. The kid shifted his feet awkwardly.

"What's that song?" Fancy asked, cocking her head toward the stereo.

"Judy Henske, right?" the kid piped up. He was on the money. Her fire–throated version of Champion Jack Dupree's ground–zero blues, "My Real Combination for Love." I held up an open palm. The kid slapped it in acknowledgment, a delighted grin on his face.

"You're quite the expert," Fancy said.

The kid ignored her. "Burke, what I was gonna ask you— "

I shook my head. He got it, dropped whatever he wanted. Fancy got it too. "I need to talk to your 'caretaker' for a minute, Randy. How about if you go back downstairs, play with your cars?"

I nodded an okay at the kid. He took off without another word.

"What?" I asked her. "I don't play tennis."

"You don't play much of anything, do you?"

"No."

She stood up quickly. "I could

help

you," she said softly, turning her back to me, leaning her elbows on the top of the couch. "You don't want some of this," she purred, flipping up the short white skirt to flash a pair of red panties. "You'll want some of that." She turned around, facing me, hands on hips. "I know this place. Randy doesn't. You have questions, a man like you. Come over tonight. To my place. And I'll answer them."