Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"Diandra was doing fine just before she— "

"Yeah! She was , goddamn it."

"I'm not doubting you, sir. I know she didn't leave a note…?" making it a question.

"No," he said, watching me now.

"But maybe she… I don't know, kept a diary or something. The way girls do. Have you…?

"I tore this place apart," Blankenship said. "The police opened her locker at school too. There was nothing. Even when she was…messed up before, she wasn't suicidal."

"I understand," I told him soothingly. "But sometimes, when a loved one searches, they let certain…emotions get in the way. Do you think I could…?"

His face came up again, a different focus in his eyes. "Who did you say retained you again?"

"Mrs. Cambridge, sir."

"Right. You wouldn't mind if I called her myself, just to be sure?"

"No sir."

He got up, walked over to a small table near the TV, picked up the phone. "What's the number?" he asked.

"Sir, I don't mean to sound like a wiseguy or anything, but anybody could give you a phone number, have somebody standing by in a pay phone, you understand? Perhaps you'd feel better if you checked the number in the local phone book?"

His eyes were even more sharply focused, watching me without a flicker. "What'd you say your name was?"

"It's Burke," I told him.

He punched some buttons, got information, asked for the Cambridge residence phone. Hung up, dialed again.

"Could I speak to Mrs. Cambridge, please?"

…

"I see. When will she be back?"

…

"Okay, well, maybe you can help me, Randy. Do you know anything about your mother hiring a private investigator? Name of Burke?"

…

"Thank you. That's very helpful. Yes. Thank you, we're doing the best we can under the circumstances. And please tell your mother. tell her thanks for what she's doing, all right? Goodbye."

He hung up the phone. Walked back to his brown chair, lit another smoke.

"You ever do any soldiering, Mr. Burke?"

I rapid–processed the various stories I could tell, but none of them fit just right. Something about the way the man looked at me said he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"Not for the U.S.," I said.

He raised an eyebrow as a question, waited for my answer.

"It was a long time ago," I told him. "In Africa."

"The Congo?"

"No. Biafra."

"You were a mercenary?"

"A freedom fighter," I told him, not even a hint of a smile on my face.

He dragged deep on his cigarette. "You have rank over there?" he asked.

"No sir."

"Get paid good?"

"Not like the pilots did."

"Yeah. I could tell. I can always tell a man that's been a working solider."

"How can you do that?"

"You relax inside the fire. It goes around you, and you know there's not a whole hell of a lot you can do about it. You know your real job is getting out alive. There's no rules."

"You did that?"

"In the Nam. Surprised?"

"No," I told him truthfully. "Infantry?"

"That's right," he said, nodding his head. "A ground grunt. I was just a green kid, but I saw a lot of working pros. Especially when we went over the border. I've seen the look before."

"You can see it in prison too," I said, not even thinking about why I was breaking the rules…telling a source the truth.

"You've been there?"

"Yes."

"And now you work as a private eye?"

"Yes sir."

He took a deep breath, hands clasped in his lap. "Her room's in the back. Look around all you want. You can't miss it— there's a big teddy bear on the bed."

I went over the room with a microscope. No diary, no address book…maybe the cops had them. I checked inside Diandra's clock radio, slit open a tube of toothpaste, opened every book, even checked the teddy bear for seams.

When I came back out, he was still sitting there. "I didn't find anything," I told him.

"I know. But this isn't the only place you're going to look, is it?"

"No sir."

"If you find anything, you'll tell me?"

"I will."

He got to his feet, moving slowly like there was a piece of broken glass inside his gut. His handshake was way too powerful for his slender frame, pulling me close. "You think something happened to her, don't you?" he whispered.

"I don't know."

"I still know how to do things," he said in the same whispery tone. "You find out anything, I'll be here."

In the Lexus, I raised the kid on the car phone.

"Hello," he said.

"It's me. I'm on my way back."

"He called. Did I…"

"Not on this phone," I told him.

As I turned into the bluestone drive, I spotted the kid. He had a green garden hose in one hand, a big clump of sponge in the other. The Plymouth was shining in the afternoon sun, as close to its original dull gray color as it ever got. I parked the Lexus, got out and walked over to him.

"What's going on?" I asked, pointing at the Plymouth.

"I just thought I'd clean her up a bit. Man! When was the last time you washed her?"

"I generally don't wash it. The idea is to blend in, not call attention to yourself. This is a working car, kid, not a showpiece."

"Oh. Hey, I'm sorry. I was just trying to…I don't know."

"I know. You were trying to show respect, right?"

His chin came up, a bit of strength edged into his voice. "That's right, I was."

"Good," I told him. "Doesn't matter around here anyway… no way this beast is gonna blend in."

"I know. It's…cool. I mean, she doesn't look like much of anything, but…"

"There's people like that too," I said. "You don't know what's under the hood until you hit the gas, right?"

He nodded, not sure who I was talking about— never thinking it could be him. "That guy called," he said. "Like I told you."

"Blankenship? Yeah, I was in the room when he did."

"I told him my mother had hired you, before she went to Europe. I said she'd be back soon— she hired you because she was concerned that maybe the police weren't doing everything they could."

"You did good," I told him. "But, listen, remember when I told you not to talk on the cellular phone?"

"I was on the regular line."

"But I wasn't. Anyone can listen in to those calls. Some geeks do it with scanners— they got nothing else to do with their lives, so they stick their nose into other people's. Used to be CB's they listened to, now it's these cellular phones. So when we use them, we keep it short, right? No names, no information. Got it?"

He nodded gravely.

"I'm going upstairs to change. And I'm going to work again tonight. When I come down, we'll get some dinner, okay?"

"Okay. Uh, Burke…?"

"What?"

"What kind of oil do you run in her?"

"The synthetic stuff— you don't have to change it so often."

"Yeah. Is that a dry sump underneath?"

"That's right," I said, looking at him in surprise.

"I read about them all the time, cars," he said, a grin on his flushed face. "I wished they had auto mechanics in school, but they don't. But I sent away for books. I do all the work on the Miata myself. I thought maybe I'd change the oil and filters, put in some new plugs

"It's running fine, Randy."

"I know, but…"

"What the hell," I told him. "It could always run better."

He took off like a kid with a puppy.

"What is this stuff?" I asked him, spearing a bite–size chunk of white meat off my plate.

"It's coq au vin. Like chicken with sauce on it. There's a French restaurant in town. They deliver too. I thought maybe you'd rather have something like a real meal."

"It's good," I said. "That was thoughtful of you."

The kid ducked his head again. We ate in silence for a bit, part of my brain still working over what Blankenship had told me.

"You know what a gymkhana is?" the kid asked.