Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"Where they race around in a parking lot?"

"Well, sort of. A real one, it's like a slalom, only flat. They set up pylons for the course, and you run through it for time. If you hit a pylon, they add time to your score, see? It's tricky. Not like real racing. I mean, they only let one car at a time go through. But it's slick. All kinds of cars do it, 'Vettes, Ferraris, one guy even has a Lola he brings."

"What do you get if you win?"

"Trophies. I mean, it's not for money or anything. But it's real serious— the drivers really go at it."

"You ever do it?"

"Sure. In the Miata, once. It was…okay. I mean, all the kids go there just to hang out."

"Do they bet on the races?"

"Bet? Gee, I don't know. I mean, we don't. But maybe the older guys do…we don't mix with them much."

"Did any of the kids who killed themselves race there?"

"No. At least I don't think so. I mean, that's not why I asked about it. I was thinking… maybe…if you wouldn't mind…"

"What?"

"Could I run the Plymouth in one? There's one next Sunday. I never saw a big American sedan run one— it would be boss, you know?"

"Can you get hurt doing it?"

"Nah. You could spin out, that's the worst. They make you wear a helmet, that's all."

"You really want to do it?"

"Yeah! Big–time . It would be— "

"Okay."

"You mean it?"

"Sure."

"Great! We could drive over early, get in a couple of practice laps, then we could— "

"Hold up, kid. What's this 'we' stuff?"

"I just thought…seeing how it's your car and all, you'd want to…"

I watched his face, seeing how different it looked from when I first met him. Thinking about why kids kill themselves. "Good idea," I said. "Let's do it."

"Gardens," Mama answered the phone like always.

"It's me. You hear anything from Michelle?"

"Yes. She say, take Mole longer to read what you show him."

"Longer than what?"

"I don't know. You ask, okay?"

"Okay. Anything else going on?"

"Very quiet. You?"

"I'm not sure."

"Very pretty stones," Mama said. "Look careful."

I learned to sleep in chunks a long time ago. Grab it when you can. I know that REM is the true deep sleep, the only kind that restores you. That's where you dream. I don't remember most of my dreams— it's one of the few things in my life I'm grateful for.

It was after eleven when I came around. I took a shower, thought about shaving again, decided the hell with it. I listened to some music while I was getting dressed in the outfit Michelle bought for me. The broken blank eye of the television stared at me— I guess I really only watch it with Pansy— she loves it.

I held my pistol in my hand, turning it over like it would tell me something. I couldn't leave it in the Plymouth with the kid driving it around, and there was no good place in the Lexus to stash it either. Finally, I just wiped it down, wrapped it in a sheet of heavy plastic and put it inside the toilet tank. It wasn't a world–class stash, but even if someone turned it up, it wouldn't connect to me. The piece was ice–cold— came right off the assembly line at the factory, never went through a dealer's hands. The serial number would never have been registered. I got it from Jacques, Clarence's old boss. Specialty of the house, guaranteed not to alert any law enforcement computer. If they found it, they'd have a hell of a time proving it didn't belong to whoever stayed here before me.

Fancy's house was in the same neighborhood as Cherry's, that's what she said, anyway. The same neighborhood turned out to be about five miles away— people measure differently out here. I found it easy enough: a big modernistic spread, all redwood and glass in front. It was midnight plus two when I pulled into the long drive. I angled the Lexus toward a long, wide building that looked like a six–car garage…where she'd told me to park. The doors were closed. I opened the car door and stepped out, getting my bearings.

"You're late," a voice said from the darkness. Fancy. In a pale blue T–shirt that draped to mid–thigh, standing barefoot a few feet away. She stepped forward, no real expression on her face.

"Come with me," she said, turning to walk away.

I followed her along a slate path around the back of the garage, past an Olympic–size swimming pool glowing a muted gold from underwater lights. The big house was to our left, but Fancy moved in the opposite direction, past a low structure that looked to be all glass.

"Is that a greenhouse?" I asked her.

"No, that's the pool house. Where people change into their bathing suits before they swim."

"It looks too big for just that."

She made a face over her shoulder, kept walking. One more turn and we were facing three little houses standing in a triangle maybe a hundred feet along each line. Two were dark; one had a soft orange light glowing next to the door. As we walked closer, I could see it was some kind of Japanese paper lantern over a bulb.

Fancy opened that door, stepped inside. "Over there," she said, pointing to a long white leather couch.

I sat down. Fancy went to the far corner of the room, did something with her hand, and a small cone of light hit the dark carpet. I could see it was a long black floor lamp with a gooseneck top bent toward the floor. Fancy stood watching the light for a second, hands on hips. Satisfied, she turned and came over to the couch. She sat, then curled her legs under her, turning so she was facing me.

"Could we start over?" she asked.

"Why?"

"You liked me when you first saw me. You did, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"How come?"

"I liked your look."

"My face? My body? What?"

"Not your looks. Your look . Understand?"

"No. Tell me. Please tell me," she hastily amended, like she'd made a fatal slip.

"You looked like a…merry girl. Bouncy. Sweet. A true–hearted girl."

"And I…showed you how I play. So you don't like me anymore?"

"I don't care how you play. I just don't have people playing with me."

"Are you scared?"

"Of what?"

"That you'd like it."

"I like a lot of things— the only things that scare me are the ones I need."

"And you don't need much?"

"I've had a lot of practice."

"Because you were poor?"

"I was born broke," I told her. That's the best way to lie to strangers— tell them the true truth.

She got up, walked over to a big–screen TV facing the couch. She bent over at the waist, cued a VCR, ran her finger down a stack of cassettes. When she found the one she wanted, she shoved it into the slot. Then she plucked a remote from the top of the TV set, came back over to the couch holding it in her hand.

"You want a cigarette?" she asked.

"Sure," I said, waiting.

"I don't have any," she said. "I just meant it was okay to smoke here. That's an ashtray," pointing to a flat silver dish on the top of a black lacquered coffee table.

I took the pack from my jacket pocket, shook one out, put it in my mouth. I opened the little box of wooden matches, the one with the name of the nightclub in Chicago I'd never been to. I leave them places, throw trackers off the scent. She put her hand on mine, said "Let me do it." I handed her the matches. She pulled the cigarette from my mouth, put it between her lips, struck the match. When she got it going, she handed it to me.

"Thanks."

"You didn't say anything about the taste this time," she said, soft–voiced. "I really liked it when you did that. Flirting. It's sweet fun. People don't do it much anymore. What you said…that was a line, right?"

"No. I never said that before in my life. It just happened."

"I bet."

" Don't bet. You haven't learned to tell the truth when you hear it by now, all you'll ever be able to do is play— you'll never be for real."