Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"I'm sorry," she said, dropping her eyes. "Did you mean the other stuff, what you said before? About me looking like a merry girl?"

"Yes."

She shifted her body so she was facing the TV set. "I don't just play— I work too," she said. "Watch."

She hit the remote. Chamber music came from the speakers. The screen background was a neon blue. Black letters popped up: A LESSON FOR MELISSA. Credits rolled over the music. CANE PRODUCTIONS, trick lettering— the "P" in "PRODUCTIONS" formed a stylized cane. Some other stuff. The camera dissolved to…Fancy. In a high–necked, long–sleeved, dark velvet dress with a gathering of white lace at the throat, tight bodice, full skirt. She was seated on a flat bench, both hands in her lap. "Get in here, young lady!" her voice cracked out from the speakers.

"Yes, mistress," said the woman walking on screen. A young woman, medium–height and slender, with long straight hair. She was wearing a schoolgirl outfit— dark plaid jumper over a white blouse, long white socks almost to her knees, flat–heeled shoes with Mary Jane straps.

"It's a standard script," Fancy said, pushing a button on the remote. MUTE appeared in yellow letters at the bottom of the screen.

There was some exchange of conversation between the two women, then the slender girl lay across Fancy's lap. Fancy pulled up the other girl's skirt and spanked her for a long time, occasionally stopping to say something. The camera shifted, zooming in from screen left to display the other woman's underpants. Back to a close–up of the woman's face, contorted in mock pain. Pulling away to a long shot: Fancy pulling down the other woman's panties, now smacking her with a hairbrush. The cameras danced around the show— at least three of them, an expensive setup.

The scene seemed to go on and on, with the slender woman turning her head once in a while to say something. The camera lensed lovingly over her bottom, now a bright red. Finally, in response to something Fancy said, the woman slid off Fancy's lap, Fancy hooking a thumb into the panties so they slid off the other girl's legs as she stood up. Fancy pointed screen right. The other girl walked off. The closing shot was of the other girl, standing in a corner, her face to the wall.

There were no actors' credits at the end. Just the Cane Productions sign and a P.O. box in Atlanta where you could order a catalog.

Fancy hit the remote and the screen went dark.

"That's me," she said.

I lit another smoke, waiting for the punch line. Fancy got up, rewound the cassette, popped it out of the VCR and put it back into a plain case. The case went into an open spot on the bookshelf. She came back over to the couch, sat down again.

"What do you know about me now?" she asked.

"I know you're a pro domina," I said. And a blackmailer— where were the cameras hidden in the little house?

"That's right. You think it's so bad?"

"Bad how?"

"Bad like…sick, okay?"

"It's a fetish," I told her. "There's lots of them. They're bad if they hurt you inside— if you hate yourself every time you do it. Or if they get in the way of what you have to do. Or if you use force to make someone do it with you. Otherwise, what's the difference? Some people get pumped up by high–heeled shoes, some like to dress up like cowboys. If you have to pay for it, it just costs more, that's all."

What a risk to be so needy. If you have a special way you need to play, how do you meet others like you? Coded ads in the personals columns? Advertise in the freak sheets? How could you ever trust them with your secrets?

"You know about it?"

"Not a lot."

"It's a great business. Completely legal too. It's not just the videos— we have still photos, audiotapes, even custom stories."

"Stories?"

"Yes, a customer can set up a scenario, and we have people who will write them a special story. Just for them. Even put their name in it if they want. It's all on computer, in different fields. We can give the customer any setting he wants: schoolmaster, girls' dorm, sorority house, husband–wife, daddy–daughter…anything. And we have standard ones too, not custom. Like pamphlets."

"What does it cost?"

"It varies. The videos are forty–five dollars, the pamphlets are five. The custom stuff costs the most."

"Yeah. Always does. Special costs more than straight on the street too."

"I'm not a whore," she snapped. "And I'm not a degenerate. I don't slam dope, I don't booze, and I didn't get this shape from snarfing sweets. Don't you dare look down at me.

"I'm not, I— "

"Just listen," she interrupted. "I'm an actress. A role–player. I'm like a therapist too, for some of them. It relieves tension…like a massage. The girl–on–girl stuff is the most popular. Everybody in the scene says I'm a star."

"Whatever you say."

There's plenty of honest whores — whores who don't take your picture with hidden cameras.

"It's true. It's a business. A good business."

"Most of your customers are men?"xW

"For the live scenes, sure. But we get women too. Couples, even. And we have plenty of women buyers for the videos. Some mostly buy…kid stuff."

I turned my head so I was looking deep into her eyes. She held my stare for a minute, then she nipped at the palm of her hand, just below the thumb, and cast her eyes down. "Audio and custom," she said. "That's mostly what they want. There's a woman in Iowa, she advertises in all the magazines. You want to see?"

I didn't react. Why would I want to see? This was coming too quick, secrets piled on secrets. When that happens, there's always a trade lurking close.

She got to her feet, walked out of the room. She was back in a minute, holding a slick–paper magazine with a black and white photo of a woman bending over on the cover— there was another person in the photo, but all you could see was the paddle in their hand. I stood up, joined her under the light. She thumbed through rapidly, looking for the ad. It was marked with a red ink star, hand–drawn. I held it close to read the small type:

Proverbs 13:24(!)

Next time your kid has a good one coming, make a full–size cassette of the chastisement and send it to me. I pay $50 for fifteen minutes, more for longer. Good sound quality a must. I travel frequently, with my own equipment. Write to make arrangements.

Only a P.O. box was listed, no name. A new kind of kiddie porn, legal too— I'd never heard of it before. Freaks carefully recording their own children getting whipped. To entertain other maggots. For money. I felt ice–picks of fire in my chest.

"Why did you show me this?" I asked her, my voice flat and level.

"Cherry told me. A long time ago. She said that's what you do."

" That ?"

"No. She said you…hunt people like that. She knew you a long time ago, that's what she said. And she ran across you a few times. Not in person. Your name, what you do. She said she had your number, but I was always afraid to call. When you walked in the kitchen, I knew it was you. Even before you said your name. I thought you'd be…bigger."

"Why?"

"Cherry always said if Randy got in trouble, she'd call you," she finished, ignoring my question.

"You think Randy's in trouble?"

"I think he thinks he is. He's a cowardly little kid, always scared of something. All those suicides, I know they made him afraid— he told me once.

"So what's this whole show about? Where do you think I fit in?"

She turned away from me, walked back over to the couch. "I hate them," she whispered, almost choking on the words.

"Who?"

"People who hurt kids. Especially their own kids. I know all about this stuff. Spanking. I'm an expert on it. It's not for discipline, it's for sex. Some people get turned on by it, some people get off on it. A good submissive, she can come just from getting spanked. There's men like that too. They whip their kids for fun. Their own fun. And it hurts the children. Because they know . They know why they're getting it. It's a sex game. And it stays with them. I know a woman, she's over thirty and her father still spanks her. What's that for?"