Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"You know what it's for."

"That's right, I do. And I hate them. I thought if you knew about it .

"You want to hire me? Is that it?"

"Hire you? You mean, you do it for money?"

"I do some things for money."

"I thought…I mean, Cherry said…you did that. She told me. About that mercenary who raped kids. He wanted to go to South Africa. And you…made him disappear."

A thin, cold fluid ran up my spine right into my brain, freezing my face into show–nothing survival.

Cherry had my number. Had it all this time.

Cherry. South Africa. Diamonds. Sure. She wasn't getting rich with hanky–spanky blackmail, that wasn't her game. But how much would a man pay for a tape of him confessing to homicide?

I could feel the tape recorders. Voice–activated, reel–to–reel with overlapping backup, microphones planted all around. Felt the fever–spike of fear whip through me and land in my gut, screaming Stay safe! I turned to Fancy and chuckled. "Yeah, sure. That's me all right. Burke, the masked avenger."

"But…"

"Hey, give me a break," I said, laughing harder now. "I'm not saying I never did anything wrong in my life. I'm a hustler. A thief. But kill somebody…forget it. That's not my speed. Cherry was just pulling your chain. I haven't seen her in a hundred years, but even then she was a world–class bullshit artist."

Her face was white under the artificial tan, hands shaking. "I thought…"

"What? That I was some kind of vigilante for kids? Because fucking Cherry told you?"

"Yes!" she sobbed, her face in her hands. I watched her cry for a minute, her body shaking under the blue T–shirt.

"Cut it out," I told her. "That's a fairy story. You're too old to think there's a Santa Claus."

She leaned her head against my chest, still crying. I put my hand on her shoulder, pulled her into me. Held her while she cried.

The outfit Michelle bought for me would look good in the movie the blackmailers were making, but even a Grand Jury of cops wouldn't indict Ice–T on the contents of the audio track.

The light was on in the kid's bedroom— I could see it as I turned into the garage. Maybe he was scared of the dark.

I took off the camouflage clothing. It was about two–thirty in the morning. I wasn't sleepy— too much to sort out.

What Fancy told me was true. It takes a player to know the game. Even the child molesters who call what they do "intergenerational sex" know what "domestic discipline" is all about. But why would Cherry tell Fancy about what I do? What I did. How much did she know? Or was it all a bunch of guesses, needing my own words to drop me for the count.

Today, people don't think about working to get rich. Or stealing either. It's all upside down now. People hear someone they know was in a car accident, they envy them…what a great lawsuit. Lawsuits and lottery tickets, that's the way you do it now.

You don't run across straight blackmail much anymore. Why risk doing time when you can make a bigger score from selling secrets to the media? Treason is fashionable today. You have an affair with someone famous, there's a cash market for letters. For tapes, whatever. It helps if you're willing to pose nude later— show the people what the famous man wanted so bad.

The important thing is to do it for the right reasons— because you got this desperate need for the public to know the truth— the media likes its whores better when they dress up.

There's a bounty on famous people. Everybody knows where to go with the tapes.

A celebrity's sister sells her diary to the garbage press. Sells her own sister. A young man writes a book about how some industrialist needed bondage to get off— a private game turned public for cash. A spoiled–stupid little girl pleads guilty to attempted murder of an older woman. She says she was having an affair with the woman's husband, that he told her to do it. He says it never happened, the girl is delusional. She's out on bail before she goes away to prison. She goes to see her boyfriend, another older guy. They talk, play with each other. She says spoiled–stupid stuff, jokes about the shooting, tries so pitiful–hard to be cool, sound tough. The boyfriend has a video going the whole time, sells it to a TV show.

I guess that makes him famous too.

It's not against the law, selling secrets. Why bother with extortion? Threats to expose are a waste of time when you can score more by actually pulling the trigger.

Save those letters. Tape those calls. When I was first coming up, the worst thing you could be was a rat. Now it's a respected profession.

There's a bull market in betrayal.

But the tape I took from Cherry's hidden safe…I didn't recognize the man in the video— whoever he was, he wasn't that famous. Private blackmail. Leave the cash in a drop and you'll get the negatives…you don't see that stuff much anymore. There's money in it, sure. But not enough to buy fistfuls of gems.

Unless it was a pyramid. Show some sucker who works for the government the tape. You want the tape back? Maybe we need to talk about being the low bidder on a defense contract. Or a judicial appointment. Or…

No, it didn't add up. You can't be sure your target has any particular fetish. It takes years of work to set something like that up.

So why would Fancy show me her video? Why would she talk about kids?

I didn't have enough. Like trying to cross a fifty–foot chasm over a forty–foot bridge— I could be jumping to conclusions.

If I did that, I didn't want it to be an accident.

The kid was outside when I got up the next morning, waiting around downstairs like he had something on his mind.

"I saw your light when I got in last night," I said. "You leave it on when you went to sleep, or what?"

"I was awake. I was going over some stuff I had."

"About race cars?"

"Yeah." He shot me a smile. "I was wondering— "

"Look, I gotta make a run into the city, okay? I won't be long, probably be back before this afternoon. Can we talk about it when I get back?"

"Sure, I was just— "

"Randy, is it important, kid?"

"Not that important."

"You get a call? Somebody say something to you?"

"Nothing like that. It can wait, all right?"

"Sure. Keep the phone with you if you go out."

"I will. Uh, Burke…?"

"What?"

"Could you take the Lexus? I thought I'd…"

"You got it," I told him.

The Lexus was right at home in the commuter traffic, common enough among humans who worship products. I took my time, not pushing it. When I turned off at Bruckner Boulevard for Hunts Point, the Lexus fit in just as well— they're as popular with the dope boys as Mercedes used to be.

I motored past the deadfall near the filthy water, watching the rapacious gulls circling. Meat–eaters all, they battle with the wild dog packs for the refuse from the nearby meat market, unafraid of earthbound humans who occasionally trespass.

"Nice car, Burke," Terry greeted me, running his palm over the sleek flanks of the Lexus. If the dogs noticed the upgrade in my transport, they didn't let on. I told Terry the Lexus wasn't mine, but I'd be driving it for a while. He nodded, holding his eager kid questions, imitating the Mole's way of doing business. I showed him the pistol. He nodded again, sagely pondering the obvious problem. "I got something that'll work. Wait here, okay?"

I fired up a smoke, watching the dogs work their way across the junkyard in the studied Z–pattern of the predator pack. They were like the Mole too— they were used to humans, but didn't like many of them.

The kid came back with a flat piece of black metal. It had a pair of black rubber grippers bonded to the back, two heavy suction cups on the front. He walked around the Lexus, finally found the place he wanted under the fender— he showed me the exact spot. I fitted the metal piece into the spot, pushed down. Nothing.