Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"But when he drove…"

"Driving, that's only a small piece of it. I had this pal once, Easy Eddie. One time we were out riding, nothing special. But what he didn't tell me, he was holding dope. Heavy weight. And we got stopped. Now it worked out okay— the cops never saw it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But if they had, it would have been Kaddish. Easy Eddie and me, we were as close as brothers. He was a stand–up guy. He didn't mean any harm— never thought about getting me in trouble. If we'd gone down for the dope, he would have taken the whole weight."

So?"

"So he was real sorry about what happened. And I never rode with him again."

Randy's face changed colors as it hit him. "I get it," he said.

"Do you?" I asked. "Here's what a guy told me when I was just coming up. About working in a crew. You can't be counted on , you can't be counted in , understand?"

"Yes."

"Being a wheelman, it's not just about driving, Randy. Next time I tell you to stay someplace, you do it. Okay?"

"I will," he said, a bit of steel under the softness of his voice.

I had plenty of time before Fancy. "I need to make a phone call," I told the kid. "Want to drive me?"

"Sure," he said, starting for the Plymouth like there was no other choice. He didn't say anything about there being plenty of phones in the house— maybe he was a faster learner than I thought.

"Where to?" he asked, adjusting the rearview mirror, rocking gently back and forth in the driver's seat, getting the feel.

"What I need is a pay phone, all right? An outdoor phone, if you know where one is."

"There's some on the highway. In case someone has a breakdown."

"Let's ride."

He pulled out of the driveway without spinning the rear wheels, nursing the throttle, but as soon as we hit pavement he dropped the hammer, road–running at double the speed limit.

"Back it off," I told him. "The trick to driving, the real trick, you got to blend , understand? Any fool can drive fast— the game is to drive fast smooth , see? Especially in the city. A real pro, he can drive faster than it looks like he's going…the way a karate man can close space on you before you realize it."

"Okay," the kid said. He motored along in silence for a few minutes. "Can I try it?" he asked.

"Try what?"

"Blending. I'll go through town first, okay?"

"Sure."

The kid had a sweet soft touch with the wheel, piloting the big car in the light traffic with assurance. He pulled to a smooth stop behind a chocolate Porsche coupe, waiting patiently for the light to change.

"Give yourself more room," I told him.

"What do you mean?"

"You're too close to the Porsche. If he stalls, or just decides to sit there, you can't go around him without backing up first, see?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding.

"Drive with a zone around you, like a pocket of air. Another car comes in the zone, you adjust, understand? It's like you always leave yourself an escape route, never get boxed in."

He turned off to the highway, stayed just past the speed limit, looking over at me for approval.

"On the highway, stay with the packs, all right? Always keep cover around you. You want to pass, make sure there's another clump out ahead of you."

He nodded again, rolled into the middle lane behind a Subaru wagon. The kid held his position for a bit, then he pulled into the left lane, circled the Subaru and pulled in behind a three–car train in the middle lane.

"You got it," I told him. "Remember, this car is a crate. That's what it looks like, that's what people will see. Only time you show what it can do is when you got no choice."

The kid ignored the speedometer, driving by the tach and the oil pressure gauge. Another few minutes and he pulled over by a freestanding pay phone.

"See that switch?" I asked him, pointing to a toggle under the dash. "You throw that, the brake lights will disengage. You can leave it in gear with your foot on the brake, nobody watching will know you're ready to go.

He threw the switch as I got out, left the motor running.

I tossed coins into the slot, made the connection.

"Gardens," Mama answered.

"It's me. I need to talk to the Prof. Can you reach out, ask him to be at the phone anytime after midnight?"

"Sure. Everything okay?"

"Getting tricky. But I can see a light, maybe."

"You want Max yet?"

"Not yet, Mama."

I stepped back into the Plymouth. The kid had it rolling away before I had the door closed, merging with traffic like a pigeon joining a flock.

"Nice," I said.

He flushed, didn't say anything.

"You need me for anything tonight?" he asked.

"No. I got stuff to work on. You?"

"There's a party. At Roger's house."

"Party?" This kid was so damn in–and–out…one minute panicked, the next partying.

"It's cool. There's a…girl I know. Maybe she'll be there. I thought maybe I'd ask her if she wants to come along Sunday. For the race."

"Why don't you just call her and ask her?"

"Well, I don't really know her that well. I mean… she doesn't exactly know who I am. I met her and all, but…"

"I got it. What's her name?"

"Wendy. She was in classes with me at school. Then I didn't see her when she went to college. She…writes poetry. I read some once— it was in the school magazine."

"You like her, huh?"

"I always liked her. But she doesn't hang with my crowd. I mean, she smokes dope and all, but she doesn't tank or anything. She's very deep."

"So what makes you think she'll be there tonight?"

"She's close with Scott's girlfriend Denise. I just figured…it's worth a shot, right?"

"Always is," I told him. "You want the Plymouth?"

"Oh no," he said. "I don't want anybody to know what I'm gonna be running on Sunday. That's a surprise. I'll take the Miata."

"Good luck, kid."

"Thanks."

"Take the phone with you."

"It's right here," he said, tapping the pocket of his jacket.

I heard the rasp of the Miata's exhaust a little past nine. I prowled the apartment, probing the edges of my plan in my mind, looking for weak spots. The bugged phone— I couldn't tell if it was a line tap or a full–house microphone. There was the intercom too. Maybe the Mole could figure out what was what, but me, I'd play it like the whole thing was an audio zone.

Ten o'clock came and went. No Fancy. I smoked a cigarette, wondering if I'd miscalculated. A nervous tap on the glass. I went over, let her in. She was wearing a white T–shirt over a pink linen skirt, carrying a matching jacket in one hand and a big black leather purse over one shoulder. She stood there in white medium heels, head slightly down.

"I'm sorry I was late," she whispered.

I glanced at my watch: six minutes past the hour. I reached out and took her right hand, held it in my left with her chubby palm up.

"I don't want to hear your excuses, bitch!" I said, and slapped her upturned palm hard. The sound was clear in the quiet apartment— I hoped the microphone got it.

Fancy looked up, firelight in her big gray eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again.

"Come over here," I told her, jerking her by the hand toward the couch. She came compliantly, breathing harsh now. I walked her past the couch toward the back bedroom. In the doorway, I pulled her to a halt.

"You know what, bitch? I think you'll get the message better if I teach you someplace else…like outdoors. Would you like that?"

"Yes," she said, real soft.

"Come along," I told her, switching my grip from her hand to her wrist. I walked her back to the door, pointed down. She took the stairs, stopped at the bottom and waited. I took her into the garage, opened the passenger door to the Plymouth. She stepped in, held the pose way too long. When she figured out I wasn't going to smack her offered rump, she sat down. I crossed to the driver's side, started the car and backed it out.