Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"Oh, he's a good dancer. I made him dance with me once, at a party Cherry gave.

"Yeah, he's got it all over me there."

I wonder why I never met a woman who couldn't dance. Maybe it's genetic.

"What do you mean? You can't dance?"

"Not me. The only dance I ever learned when I was a kid was the Y dance."

"What's the Y dance? I never heard of it."

"Stand up— I'll show you."

She came over to me, stepping naturally against my chest, both hands going around my neck. I put my left hand around the back of her shoulder, dropped the other to her butt, pressed her hard against me. "Why dance?" I asked her.

Fancy giggled, rubbing against me.

"Hey, don't you think you should put on a bra if we're going out?"

"You didn't tell me to."

"What?"

"You didn't tell me to…just the dress and the blouse."

"Jesus Christ. All right, go put on some underwear."

"Come on, show me. I've got lots of stuff."

She did. "Aren't these uncomfortable?" I asked her, holding up a pair of black leather panties.

"No, they're good. They make you sweat when you work. Then I make the client put them in his mouth…like a gag," she said, gray eyes mocking.

I found a modest underwear set, pristine white. "This," I said. "Can I wear a garter belt…please?" she asked, taking off the bolero jacket.

"Sure."

We took the Lexus. When Fancy said we were getting close, I turned slightly in my seat, making sure I had her attention.

"Listen to me, girl. You want orders, you got them. Here's one: I'm not calling you 'bitch' in front of people I'm trying to work, understand? What you're gonna do, you're gonna act like yourself— a smart, pushy rich girl. You're gonna use your head. I'm gonna be polite to you. You watch what I do, take your cues. Got it?"

"Yes sir."

"Don't be cute, Fancy."

"I won't."

The house was made up to look like a Cape Cod fisherman's cottage, but it was big enough to hold a convention. Set in the middle of what looked like an orchard, it was all weathered shingles and atmosphere, one wall nearly covered with ivy.

"These are the parents of Scott Lancaster," I told her. "You recognize the name?"

"No. But that house is real money."

"Okay. Remember what I told you."

"I'll be good," she whispered, wiggling a little bit in her seat, teasing, her skirt too far up on her thighs. I felt like slapping her, but I wanted her calm.

A woman in her forties answered the door, dressed in a dark blue pants suit, rich chestnut hair tied in a matching blue ribbon.

"Yes?" Her voice was tentative, not challenging.

"My name is Burke, ma'am. And this is— "

"Francesca Bishop," Fancy finished for me. "My father was Marlon Bishop…of Bishop Enterprises…?"

"Oh, yes. What can I— ?"

"I'm a private investigator, Mrs. Lancaster," I told her gently, trying to make my voice as rich as the house. "I've been retained by the Bishops and some other families— they're very concerned about the…recent incidents involving some young people in the area."

"You mean the…?"

"Yes ma'am. Would it be possible to speak to you for a few minutes?"

"I guess so. If you…oh, come in. I'll get my husband."

She led us over to a navy blue velvet love seat with an elaborate carved back. It looked a couple of hundred years old. Fancy settled herself decorously, smoothing her skirt over her knees. I opened the attaché case, took out a notebook and pen. "I'll be right back," the woman said, leaving us alone.

I heard a murmur of voices from somewhere to our right. Then a man's voice, a vibrant baritone that any salesman would have killed for. "I've talked enough, goddamn it, MaryAnne! You can tell those people…ah, never mind."

He strode into the room like a ship captain ready to put down a mutiny. "Look, whoever you are, I've— "

He took us both in with one glance, stopped short like he'd hit a wall.

I saw the opening, pumped oil into the breach. "We're sorry to intrude, sir. Especially at this time. If you could just spare a few minutes…"

"Oh for Christ's sake, all right," he snapped, standing in front of us, hands locked behind his back. "Sit down," he said to his wife. "Would you like some coffee?" to us.

"No thank you," I said.

"If it's not too much trouble," Fancy replied.

"MaryAnne," is all he said.

She jumped to her feet. "Would you like decaf or regular?"

"Oh, regular. Black if you don't mind."

"Not at all," she said, moving away.

"What can I tell you?" the man asked, taking the seat his wife had vacated.

"Did Scott give you any indication…before it happened?" I asked. "Was he depressed? In any kind of trouble?"

"The boy was always in trouble," his father said. "One damn thing after the other. He had two drunk driving convictions before he was eighteen. Suspended from high school. Kicked out of college. An alcoholic, that's what he was. Those parties they had…you know what Jello–shots are?"

"Yes," I said.

"That was his favorite. But he'd drink anything, from cooking sherry to fucking Sterno. Some kind of chemical imbalance in his brain, that's what the doctors said."

His wife walked back into the room, carrying a silver tray with a white china cup and saucer. She bent from the waist like a trained maid, serving Fancy, who said "Thank you" as if they had a long relationship.

"Do you mean the doctors at Crystal Cove?" I asked him.

"That's right. About time we got some straight answers, too."

His wife looked up from the tufted chair she was sitting on. "But Dr. Barrymore said— "

Lancaster shot her a look and she moused right out, looking down.

"Barrymore is a goddamned quack," he said to me. "Talked like a fucking queer."

"How long was Scott at Crystal Cove?"

"First time was thirty days. For the evaluation. Then he went back. Three months, the last time. Three months in, he didn't even make it three months out."

"Is it possible that…"

"What? That it could have been an accident? Like it was my fault because I keep some sporting arms in the house?" His eyes were hard, challenging, focusing only on me as if Fancy wasn't in the room. No question that his wife wasn't.

"No, I didn't mean that. I was just wondering…kids get ideas, you know? See something on television, like that. The papers just said it was a pistol…was it a revolver or semi–auto?"

"A revolver. Colt Python, .357 mag. What difference would that make?"

"Could he have been playing a game? Russian roulette?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"Well…how many cartridges were in the cylinder?"

"One. Okay, I see what you mean. But it only takes one, right?" His wife muffled a sob, ran from the room.

"Sorry about that," he said to me. "She's a weak sister. Always has been. The boy took after her. Weak. That's what the boozing was really all about. Addicts are weak people. I don't smoke, don't drink. And I stay in shape. The business world, it's a tough racket, not for sissies. My wife thinks if I didn't keep guns in the house, he wouldn't have done it. That's bullshit!" he snarled vehemently. "Somebody wants to get hold of a gun, they can do it, am I right?"

"Dead right," I said.

His head snapped up. "Is that supposed to be some fucking kind of a joke?"

"No sir. It's my way of speaking. I apologize if I offended you."

"Yeah. Okay, anything else you want to know? I'm busy here, waiting on an important fax from Japan."

"He didn't leave a note, anything like that?"

"Absolutely not. And I'll tell you something else— his blood–alcohol level was sky–high when they did the autopsy. The boy was drunk, understand?"

"Yes sir. Sorry to have intruded. I won't trouble you further," I said, getting to my feet.