Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

I offered my hand at the door. His grip was what I expected, a bone–crusher.

"I'm pleased to have met you," Fancy said demurely, holding out her own hand. He took it, expanding his chest, still staring at me.

"Did I do all right?" Fancy asked, buckling her seat belt.

"You did fine. I didn't think he was going to open up at first."

"I did better than you know, honey."

"What's that mean?"

"He wouldn't have said a word if I wasn't there."

"How could you know that?"

"I didn't recognize his name, but I knew his face."

"So?"

"So he was a client, Burke. Last time I saw Mr. Macho Big Businessman, he was on his knees, licking my boots."

Yeah , I thought, and if I don't believe you, you can always show me the videotape.

I took Fancy to lunch at a restaurant she told me about. It was just off the main drag, very high–tech, tiny portions on black glass plates, artfully arranged for appearance. Didn't taste bad, but it was more like samples than food.

Fancy had a good appetite, chowing down as if it was steak and potatoes instead of a thick disk of blackened tuna and a motley assortment of baby vegetables.

"You played it pretty good," I said, lighting a cigarette from the slim black candle sitting in a bud vase on the table. "No question that he recognized you?"

"He was the one wearing the mask. A black discipline hood with a zipper for the mouth. I made him put it on. It was a long session— he'd know me anywhere."

"So the rough–stud business tycoon bit— that was for my benefit?"

"Only partly," she said, reaching across and plucking my cigarette from the little round ashtray, taking a deep drag. "They never let you forget who's paying. It's not like it's a relationship. I'm a professional— he'd expect me to keep his secrets. Discretion is part of the game.

I fell into her big gray eyes, held on tight. They reflected back guilelessly— as if she'd never heard of blackmail. When she exhaled, the smoke shot out of the one nostril. Something there…I couldn't grab hold of it.

"They map out the scenes in front, then?"

"Most of the time. There's always a lot of crap about respecting limits, safety words…all that stuff. It's really hot now— all over the place. The hard–core magazines spell it out more, but even the upscale ones let you advertise. Some of them, you can't use words like 'dominant' or 'submissive,' but they always find a way. 'Role playing,' that's the favorite."

"No surprises?"

"Not really. Except, maybe, for virgins. The first time, they're not sure what they want, and it can get silly."

"What happens if you mark them up?"

"Mark them up?"

"Whip marks, like that. Wouldn't their wives want to know what— "

"I know what I'm doing," she said defensively. "There's no reason for that to ever happen in a private scene, unless they want it to. In the videos, that's different…the audience wants to see the marks. That's why girls with light skin make the best submissives.

"You been…doing it a long time?"

"Since the beginning," she said, eyes glazing at some memory.

"If you only go one way, how come you…?"

"I wanted to try it. See if it works. I…I'll tell you about it, someday."

"You don't have to— "

"I know. I never met a man like you before."

I finished my cigarette. "You want some dessert?" I asked her.

She nodded happily. I signaled the waiter. He rolled a four–tiered cart over. Fancy took three different pastries, gobbled them up, rolling her eyes, licking her lips. "I love sweets," she hummed. "They're perfect— specially 'cause I can't have them too often."

I took out my notebook, showed her the list. "I got an idea," I told her. "Let's not hit the next one blind, all right? How about if you call, try and make an appointment?"

"What should I say?"

"Just introduce yourself, express your sympathy for their loss. Tell them a few families got together to hire me— to look into the suicides. Make it a kind of community concern thing."

"I can do that."

"So do it, girl."

"Is that an order?" she smiled.

"You want me to say 'or else'?"

"No," she said, grinning. "I'd be too hot to find out what the 'or else' was."

"Now, Fancy."

"Yes boss," she said, getting up and walking off, switching her hips hard enough to blow out the candles on the other tables.

She was back in a few minutes. "I tried the Robinelles first. Got the mother. She said to come on over, right now."

"Good girl."

I paid the check. The waiter looked down his nose at cash, but perked right up when he saw what piece of it was his.

"Give me directions," I said as we rolled out of the restaurant parking lot.

"I don't give you directions," she told me, a heavy pout on her newly made–up lips.

I reached over, slapped her round thigh hard. "Tell me how to get there," I said.

She took me through town, out toward the water. "It's about another two, three miles down this road," she finally said.

I didn't reply, watching the scenery, trying to orient myself. Out here, you use landmarks, not street signs.

"I'm going to have a bruise," she said softly, touching a lacquered fingernail to the front of her thigh. "Look."

I flicked my eyes down and over. She was right.

The house was right on the waterfront, an architectural wet dream, skylights placed at odd angles on a steeply sloped roof of red Mediterranean tile, a tower of three stories cut right into the middle of a ranch–style design.

When the woman let us in, I could see the tower was a cathedral ceiling, like a hotel atrium without the fake waterfall.

The Robinelle woman was a blowsy blonde maybe fifteen pounds over the limit, a good deal of that spilling out the front of a sharply slashed V–neck blouse. She was wearing some kind of industrial–strength push–up bra, compressing her breasts into cartoon cleavage. Her blouse was red, the stretch pants a shiny black. A wide patent leather belt cinched in her waist, and the black spike heels exaggerated the jiggle as she walked toward the back of the house, telling us to follow.

She seated herself in a grotesquely curved white plastic chair that forced her back to arch, waving us toward a matching pair of green canvas director's chairs, spaced a few feet apart.

"I thought you'd be coming alone," she said to me by way of greeting. "Was it you that called me?" she asked Fancy.

"Yes."

"I don't feel comfortable talking in front of…neighbors. You are a neighbor, aren't you?"

"Yes. We live in the Crescent."

"That's nice. Well, perhaps Mr…"

"Burke," I told her.

"Perhaps, Mr. Burke, you can come back sometime."

"Go wait outside," I told Fancy.

"Look," she said, sitting up straight. "We hired you and— "

"And you're not calling the shots. Go wait in the car."

Fancy jumped to her feet, a flush under her dark tan.

"You don't have to do that," the woman said. "Perhaps you could just excuse us for a little bit? There's really a very nice library, just off the living room…"

Fancy looked at me. I nodded an okay. She flounced off, keeping the wiggle under control this time.

"I hope smoke doesn't bother you," the woman said, helping herself to a cigarette from a box sitting next to an ashtray on a black plastic cube standing next to her chair. "Lorenzo— that's my personal trainer— he'd kill me if he caught me."

"Not at all," I told her, taking out my own.

"Now…" she said, taking a deep enough drag to give her blouse a workout. "What can I tell you?"

"Well, I'm not really sure. With this kind of investigation, you can't be sure there is anything. Was Lana depressed in any way before it happened?"