Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"Yes."

"Randy, you don't have to do this, okay? We can drop you off somewhere, pick you up when it's done. Reason we need you, it's for the driving."

"Count me in," he said, voice steady, looking me in the face.

The Prof and I walked off, Clarence right behind us. "No shooting," I told the young man. "No matter what."

Clarence ignored me, his handsome West Indian face totally trained on the Prof. The little man nodded. "Your play, your way," is all he said. Clarence walked back toward the car. The Prof and I strolled toward the wall, stepping carefully, eyes on full sweep.

"You strapped down, schoolboy?"

"I'm empty."

"So what's the game, son? This ain't no B&E we doing, is it?"

"No. What we're gonna do, we're gonna go over the wall, look around a little bit. Worst that happens, we get busted, it's a trespass, that's all."

"Say why, Sly."

"We wait a bit, okay? Then we come busting out, tell the kid to fly. I gotta see what he's made of…give him a chance to stand up without us taking a risk on a fall."

"He's a little tight, but he'll be all right."

The wall was not quite chest–high, but wide across the top. I couldn't see any sensors. Would they have cameras this far out?

I went over first. Waited on the ground, listening. The quiet was thick, like it had been around a long while, settling in.

The Prof came next. With our backs against the wall, it was more than a football field's run to the nearest building.

"Too easy," the Prof whispered.

He was right. I could feel the buildings standing across the broad expanse of neatly trimmed lawn, bristling with…what?

"This is enough," I whispered back. "Give it another five minutes and we're off."

We settled back against the wall, watching, nerve endings throbbing, fully extended.

It was quiet as a congressman's conscience.

I threw a hand signal at the Prof. We climbed over the wall, him first. When we got to the other side, we took off running.

The Plymouth was standing, ready to roll, the back doors open, Clarence down on one knee by the front wheel.

"Go!" I barked at Randy as the Prof and I piled into the back seat with Clarence a step ahead of us in front.

The kid came out of the chute like a rocket sled, straight and true, making the adjustment from grass to pavement perfectly. The Plymouth's monster motor was wound tight in seconds, holding in low gear with a baritone scream. Randy felt his way into the J–curve, running without lights, working the big car into a controlled skid, goosing it through with the throttle.

"They're coming," I said into his ear, leaning over the back seat. "Let it out."

The Plymouth gobbled the straightaway in humongous gulps, the engine singing a different harmonic as Randy upshifted. We came to a switchback— the kid braked and downshifted in one motion, staying on the gas with his other foot, keeping the spring coiled. He was a skater on black ice, leaning into the curves with the Plymouth, being the car. We hit another straight stretch and I looked over his shoulder— the tach was at five grand and climbing, way over a hundred miles an hour.

"You bought us some time, kid," I told him. "Quick— find a place to pull over."

He hit the brakes, snapped the Plymouth into a turnoff as neatly as a tongue–in–groove carpenter, stayed alert at the wheel as we all jumped out. The Prof and I each pulled one of the Day–Glo circles off the black doors, Clarence stripped the tape from the bumper. The license plates took only another minute…and we were legit.

"Speed limit now, Randy," I said, getting back into the car. "Lights on.

He drove the rest of the way like he was taking the final in Driver's Ed.

"Follow us," I told Clarence through the window. His Rover was standing next to the Plymouth, motors running, side by side, like getting set for a drag race.

"This is not no race car, mahn."

"We'll do it slow and easy," I assured him. "If we get stopped, just roll on home— I'll call."

He threw me a half–salute. I nodded to Randy and he dropped the Plymouth into gear.

The kid watched the rearview mirror for a minute, making sure Clarence was in position. I lit a smoke, leaned back.

"You did good," I told him. "Drove like a veteran."

"Thanks. I know about the plates…but how come you put those orange stickers on the car?"

"It changes the appearance. It's the one thing anyone chasing you remembers. Like when you do a stickup— a fake scar on your face or a phony tattoo on your hand, that's what the mark will fix on. If we had to, you could reach out and pull off the tape even with the car going, see?"

"Yeah. That's why the brake lights don't go on? And why there's no light when you open the door?"

"Sure. But I didn't expect you could drive that fast without headlights."

"Well, I knew the road pretty good. And I can see in the dark fine."

"Had a lot of practice, haven't you?"

He didn't answer. Concentrated on his driving, like he hadn't heard me.

Clarence was right on our rear bumper in the driveway. When the headlights went off, we were in darkness, the only light coming from the kitchen window of the big house.

"You leave the light on?" I asked the kid.

"Yes. I always do."

"Okay. Let's go someplace where we can talk."

"Can't we just go upstairs?" he asked, nodding his head in the direction of my apartment.

"Better not. Somebody's been playing with microphones."

"The…intercom. From my mother's— "

"I don't know. Somebody. Can't take chances," I told him, opening the trunk. I took out a couple of heavy army blankets.

"We going to have a picnic, mahn?" Clarence wanted to know.

"Close enough."

"Then I got some stuff too," he said, going into the Rover's trunk and pulling out something that looked like a small toolbox. The Prof stood in one spot, turning a full 360, smelling the ground.

I opened the garage, pointed. Clarence got behind the wheel of his Rover, drove it inside. I pulled the Plymouth in too.

"You know a decent spot?" I asked Randy.

"I…guess so. The back pasture, okay? I mean, there's no more horses there or anything."

"No bulls either, mahn?" Clarence said, looking around suspiciously.

"No."

We walked a short distance past the wood fence, found a spot on a grassy slope, spread out the blankets, sat down.

I lit a smoke. Clarence unsnapped the top of the box he was carrying, took out a dark bottle, offered it to Randy.

"You have a beer with us, mahn? To celebrate success. You sure earned it."

"I…"

"Go on, mahn. This is Red Stripe. Best beer in the world. From the Islands, where the air is sweet and the women are sweeter."

"Thanks."

Clarence took out a church key, popped the cap, handed the bottle to Randy.

"Long as it's free, how's about me?" the Prof piped up, reaching in to help himself.

Clarence took one too. "Got your poison right here too, Burke," he smiled, handing me a screw–top bottle of pineapple juice. It was cold. Clean and good.

"To Randy," the Prof said, holding his bottle high in a toast. "My man can drive, and that ain't no jive."

"Word!" Clarence acknowledged.

"You got my vote," I said, tapping my bottle against theirs.

Randy hung his head. I could feel the blush. But when his eyes came up, they were heavy with regret.

"What?" I asked him.

"It's…gonna sound stupid."

"Ain't no 'stupid' among friends, mahn," Clarence encouraged him.

"What's it about? Spit it out," said the Prof.

It was quiet for a minute. Then Randy looked somewhere into the open space between the Prof and me, blurted out, "I hate my name.

"Randy? Or…?"

"Randy. It's a kid's name. A baby name. Everybody always calls me that. Randy. I mean, nobody would say Randall . That's a name on a business card."