Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"You don't like the game, you turn up the flame," the Prof told him. "A man don't pick his mother. Don't pick his father neither. But a man can choose his family, right?"

I reached over, tapped bottles with him again. Underlining the bond.

"You a man, cuzz. You old enough to play, you old enough to say, okay?"

"I…suppose so."

" We give you a name, mahn," Clarence said, caught up in the idea. "Like a baptism."

"You came through tonight," I told the kid. "What do you want your name to be?"

"I don't know. I mean…I never thought about it."

"Ain't but two names for the outlaw game," the Prof said. "You a bad man behind the wheel. Drive like a hell–hawk tracking a mouse. Got to have a bad man's name."

"Like what?"

"Like I said: whatever you do, it's one of two. It's Junior. Or Sonny. Got to be either Junior or Sonny."

"Those don't sound like a bad man's names."

"What I gonna do with this rookie, schoolboy?" the Prof said to me. "True–clue him, all right?"

"It's the way things are," I said to Randy. "You meet a man named Junior or Sonny, you know you're dealing with serious stuff. Those are heavy–duty names."

"I knew a man named Junior Stackhouse back home," Clarence said. "Baddest man in town. Junior would get himself drunk, nothing he liked better than to fight the police, mahn. He was a terror."

"Junior…sounds like…I don't know. Like it should be Randall Cambridge the Second or something lame like that."

"Well, maybe Junior's too slow around all this dough," the Prof said. "Sonny it is."

"I never knew a man named Sonny that wasn't a stone dangerous stud," I put in. "Like the name was a brand so people could tell."

"Rhymes with honey, too," the Prof added. "That seals the deal."

Clarence held out his hand, palm up. Randy slapped him five. "Damn, cuzz," the Prof told him. "You look badder already."

The night didn't have a chance against the kid's smile.

"Here's what we got so far." I ran it down. "Somebody's doing ID switches— big money in that. And we got the suicides too. I can't see the connect, but there almost has to be one. If there is, Crystal Cove is the link."

"The link stinks, bro," the Prof replied. "Kids off themselves. Do it all the time. Don't take much, 'specially out here. The beds are soft, but the life could be hard. Out here, they whip their kids with words. Cuts just as deep."

"I know."

"I don't see going in, Jim. What we need, we need to talk to the boss. The list…that's the key to that lock."

"I may have another one," I said. "Few more days, I'll know for sure."

"Company," Clarence whispered, his hand going inside his jacket. I stubbed out my cigarette. Headlights cut the night, bluestone crunched under tires. A pearl white Rolls–Royce sedan pulled to a stop just past the garage.

"Charm," the kid whispered. "That's her car."

Minutes passed. A car door opened and a person stepped out. I couldn't see anything about them— whoever it was wore a long black coat with a hood covering their head. The hooded figure walked confidently over to the big house, unlocked the back door and went inside. Lights went on.

"She has a key?" I asked.

"I guess so," the kid replied, not sounding surprised.

She was inside maybe ten minutes. Then she went back to her car. There was nothing in her hands that I could see. The Rolls purred off, as unhurried as its driver.

We spent some more time out there, talking things through.

"Follow me back to the highway," I told Clarence. "I'll get you pointed toward home."

The kid got up, reaching in his pocket for the keys. "I'll drive," he said.

He pulled over just before the highway, Clarence right behind. We stood together in the dark.

"Be cool, Sonny," Clarence told him.

"I will."

The Prof gave him a light punch on the shoulder, waved at me, and climbed into the Rover.

In a minute, their taillights vanished.

"Burke?"

"What?"

"Is it okay…I mean, are you going to go to sleep?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Well, I thought…if it was okay I'd go over and see Wendy."

"It's almost four in the morning, Sonny."

He blinked a few times at his new name, found his voice. "She doesn't sleep. At night, I mean. That's when I go over. Around the back. I toss some dirt against her window and she comes out."

"Go for it," I told him.

I took a quick shower, changed my clothes, and headed the Lexus toward Fancy's. Halfway there, I reached for the car phone— tossing some dirt against a girl's window, you can do that when you're young— when you still believe in things.

"Hello." Her voice was thick with sleep.

"It's me. I wanted to be sure you were awake."

"I…guess I wasn't. I didn't think you were coming."

"I said I was."

"I'm sorry.

"Don't be sorry for your thoughts. See you soon."

All three cottages were dark. Lights on in the main house, different dots of brightness in the blackness. Like a constellation.

Fancy's NSX was parked in the long driveway, carelessly sprawled, like it was abandoned. I didn't see a white Rolls–Royce anywhere. I walked past the fender of the Lexus, pulled the pistol free, slipped it into my jacket pocket.

Fancy opened the door, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, hair tousled. She was barefoot, dressed in a short blue nightie. The only light was a soft spill from somewhere in the back of the house…maybe the bathroom door standing open? I took off my jacket, draped it over the back of the couch. She walked over, reached for it.

"Don't touch that," I told her. "Just leave it where it is."

"Yes sir."

"Fancy…"

"Tell me what to do."

Christ. I was tired. In my body, in my heart. Tired of games. Guessing games. "Turn around," I said.

She did it, her back to me, head slightly bowed. I found an amber glass ashtray standing on one of the broad arms of the couch— it hadn't been there the last time. I picked it up, looked around. In one corner, a bright red steamer trunk with two heavy straps wrapped around it, a thick pillow on top, like a gym mat. In the opposite corner, a four–legged, round–top wooden stool.

All set up.

I put the ashtray on top of the stool, picked them both up and carried them over to the side of the only easy chair in the room. I took out my cigarettes and a box of wooden matches, put them next to the ashtray.

I sat down in the chair, stretched my legs out. So tired.

Fancy was still standing, back to me. "Come here, girl," I said.

She walked over slowly, head down, hands clasped in front of her. When she got close enough, I reached up, took her left hand and pulled her down. As she tumbled forward, I kept pulling, turning her around so she spun into my lap. She made a purring noise as I put both hands on her hips, shifting her weight so she was sideways, her face in my neck. I patted her hip with my right hand, settling her in.

"Should I— ?"

"Ssshh," I soothed her. "Just be still." I reached for the cigarette, got it lit, lay back, Fancy's springy girl–weight spread across me, sweetly balanced. I blew some tension out with the smoke.

Closed my eyes.

Fancy wiggled her bottom, just a mild tremor.

"Burke?"

"What?"

"Is this…yours?"

"What?"

"Is this the way you like to do it?"

"I'm too tired for word games, bitch," I said gently. "What are you talking about?"

She turned her face so she was speaking right into my ear, baby's–breath soft.

"Sitting down. Like in your car. I like that too. I'm all wet. See?" grabbing my hand, pulling it toward the triangle between her thighs.

"Fancy, I want to hold you on my lap. Understand?"

"Just hold me?"

"Just hold you, now."

"I thought— "