Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"You giving the beast a rest?"

"It's not that. I just don't want anybody to see her until…"

"I got it."

The place he took us to looked like a giant diner from the '50s, all glass and chrome, every seat near the windows. The parking lot was half–full, mostly with the kind of sports cars rich people buy their kids. We found a booth near the back. The joint was packed with twenty–something children, all working hard to be too hip for the room.

"Did you see Gaby? She's all glam'ed out. That cat's–eye makeup, it's so razor ," one girl twittered at another. "I just skeeve her, the bitch!"

"Yeah, that's wicked cute, all right. But, that makes me, like…what?" her pal replied.

I sure as hell didn't have the answer.

The menu promised Steak in Twelve International Styles as well as a Complete Selection of Gourmet Beers. The kid wanted hamburgers. I opted for the meat loaf, prepared for the worst.

The waitress was a skinny dishwater blonde with heavy black makeup around her eyes, giving her the much–coveted raccoon look. She took our order smoothly and moved off, not wasting a motion. The food came on heavy white plates. Big portions. The meat loaf was a deep rich slab, with a fine thick crust. The mashed potatoes tasted like they came right out of the skin. Even the mixed vegetables looked fresh, but I didn't taste them to find out. The kid wolfed his food, holding the burgers in both hands, juice running down his chin.

The waitress cleared our plates, asked if there'd be anything else.

"Is the lemon pie good?" I asked her.

"You like the meat loaf?" she replied.

"Sure did."

"The pie's better. They bake it fresh every day."

"That's for me," I told her. "Sonny?"

"A hot fudge sundae," the kid responded, showing impeccable taste.

I was working on an after–dinner cigarette when I saw the kid look up, watching something behind my back. I didn't turn around.

"Hey, there's my boy! What's shaking, Randy?" Brewster. With a flunkie on each side. Expanding his chest, grinning. He stepped forward, so he was standing between us, looking down.

"Brew," the kid acknowledged him.

"Heard you were gonna be running on Sunday. Why don't you dump that little kiddie car of yours so you and me can hook up?"

"I'll be running the Open Class," the kid said, level–voiced.

"Is that right? What're you gonna bring?"

"I'm still working on it," the kid replied.

"Still got your bodyguard, I see," Brewster sneered.

The kid ignored him.

"How's the caretaker business?" the big dummy asked me, leaning over.

"Interesting," I told him, holding his eyes until they dropped.

"Hey," he said. "No hard feelings, right? How about I buy you guys a beer? Waitress!" he shouted. "Come on over here!"

The blonde made her way over, pad in hand. "Where's your table?" she asked.

"Right here," Brewster said, sliding in next to the kid. One of his flunkies pushed against my shoulder, telling me to move over. I looked him over, not budging. Then I stood up, pointed to the inside. The flunkie moved in, sitting across from Sonny. The other one faded.

"Well?" the blonde asked.

"Coors," Brewster said. "Draft. For me and him," pointing over at his flunkie. "What about you?" he asked the kid.

"Do you have any Red Stripe?" he asked the waitress politely.

A quick grin lit up her face. "We don't get much call for that here, but I think there's some in the cooler." She looked at me— I shook my head.

She came back with a tray. Gave Brewster and his flunkie each a bottle and a clean glass. "I told you draft," Brewster glowered at her.

"All out," she said, unimpressed. She handed Sonny a big mug, frosted. The waitress poured the Red Stripe into the mug, taking her time, watching the head.

"Okay?" she asked Sonny.

"Perfect," he said, throwing her a smile.

"Hey! How come he gets the special treatment?" Brewster asked her.

"He's a special guy," the waitress said, winking at Sonny. She moved away with an extra twitch to her hips.

Brewster had a confused look on his slabby face, puzzling it out. "I gotta order that stuff next time," he muttered.

Sonny worked on his beer right, not sipping it, not chugging it either. Enjoying it. Brewster was talking a blue streak…something about new tires he got for his Corvette, whether it was going to be good weather for the races, yak–yak. The kid listened, responding in monosyllables. "We gotta go," he finally told Brewster. "Got a lot of work to do."

He got up to leave. I was right behind him. I carried the check over to the register, not wanting to leave cash on the table and deal with Brewster's sense of humor. The check came to a little over thirty bucks. I pulled on the kid's sleeve, handed him a pair of twenties. "No change," I told him.

I watched as he handed the check and the bills to the waitress. Saw the grin split her face at something he said. He walked out tall.

"Could I use the Plymouth tonight?" he asked on the drive back.

"Sure. You gonna burn it in?"

"No. I think it's okay, except for the tire pressures. I can't fix that until I see the track. I'm taking Wendy out. To a drive–in," he said, ducking his head. "She loves monster movies, and there's a couple of good ones playing near Bridgeport. I thought it'd be more comfortable, the seats and all."

"Works for me," I told him.

I took a nap. It was almost ten when I woke up. I called Fancy from the phone in the apartment— anybody listening wouldn't get anything they didn't already know. I told her I'd be there soon.

I took the Lexus. When I got to a straightaway, I punched up the kid on the car phone. He answered on the first ring.

"It's me," I said. "I forgot to ask you…you set up the answering machine?"

"Sure. Tested it too."

"Any calls?"

"Just some junk. Not the…guy you were expecting."

"Thanks. Keep the channel open, okay?"

"You got it."

I tapped lightly on Fancy's door. She was right there, snatching it open.

"Hi!" she greeted me, bouncy.

"You look sweet," I told her.

"Sweet?" she challenged. "Maybe you'd better take another look," she said, turning to walk away. She was wearing a pair of electric blue spandex bicycle pants, molded to her tighter than most people have skin. "It took me half an hour…and a whole bottle of talcum powder to get into these. You ever see anything so tight?"

Sure I had. When I was a kid, there was this girl who used to run with us, Brandi. She was famous for her tight pants. She told me how she did it— she'd buy a pair of jeans a couple of sizes too small and cram herself into them. Then she'd stand in the shower until she got them soaked all the way through, and let them dry right on her. Brandi always carried a razor. Not because she was a gang girl— because it was the only way to get the pants off. Money was tight then, for all of us. Buying a pair of pants you could only wear once, making that kind of commitment…it was worth what it cost. I looked over at Fancy, posing in her spandex. For the privileged, life is a karaoke machine— even if they can't sing, the background's always there for support.

"No," I told her. "Not for a long time."

I put my jacket over the back of the couch. "Where's the package I left ?" I asked her.

"Right there," she said, pointing to the wooden stool.

"You didn't open it?"

"I swear I didn't. I didn't touch it."

"Good," I told her, tearing open the top. "Do you have a strong light? One that's portable?"

"I think so," she said. "Just a minute."

She came back with the black floor lamp, the one with the gooseneck top.

"Perfect," I told her, kneeling to plug it in. I bent the head down, stepped on the button in the base to turn it on. A narrow cone of bright white light shone on the top of the stool. I took things out of the paper bag, lining them up neatly.