Andrew Vachss: Down in the Zero

After the car was hidden, we switched to an old Jeep they keep there as a shuttle— Michelle ripped the Mole one hell of a speech last time about having to walk through the junkyard in her spike heels.

The Mole was sitting on the cut–down oil drum he uses for a chair, looking into the middle distance where he spends most of his time. A tawny shadow flitted at the edge of my vision— Simba, boss of the wild dog pack. The beast came closer, sat on his haunches, tongue lolling, watching with more interest than the Mole showed.

Terry went into the bunker and came out with a chair for Michelle. A real one, black leather, sparkling clean. She sat down, lit a smoke, took the glass of mineral water Terry brought for her. At home like it was a cocktail lounge.

Terry sat next to her. They talked, close in. After a while, the Mole would come down from wherever he was, and he'd talk too— as much as the Mole ever does. I didn't wait for that.

I walked back to the Plymouth, feeling the dog pack around me. I drove slow, meandering my way back downtown.

Before I went upstairs to my place, I grabbed a pay phone, rang the restaurant.

"It's me," I told Mama when she answered. "You find the Prof?"

"Just now. He say he bring the boy tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure."

I drove by the restaurant early the next day. Checked the window. Only the white dragon tapestry was standing there…the all–clear flag flying.

I parked in the alley behind the joint, tapped on the flat–faced steel door, walked through the clump of gunmen masquerading as cooks, went past the bank of pay phones into the dining area.

I took my booth in the back. Mama detached herself from her cash register, walked over to me, snapping something in Cantonese to the men in the back. She'd gotten tired of me saying no when she asked me if I wanted food…now she just brings it. She sat across from me, served me a portion of her infamous hot–and–sour soup from the tureen, served herself. I blew on my spoon, took some of the potion into my mouth, feeling her eyes.

"There's something different," I told her.

She bowed slightly, so slightly I could still see the little twitch at the corner of her mouth.

"Good. You pay attention."

"Yeah. What is it?"

"Ginseng powder."

"How come…"

"Ginseng for wounds."

"I'm not wounded anymore," I told her, tapping my shoulder where the bullet had taken me coming out of that house in the Bronx.

She bowed again, expressionless.

I finished the soup. Waited for her to refill the bowl, sipped it more slowly this time— if I emptied it too fast, she'd just deal another round. I looked at my watch: 9:30. Plenty of time.

"You work soon?" Mama asked.

"Maybe."

She left me after that, going back to her wheeling dealing stealing.

The bell over the front door sounded. Too early for customers, especially with the CLOSED sign displayed. I looked up. The Prof stepped in, a tiny man with the face of an African prince. He was wearing a white and blue poncho that looked like an Indian blanket…it trailed almost to his feet. Behind him, a white kid. Gawky, tall and skinny, pasty–faced, dark hair long in the back, spiked straight up in the front. The kid was dressed in a black chino sport coat two sizes too big, worn over black baggy pants gathered at the cuffs around black Reebok hightops. The huge tongues of the sneakers had little orange circles on them…Pumps…the only spot of color anywhere on him. Clarence came in behind the kid as if his mission was to take up the chromoslack with a canary yellow silk jacket that draped almost to his knees. A heavy gold bracelet dangled from his left wrist— his right hand was in his pocket.

The convoy rolled over to my booth. The Prof slid in first. Clarence ushered the kid into the next seat, then sat next to him, boxing and blocking. One of the waiters walked past, ignoring us, taking up a position at the front. The place started to bustle. It might have felt like a restaurant gearing up for customers if you'd never spent time in a guerrilla base camp. A stranger was inside— time to see if he'd brought friends with him.

"It's done, son," the Prof said to me. "This here's Randall Cambridge— he's lean and he's clean."

So whatever the kid was, he wasn't wired.

"You wanted to talk to me?" I said to him.

"I…thought we could speak…alone."

"We can't."

"This is kind of…personal."

I reached for my pack of cigarettes on the tabletop but the Prof was there first— he had hands faster than Muhammad Ali. Always did. I cracked a wooden match, fired both our smokes, blew some in the kid's face. He blinked rapidly, started to touch his eyes. Clarence shifted his weight, twisting the shoulder next to the kid. The kid's hands stayed on the counter— the Prof would have schooled him about the rules for a meet on the way over.

"Tell me about your mother," I said.

"She's…Lorna Cambridge. Like I told you. Cherry, that's the name she said to give you. Cherry from…"

"Yeah, I know. When did she tell you about me?"

"Before she left. Before she left the first time. I asked her not to go, but she has to. She always goes. Every year. She said, if you didn't believe me, I should tell you something. A man's name. Rex. Rex Grass."

"Okay, you told me. I got it. Now tell me what you want."

"It's…hard."

"So's life, kid. Me too. I'm not a fucking guidance counselor, okay? Spit it out or go back where you came from."

Clarence slid out of the booth, moved over to a seat directly across from us. The kid didn't move.

"Shove over, Rover," the Prof barked at him. The kid moved to his right, breathing easier. Clarence watched him the way a pit boss watches the dice roll— any way they came up, he'd deal with it.

"I think I'm next," the kid said.

"You said that before. On the phone. Next what?"

"Next to die," the kid said, a ready–to–break bubble under the surface of his voice.

"You do this a lot?" I asked him, leaning forward. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Do what?" he muttered, surly now.

"Tell melodramatic stories to people you don't know."

His hands gripped the counter but he wouldn't look up, mumbled something I couldn't catch.

"What?"

"Fuck you ! I didn't come here for this…you don't care…"

"You got that right, kid. I don't care."

"My mother said…"

"It doesn't matter what your mother said. She thinks I owe her, I just paid it off. I said I'd listen to you, not hold your little hand, wipe your nose for you. All your mother knows, I'm a man for hire. You understand what I'm saying? Not a goddamned babysitter, okay? This is a simple deal— even a punk kid like you could get it. You want to talk, talk. You don't, walk."

The kid jumped up so suddenly that Clarence had the automatic leveled at his chest before the waiters even had a chance to pull their own hardware. The kid gasped, flopped back down like his legs had turned to jelly. He put his face in his hands and let it go, crying.

Clarence watched him for a minute or so before he reholstered his gun. I exchanged a look with the Prof. He shrugged his shoulders.

We waited.

The kid sat there crying, ignored. The rest of the joint moved into what it does: phones rang, people came in and out the back door, Mama's messengers and dealers and traffickers went about their business. The kid sat through it all, unmoving, a stone in a stream.

Starving to death in a restaurant.

When he looked up at me, his eyes were yellow–flecked with fear. If he was faking it, he was the best I'd ever seen.

"They have a way of coming for you. Getting inside. I didn't believe it at first. When Troy and Jennifer did it, everybody said they just wanted to be together. You know what I mean? Together forever. Kids talked. Like, maybe, she was pregnant or they wanted to get married and their parents wouldn't let them. But those kids…they don't know us. Our parents…it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't stop us from doing anything. Then Lana did it too. And Margo. They all did it."