Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

I drove the Lexus to the parking lot where I'd promised it would be waiting, Fancy following in her NSX. She didn't ask any questions when I took the wheel from her.

By the time we arrived, there was already a long line to get in. A young girl in a set of bright orange coveralls was walking down the line, taking money, making change.

"How much?" I asked her when she got to us.

"Ten dollars per car to get in. It's another ten if you want a pit pass.

I handed her a twenty. "We'll take both."

She peeled off two stickers, one white, one blue. "You can paste these on your dashboard," she said. "Make sure they're visible through the windshield. Here, I'll…"

She bent over, put her head inside the car. "I'll take care of it" Fancy snapped at her, snatching the stickers out of her hand.

"Easy," I told her, pulling off.

"Oh, I'll take care of it," she mimicked, dripping sarcasm.

"She's just a kid, playing around."

"I'll give her something to play around with."

"That's enough."

"That's enough, what?"

"That's enough, bitch."

She unsnapped her seat belt, reached over and gave me a quick kiss.

We found the pit area. It was jammed. I parked Fancy's car over to the side and we starting looking around. The whole joint looked like a Concours de Cash…the occasional Mercedes stuck out like a poor relative, only invited to the wedding for the sake of form. Ferraris, Maseratis, a gullwing Lamborghini. All toothbrush–polished, shrieking status.

Fancy's sweatshirt draped down past her hips. We didn't get a second glance as we strolled through the grounds, even in that sea of Laura Ashley and country barn chic.

"There he is!" Fancy yelled, pulling at my arm. If a Mercedes looked out of place, the Plymouth looked like it was from outer space. The kid was standing next to it, a clipboard in his hand. A tall, slender girl with him, long reddish blonde hair almost to her waist, dressed all in black. But instead of the pasty indoor skin I expected, her face was porcelain, with a faint rose undertone.

"Burke!" the kid shouted, looking up and spotting us. "And…Fancy. Wow."

"You ready?" I asked him.

"Yeah. Burke, Fancy…this is Wendy."

The tall girl offered her hand. Black nail polish. I held it for a second, but even the strong sunlight didn't fluoresce wrist scars— if she'd ever secretly tried to visit her dead–and–gone friend, it hadn't been that way. Her eyes were a gentle gold–flecked copper, cheekbones prominent in a thin, patrician face.

"I love your hair," Fancy told her. "I wish I had it."

"Thank you," Wendy said. Not blushing, not arrogant either.

"Give it to him," I told Fancy.

"Here!" she bounced out, handing the kid the white box.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Just open it," Wendy told him, standing close, her hand on his shoulder.

He put it on the hood of the car, opened it slowly. Took out the jacket. "It's beautiful!" he said, holding it up. Wendy took it from him, gestured for him to turn around, helped him into it. The fit was perfect.

"I love it," he said softly, running his fingers over his name in the red script.

"Hey, Randy! They said you were over here. Where's your car?" Brewster, with half a dozen kids trailing him.

"This is it," the kid said, patting the Plymouth's flanks. I admired the big numbers whitewashed on the back door: 303. I guess they assigned them at random.

"This? You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope."

"Far fucking out !" one of his boys said.

Brewster rolled his head on the column of his neck, like he'd just taken a punch. "Whose jacket you borrow?" he asked the kid, standing close.

"It's mine."

"So who's Sonny?"

"That's me, too."

"Sonny? What kind of fucking name is that?"

"It's what his friends call him," Fancy said, stepping up like she was measuring Brewster for a right cross.

"That's sick, man," Brewster said, laughing. "One of your psycho ideas?" he sneered in Wendy's direction.

"There's one kind of sickness you'll never get, Brewster," she replied, gently.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Brain fever," she said. Two of Brewster's boys slapped a high five. His face flushed. "Don't even think about it," I said to him real quiet.

"See you out there, wimp," he said, stalking off.

Sonny swung the front end of the Plymouth forward, exposing the engine and upper suspension. A guy in a little cloth cap stopped by, stood off a few feet checking things out. I watched his face for that superior–snide look, but he was rapt with respect.

"Is that a four–thirteen?" he asked.

"It's a four–forty," I told him. "With sixty over.

"What a monster!" the guy said, open admiration in his voice. "I haven't seen one like that since I was a kid. You going to run her?"

"He is," I said, indicating Sonny.

"I guess you got enough torque for a short course," the guy said to Sonny. "But it's got to be carrying a couple of tons unsprung weight."

"Yeah," Sonny said. "But it loads to the outside wheels pretty good."

"Can you lock it up? Hold it in low gear all the way?"

"That's my plan. The automatic's just a three–speed— it probably won't even red–line."

"Good luck," the man said, offering his hand.

"Thanks," Sonny acknowledged.

The man walked away. "You know who that was?" Sonny asked me, answering his own question without waiting for my response. "That was John Margate— he used to race Formula One. Even did the Grand Prix…damn!"

"I guess he knows the real deal when he sees it."

"John Margate…the kid mused, chest swelling.

We watched the races from the roof of the Plymouth, legs dangling down across the windshield. Mostly sports cars: I spotted a sprinkling of Alfas, old Triumphs, an MGA coupe. Most of them handled the course pretty well, with only an occasional spin–out. An electronic board at the finish line flashed the time of each car as it came through. After a while, the course attendants went out on the track, moved the cones around, set them wider, opening things up. The next wave was stronger stuff: a white Nissan 300ZX, a blue Mazda RX–7, even an NSX like Fancy's.

"Pretty soon," Sonny said. He looked about as nervous as a pit bull facing off against a cocker spaniel.

We all climbed down. Sonny walked around the Plymouth one more time, stroking the big car, saying something I couldn't hear. Wendy took her long black chiffon scarf from around her neck, tied it carefully to the Plymouth's upright antenna, gave Sonny a kiss. He put on his driver's helmet, donned a pair of leather gloves, and started the engine. The Plymouth growled a warning, ready.

Sonny put it in gear and pulled off toward the staging area.

"He's gonna be fine," I told Wendy.

"I know," she said.

I looked around for Fancy, couldn't see her. Before I could puzzle it out, she strolled up carrying a cardboard tray with big paper cups carefully balanced, a white cowboy hat on her head.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked her.

"There's a concession stand on the other side," she said, handing an iced Coke to Wendy, another to me.

"I mean the hat."

"Oh. Some young boy was wearing it— he gave it to me."

"Come on," I said to both women. "Let's get over to where we can see it."

The first car through was a lipstick red Dodge Viper. The PA. system gave the guy's name, drawing some polite applause. He couldn't drive to save his life, wiping out on the twisting backstretch, spinning out of control. The car skidded harmlessly to a stop.

"You get three runs." I looked over at the speaker, a guy in his forties, wearing one of those suburban safari jackets. He looked fully equipped— a clipboard in one hand loaded with crosshatched paper, a monocular on a cord around his neck. "Most of them push too hard the first time through," he said knowingly. I nodded my thanks for the information.