Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

The next car was a one–seater with some kind of boattail— I didn't recognize it.

"Herbert Carpenter. Driving a D–type Jaguar," the PA. announced.

Whoever he was, he was good. Real good. The dark green car zipped through the pylons smoothly, making a sound like ripping canvas. The electronic scoreboard flashed…1:29.44.

"Best time of the day," the guy next to me said.

Wendy tapped my forearm. "I'll be right back," she said.

"Brewster Winthrop. Driving a ZR–one Corvette," the announcer told us.

The 'Vette was Darth Vader black, bristling with aero add–ons right down to a useless rear spoiler that hovered over the tail like a stalking bird of prey. It charged around the course like an enraged bull, all brutish power and noise. But the jerk could drive, I had to give him that. He smoked past the finish line as the board flashed…1:29.12.

"All right!" the guy next to me cheered, marking something on his clipboard. He wasn't alone— Brewster got himself a heavy round of applause as he stepped out of his car. He pulled off his helmet, took a little bow.

"John Margate. Driving his famous Lola." The P.A. wasn't needed— everybody there seemed to know the car. Margate's blue beast slipped through the course like rushing water, fiber–optic threading, glass on Teflon. I didn't need the scoreboard to tell me he was faster than anyone else, but it showed the numbers for all to see…1:27.33.

"The best!" the guy next to me said.

It was three more cars before they called the kid's name. "Sonny Cambridge. Driving a… Plymouth."

"He's gotta be kidding," my tour guide remarked sourly, the monocular screwed into his eye.

"At least they got his name right," I said to Wendy.

"I went over and told them," she replied. "I wanted him to hear it." Sonny launched out of the starting gate like a dragster, threw the big car into a long, controlled skid, sliding from pylon to pylon like a bootlegger on a dirt road, a rooster–tail of smoke and pebbles behind him. He kept it high on the tach, braking against the gas pedal, cranking the wheel between extremes of full lock. Wailing!

The timer told the story…1:28.55. The crowd went wild as Sonny stepped out. He kept his helmet on, climbed back inside the Plymouth and motored off to the side.

We found him in the pit area. "That was great!" I told him. Wendy and Fancy each kissed a different cheek. The kid's face was a sweet shade of red. "I'm gonna skip the second run," he told me. "Unless somebody beats my time. The last run is just two cars— I think John Margate's gonna wait too."

"Good plan."

"It was…wonderful, man. I can't tell you…"

"Let's go back and watch," I said.

We found a place to stand off to the side. "I can't see ," Fancy said. I hunted around, found a sturdy–looking wooden crate, stood it on end. "Try this," I said. She stepped up, posing gingerly on her spike heels, one hand on my shoulder. "It's perfect," she said. "Can you find one for Wendy too?"

I took a quick walk around, looking. The Viper was getting ready to try again. I caught the glint of sun on glass somewhere to my right. A man in an army field cap, binoculars to his eyes. He took them down. It was Blankenship. I turned my eyes back to the course. The Viper was heading for another DNF. I turned back toward Blankenship. He was gone.

I found another crate, carried it back. Wendy climbed aboard, balancing herself without difficulty.

Brewster was the last to run. He rammed the 'Vette through, clipping a couple of cones, but he didn't make the cut…the timer said 1:29.04.

"It's me and John Margate," Sonny said, fingering the car keys.

Sonny went first. As soon as I heard the Plymouth on the starting line, I knew he'd bypassed the mufflers— the sound was as ominous as an earthquake tremor. The muscular machine gave off a sustained guttural scream as Sonny slashed through the course. Wendy and Fancy were both yelling something, but I couldn't make it out. Fancy whipped off her sweatshirt, waved it around her head like a flag. Sonny came across the finish line sideways, slid almost off the course.

1:27.52.

"Soonnnny!" Fancy screamed, waving the sweatshirt. This time, everybody looked.

Margate's Lola didn't look like it was going any faster. He razor–sliced the cones, as sure–footed as a tightrope walker.

1:27.44.

"Fuck!" I said to myself.

They awarded the trophies at the edge of the course. Seemed like most of the crowd stayed around to see it. Brewster took his third–place cup like the surly bastard he was. Then they called Sonny's name. The applause was sustained, heavy. The kid took his second–place trophy, held it up for a second to more applause, and walked off. Margate took his first–place prize like a man accepting the mail.

We all stood together, watching the rest of the presentations. There was a trophy for everything: longest distance traveled, oldest car competing, you name it. The announcer was a jolly–looking fat guy with a full beard. He had a deep, rich voice, like he did it for a living. Then he said: "And now for the crown jewel…Outstanding Driver of the Meet. The vote was unanimous. And the winner is…Sonny Cambridge!"

Sonny staggered forward, a dazed look on his face. He took the huge silver trophy in both hands, turned to face the crowd. John Margate stepped up, extended his hand. Sonny shook it. Margate raised Sonny's hand high. The cheers sounded like what you'd hear at a prize–fight.

We waited for Sonny by the Plymouth. He was surrounded by people— I could barely make him out in the throng. When he finally walked over, he had a trophy in each hand. "This is for you, Burke," he said, handing me the second–place cup. "Thanks, man. For everything."

I shook his hand, not saying anything.

"You know what?" he said. "John Margate said he wants me to run SCCA. In his car! He's got a couple of Nissans he's been preparing, says I can drive one of them. Isn't that amazing?"

"Not to me. Class knows class."

He nodded, not fully absorbing it yet, dumb with happiness. "Wendy," he said. She stepped next to him, copper eyes alive.

"This is for you," the kid said, handing her the big silver trophy.

She hugged the cup. I made a motion to Fancy. We started to move off when Brewster walked up.

"Not bad, wimp," the dummy said. "Maybe someday we'll do it for real, you and me."

Sonny turned his eyes to Brewster. Different eyes, now. Gunfighter's eyes— calm and hard. "You know the Old Motor Parkway, Brewster? Where it goes off–road, past the tannery? There's a bridge at the end of the dirt road. A rickety old wooden bridge…only room enough for one car at a time. Tell you what…you meet me there tonight and we'll go down that road. First one over the bridge wins."

"You're fulla shit!"

"Midnight, okay?"

"Crazy fuck!" Brewster said, walking off.

"Sonny…" I said.

"He'll never show up," Sonny told me. Not a kid anymore.

It was almost four in the afternoon when we finally pulled out of the airport lot. Sonny and Wendy were going their own way. Me, I needed a pay phone.

"It's me," I told the Mole.

"They get in and out?"

"Yes."

"They find it?"

"I don't know yet."

"About time you put your top back on," I told Fancy as I climbed back into the NSX.

"Oh, come on. It looks just like a halter, doesn't it? Anyway, I got excited— I wanted a flag to wave, you know?"

"Yeah. It worked out great."

"Sonny's so different," she said. "He's really changed."

"He hasn't changed at all, girl. What happened was he's just starting to be himself."

"That's how it works?"

"Sometimes. For some people. Like what you do in your greenhouse— seeds to buds to flowers, right? Depends on the soil, the weather…parasites, crop dusters…the whole works."