Andrew Vachss: Down in the Zero

"So…?"

"So this Cherry, she was the regular girl on that table. It wasn't the kind of joint where they'd stuff tips into her bra, but her butt was always bruised from the pinches. I never tipped her myself— I wasn't picking up the tab. I get back to my place one time and I find a slip of paper in my jacket pocket. Just her name and a phone number. I called her, and we spent some time together."

"She was a player too?"

"I don't know…now. I sure didn't think so then. She was a bit older than me. I thought she just wanted some fun. That's all we did. She never asked me a word about business, didn't ask what I was doing over there, nothing. I asked her once, why she worked there. She said she was gonna meet a rich man, get married. It was a good place to meet a rich man, I remember her saying that."

"Look like she scoped the dope."

"Yeah. The last time I was in the joint, she gave me the high sign. I went to the Men's Room and she was there. Inside. I thought she wanted to get it on, but she wasn't after sex. She told me she saw this Rex the night before. Meeting a government man. I asked her how she knew. She told me I wasn't the only boyfriend she'd ever had. 'Don't come back, love,' is what she said. And I never did."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I went back to the hotel, packed my stuff and got out. Called a number back in the States, left word where I was. I just waited on the recruiters. When they came to the new hotel, I told them I got nervous…spotted a federale in the place where they'd put me up. They took it okay— said I was smart to be spooky— made me describe this Rex. They didn't get mad about me looking to score for myself…like they expected it. Couple of days later, I went over to Cherry's house. The landlady said she moved out. I was there maybe another week, then I shipped out."

"Never saw her again?"

"Never."

"So what finally happened?"

"They bounced me around. London to Geneva to Lisbon, then to Angola, then to the island. I found the plane easy enough. Then I went over. After a while I came back. Never saw any of them again. It didn't come up until those South Africans came to me with that end–user certificate scam…the phony gunrunners, remember?"

"Yes, my brother," the Prof said, serious now. That was when Flood came into my life.

She won't be back either.

"I wouldn't know her…this Cherry. if she walked in the door. It was a long time ago."

"Want to ride the rocket?" the Prof asked, leaning forward. "Here's what the kid told me— get down to the sound."

The Prof reached over, glommed another of my smokes. Took a minute to fire it up to his satisfaction, like it was a five–dollar cigar, working with a convict's sense of time, killing it the way it was trying to kill him.

"They all rotten–rich, where this kid lives. Got all the things , you know what I'm saying? They all do everything the same way— there ain't but one kinda vines to buy, one kinda way to wear them, one kinda car to drive, right? It's all groups. Some of them ride horses, some ride Mercedes. Their folks are all someplace else. With their activities ," he sneered. "They got crews, but they got no loyalty, see? Savage little bastards. Our boy, he was a tanker— the same nitrous they slip you in a dentist's office. Other ones, they played with Jello–shots. Some tranq'ed it through. Whatever makes your head dead, Fred."

"So what's he scared of? There's no more draft…and his kind don't go to jail."

"You ever watch TV? Ever see those ads…your kid's fucking up big–time, maybe he needs some of our fancy psychotherapy? A few weeks in our little hospital, you get yourself a brand–new kid. No more drugs, no more booze, no more bad temper. That's this Crystal Cove joint he was talking about."

"He's afraid they'll send him there?"

"Maybe. They sent his pals, a whole bunch of them. And they all come back. Talk about how great it was. They don't seem no better to him— they go right back to whatever lightning they was riding before they went in. But they're different."

"How?"

"The kid don't know. Here's what he says: half a dozen kids…kids he knows, kids he ran with…they checked out on the do–it–yourself plan. Stepped over. First two went out from an exhaust pipe. One drowned herself. Couple more overdosed on downers. And the last one, he ate a gun."

"They do that…"

"None of them left a note, bro."

"So?"

"He won't say why, but he thinks they got done. And what he's scared of, it's gonna happen to him."

"So the move is…"

"He can't run, son. Something's going down in that town, and he thinks it's coming for him, Jim."

"He wants…what?"

"A bodyguard, way he says it. Make sure he don't have himself an accident. But that plan don't scan, man. Got to be something else…"

"Where's the money?"

The Prof's voice dropped. He was talking without moving his lips, out of the side of his mouth. In the jailhouse, you talk two ways: loud when you're selling tickets, quiet when you're plotting. I leaned forward, tuned in.

"You be fucking surrounded by money, schoolboy. Up where the kid lives, the whole scene is green."

"Yeah, but…"

"You don't like the bet, you can always jet," the Prof rapped. "Take the case, Ace."

It didn't take me long to pack. Michelle dogged my steps, harassing me with questions. All I had was an address— told the kid I'd be there by nighttime.

"I don't know how long this is gonna take," I told her. "You can stay here, long as you want."

"About a New York minute is as long as I want, baby. This place is creepy enough with you here— I'm not staying one single night alone."

"Whatever you…"

"Yes, I know. I'll find a sweet little crib someplace, don't worry about me. Soon as you have a safe number, get it to the Mole."

"Okay."

"Now remember what I told you to watch for?"

"Yeah, yeah. What they wear, how they wear it, what they wear it with…"

"Don't be such a sarcastic bastard. How am I going to help you if I don't know the territory?"

"I said okay, Michelle. Soon as I know, you'll know, all right?"

"Shut up. And pack this too," she snapped, tossing a package at me.

It was a silk jacket, midnight blue. Soft as down, almost weightless. A pair of pleated pants of the same material, a slightly lighter blue.

"It's beautiful, Michelle."

"You got that right, dummy. That jacket's a genuine Marco Giallo. You can wear it with a pair of jeans, over a T–shirt, you still make a statement. Put on a nice shirt and a tie, you can walk in anywhere. Understand?"

"Yes. Thanks, honey."

"It gets crumpled, you just turn on the shower, all hot water, fill the bathroom with steam, hang it up for a couple of hours, it'll be good as new.

"Okay."

"Take the alligator boots too. Just wear them all the time, like a trademark. They'll never know you don't belong if you stand apart…got it?"

"Yeah."

"And don't do anything stupid."

"I got it, Michelle."

"I love you, baby," she whispered, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.

After she left, I packed the things she bought for me. And threw in a gray summer–weight business suit and some other stuff, just in case I had to work a straighter crowd.

I crossed the Triboro through the Bronx, took 95 North to the Connecticut Pike, rolling east, driving just past the speed limit, staying with the Exact Change lanes. The Plymouth's tach never saw three grand, its monster motor bubbling, so far within itself it was almost asleep.

Just off the side of the road, the carcass of a dead dog. Couldn't cross the highway, but he made it to the other side.

I threw one of my Judy Henske tapes into the cassette slot just past the bridge— I was already across the state line by the time I heard it stop to switch sides. I hadn't heard a note. If her flame–throwing angel's voice couldn't get through to me…