Andrew Vachss: Down in the Zero

Stay focused, I told myself. Stay inside. Think about the money.

I kept with the Pike to Exit 18, turned north, following the kid's directions. Soon it got real empty, even for the suburbs. Big pieces of land, wood fences that wouldn't keep anyone out, street signs on high posts with names that were supposed to make you think of colonial America and horses.

The roads got narrow. Curvy blacktop. Like moonshine country without the hills.

The house was set back only a short distance from the road. I drove just past it, like the kid said, turned back into a crescent driveway and parked. I could see a big garage through the rearview mirror, on the other end of the driveway. I popped the trunk, grabbed my duffel bag and walked through the quiet night around to the back door.

The lights were on. I rang the bell. The door jumped open— the kid must have been waiting.

I stepped past him into a huge kitchen. It had a nook with a round table set into a bay window, a restaurant–size stainless steel double–door refrigerator, a matching triple sink, more built–ins than I could count.

"Anybody else around?" I asked him, walking through the kitchen, past a dining room dominated by a long, rectangular table, going down a couple of steps into the living room.

"No. Just me. I've been waiting…"

"Yeah. Okay. I'm here now. Like I said. Just relax."

"You want a drink or something?"

I shook my head no. Kid probably thought I swilled rye by the quart. Next thing he'd ask me if I was packing a rod.

I sat down on a long, cream–colored couch, facing a panoramic window that looked out toward the road. I looked around. The Prof was right— the joint stunk of money. I half closed my eyes, thinking about being alone in the place for a few hours. Jewelry, cash, gold coins, bearer bonds, who knew? Sure, I'd be a suspect, but so what?— I was born a suspect.

A phone rang, a soft, insistent trill. The kid reached over behind him without looking, came out with a white cordless. He pulled out the antenna, said "Hello" in a shaky voice. Like he was waiting on bad news. Expecting it.

As soon as he heard who it was, his face switched from fear to petulance. He held the phone to his ear for a minute, listening. Occasionally, he tried to get a word in edgewise, but the caller wasn't having any.

"It's late…"

The kid cocked his head, listening.

"I have company and— " he said.

More listening, shaking his head.

"No, you can't come here. Not tonight. Just find some other fucking place to party, okay?"

He put the phone behind him, still watching me.

"My…friends. They know nobody's going to be home for a while, so…"

"They gonna listen to you?"

His face flashed white, like it never occurred to him that his pals wouldn't stay away.

"Yeah. Sure! I mean there's other places, right?"

"I don't know."

"Well, there are." Pouty little creep.

"Whatever you say, kid," I assured him. "Is there a garage or something…where I can park my car?"

"Sure. Out by the stables. Come on, I'll show you."

As we walked around, I got a better sense of the place. Behind the house was a big slab of land, rising up to a flat plateau. "Three and a half acres," the kid told me, like I had any idea of what an acre was. "That used to be the stable," he said, pointing to a two–story thing that looked like a barn. "We use it for a garage now."

He opened the door and I backed my car in between a beige Lexus sedan and a red Mazda Miata roadster. The Plymouth looked like a rhino at a tea dance.

"Yours?" I asked him, pointing at the Mazda.

"Yeah. Graduation present. It's last year's," throwing it off.

He closed the wood doors to the garage. No lock. I saw a flight of steps around the side of the building.

"What's this?"

"It's to the caretaker's apartment. Above the stables."

"Caretaker?"

"For the stables. When we had horses. There's nobody there now."

I looked up at the dark windows. "You got electricity up there?"

"Sure. It's real nice, actually. Mom says we're gonna rent it out, one of these days."

I lit a cigarette, thinking how peaceful it was out there, when I heard the thump of rap music on the move. Gravel crunched in the driveway. It was a white Suzuki Samurai, a topless little jeep, loaded with people. The driver stomped on the brakes, cutting a Brodie in the dirt. A big blond kid vaulted over the side just as a dark BMW sedan pulled in behind.

"Oh fucking shit !" the kid half moaned next to me.

The blond kid muscle–walked over to where we were standing, a brawny, cocky guy, moving with a linebacker's menacing grace.

"Hey, Randy! Heard you were lonely, so I brought you some company."

"You can't— " the kid started to say.

The blond cut him off with a chop of his hand. "Hey! I got it. No problemo, pal. We're just gonna use the upstairs, okay? We're not going near the house, don't get yourself all excited."

"Not here," I said, stepping forward.

"Who the fuck are you?" the blond kid asked, head swiveling on a thick neck, giving me a stare that might have frightened a quarterback.

"The caretaker," I told him. "Mrs. Cambridge hired me to look after the place while she's away. I'm living there…" jerking my thumb at the upstairs apartment.

"Oh yeah? Then we'll just— "

"Leave."

The blond kid stepped closer, expanding his chest. He was wearing a loose T–shirt over surfer baggies, barefoot. "Look, man, you don't…"

I caught his eyes, smelled the beer. Thought about my steel–toed boots and his bare legs, wrapped my hand around the roll of quarters in my pocket. Reminded myself to get off first if he dropped a shoulder…and not to hit him in the head. Feeling how good it would be to hurt him— letting him feel what I felt.

"Nice babysitter your mommy hired for you, Randy," he sneered. "Some old dude asshole rent–a–cop."

Somebody laughed, behind him.

He eye–tested me for about five seconds— as a bully, he was a rank amateur. "See you around," he finally said, turning his back on me, climbing into the jeep.

The little white car tore up the driveway on the way out, the silent BMW in its wake.

The kid wasn't overcome with gratitude. "Now you've fucking done it," he said, nasty–voiced.

"What's the big deal?" I asked him.

"They'll be back. Nobody says no to Brew…he's an animal."

"Brew?"

"Brewster Winthrop. He's like the…leader around here."

"The leader of what?"

"Of…us, I guess. I dunno."

"What's he do?"

"Do?"

"Yeah. Besides his little drive–bys. Does he work, go to school, what?"

"He's in college. Or he was, anyway. Now he's home."

"Don't worry about it."

"That's easy for you to say."

"Look, kid, it isn't all that important, all right? It bothers you so much, give him a call, tell him to come back and trash the place to the ground. I'll go over to the other house and get some sleep."

"I can't do that. My mother would…"

"Yeah. Okay. Just let it rest."

I lit a smoke, feeling the knots in the back of my neck relax.

"You weren't scared of him?" the kid asked.

"No," I told him.

He gave me a funny look— I let it slide.

We walked back over to the house. "Maybe I should sleep over the garage tonight," I said. "In case your pals make a comeback."

"No! I mean…I thought you were gonna stay…"

"You can sleep over there too, all right?"

"I don't…I mean, it'll be okay. There's an intercom, anyway."

"Intercom?"

"I'll show you," he said over his shoulder, flicking on the stereo in the living room. Soft string music flowed, so faintly I could barely hear it. He walked up the stairs, me right behind. The second floor was bigger than it looked from the outside, four bedrooms, two of them master–size. I followed him to the end of the house. "This is hers," he told me, tilting his head in that direction.