Down in the Zero

by Andrew Vachss

  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…

  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?"
r />   "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.

  The room was huge, with high ceilings, one of the walls almost all glass. A side door opened into a bathroom: stall shower, separate tub with Jacuzzi jets, a phone set into a niche in the wall within easy reach. A double sink with an elaborate makeup mirror surrounded by tiny lights. All pink marble with a faint white vein running through it. The floor was the same motif in glistening tile.

  "Here," he said, opening a walk–in closet full of enough clothes to stock a small store. Just past the door was a control panel, a small round speaker set into the top, a double row of buttons beneath it, each button numbered. He pushed one of the buttons. The string music from the stereo flowed out of the speaker.

  "See?" he said. "She has the whole place wired."

  "Every room."

  "Yes." Something in his face, couldn't tell what in the reflected light.

  "Is this the only control panel?"

  "Yeah."

  "So if I stay over there, how will you…"

  "I'll sleep in here tonight," he said, his face down.

  I shouldered my duffel, headed back across the yard alone. Climbed the wood stairs along the side of the garage. The door to the apartment had a glass pane next to a dime–store lock. A clear message to burglars about what was inside—either nothing worth stealing…or Rottweiler who hadn't been fed in a while.

  I used the key the kid gave me, stepped inside and flicked on the lights. It was nicer than I expected, the living room furnished with substantial, expensive–looking pieces that had aged out of chic. Even the living room carpet was deep and decent, a muted blue with a thick pad underneath. Against one wall was a stereo–tape–CD combo with bookshelf speakers. The kitchen was small, but all the appliances looked serviceable. The bathroom was small too, a plastic curtain turned the tub into a shower on demand. I crossed over to the bedroom, which was dominated by a heavy, carved wood frame for the double bed and a matching dresser with a mirror.

  I kept looking. The refrigerator was empty except for some bottled water, but the kitchen cabinets had a good supply of canned goods. Pots and pans too. The pilot light was working on the stove. The hall closet had towels and sheets. No security system that I could see. I spent another fifteen minutes searching the living room for the microphone that would connect to the house intercom. No luck. I finally found it in the bedroom, a thin wire with a bulb tip running under the base of the window frame. The window looked out over the back area—the three and a half acres the kid had been bragging about. It slid open easily when I shoved. Maybe twenty feet to the ground. Okay.

  I poured myself a glass of cold water, lit a smoke and sat on the couch. A white telephone sat on an end table. Probably recycled from the main house too. I checked the number—it was different from the one over there. I picked it up: dial tone.

  Okay.

  I was up at first light the next morning. Made myself some prison–tasting orange juice from powder I found in a kitchen cabinet, walked around inside a little bit, getting a daytime feel for the place.

  I shaved and took a shower. When I got out of prison the last time, I took a bath every chance I got—something you couldn't get inside the walls. After a while, the pleasure wore off. After a while, a lot of pleasures do.

  Whoever lived there before me left some stuff behind. An old leather jacket on a coat stand in the living room, just past the door. A stack of magazines: Penthouse, American Rifleman, Road & Track. Maybe they had expensive tastes. In one of the dresser drawers, I found a green and black plaid flannel shirt, a couple of wool pullovers. And a black leather riding crop.

  I left the drawer the way it was. Unpacked my own stuff. Hung the jacket Michelle gave me in the bathroom, letting the steam run to refresh it.

  I went downstairs, opened the garage doors, started the Plymouth. I pulled out quietly, then I cruised in increasing circles, smelling the wind, making notes inside my head. I found some of the things I'd need: a bank of pay phones in the parking lot of a mini–mall, a deli with a coffee shop up front that was open at that hour, an underpass to the highway where I could pull the car in, make it disappear.

  It was a little past ten by the time I put the Plymouth back in the garage.

  The kid was still asleep when I went through the back door to the main house. I found him in his mother's bedroom, face down, covers to his waist. I left him there, went looking around.

  The basement was like an old–fashioned storm cellar, not the finished rec room I'd expected. Just an oil burner in one corner, some sagging wood shelves gray from dust, a collection of rusty old garden tools, some suitcases with stickers on them, a steamer trunk.

  I prowled through the house, looking for whatever. Didn't find it.

  He came downstairs a little before noon, wearing a red terry–cloth bathrobe, hair wet from the shower. I was in one of the leather chairs in the living room, having a smoke, thinking.

  "Anything happen last night?" I asked him.

  "No. Not really."

  "What?"

  "Phone calls. Hang ups, that's all. Just somebody playing with my head."

  "They do that a lot around here?"

  "I…guess so. I don't know."

  "When does your mother get back?"

  "Around Labor Day. That's when she always comes back. When school starts."

  "School for you?"

  "Yeah, I guess. College. If I go."

  "Yeah. Well, look, I can't stay that long. Just sitting around here, understand?"

  "You said…"

  "I said I'd come up here, and I did. Hang out with you a while, and I will. But I don't know where to go with all this. You're not doing any work."

  "Work?"

  "Yeah, kid, work. You said you were scared of something—I still don't know what that is."

  "Neither do I…exactly."

  "Your friends died, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And you said you thought it could happen to you, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And that's it? That's all you fucking know?"

  "I…"

  "Look, either you know more than you're telling, or you don't know enough. Either get off it, or get on it. Otherwise, I get on out of here, you're gonna be the same as before I came, see?"

  "Yeah." Sulky now. Sullen. I left him that way.

  Darkness drops softer in the suburbs—I couldn't feel it coming the way I do in the city. I changed my clothes, walked over to the main house. The kid was sprawled on the floor in front of the big–screen TV in the living room, smoking a joint, flicking the remote rapid–fire, getting off on the images.

  I sat down on the couch, pulled the remote out of his hands—it was making me dizzy. The screen image stabilized. CNN. Some twerp was talking. He had an Opie face, but his eyes were weaselly little beads. I hit the volume toggle, listening to the twerp squeak about family values. Lousy little Senator's Son. I had his family, I'd be all for family values too—wasn't for his family, he'd be kissing ass to be assistant manager at McDonald's.

  The kid giggled. It wasn't a political statement—he was halfway stoned, blissing.

  "Let's go for a ride," I told him. "You can show me the sights."

  We walked out to the garage. He started to climb into the Miata. I shook my head. The keys were in the Lexus. I got behind the wheel, fired it up. He got in the passenger side, cranked the seat way back so he was almost reclining.

  I backed out, pointed the car's nose toward the street, hit the gas and pulled away. The beige car handled like graphite—quiet and slick.

  "W
hich way?" I asked him.

  "To where?"

  "Wherever you all hang out."

  He made some vague gesture with his left hand. I turned left at the corner, tracking. The kid turned on the stereo. Too loud. I found the knob, dropped it down. I kept driving, following his hand waves every time there was a corner–choice.

  The town wasn't much—a long, wide street with little shops. Service stops for the locals, atmospheric joints for the summer people. The street had no pulse.

  When we hit the water, I turned right, following a winding road. Seafood restaurants, couple of one–story tavern–types, some smaller office buildings.

  A squad car came toward us at a leisurely speed, too fast for prowling but not in a hurry. The kid toked on his joint, unconcerned.

  "What's in there?" I asked him. We were rolling past a freestanding building with a big parking lot full of cars, some of them covered with college–age kids. It looked like an upper–class version of a drive–in hamburger joint.

  "The Blue Bottle. A nightclub, like."

  "You ever go there?"

  "Sometimes. It's not really down."

  "Where do you hang out, then?"

  "Houses, man. In the houses. If you know the circuit, it's always party time."

  In the morning, there was a fat housefly buzzing around on the inside of my window screen. I found a plastic squeeze bottle with a spray top—the kind you use to mist houseplants—and filled it from the tap. I gently misted the fly until it stopped moving. Then I picked it up carefully, opened the window, put it outside on the ledge. I watched, smoking a cigarette. Finally, it shook itself and took off. You can't drown a fly.

  I dragged deep on the smoke, playing it in my head. Burke, he wouldn't hurt a fly.

  Just kill a kid once in a while.

  I got dressed slowly. Last night had been a waste. Driving around, looking at not much of anything. The kid didn't seem scared anymore, but every time I mentioned leaving, the panic danced in his eyes. He was going to make a list for me, give me a place to start.

  I'd seen his kind before—a herd animal, with no drive to be the bull of the pack.