Down in the Zero

by Andrew Vachss

  "You want a cigarette?" she asked.

  "Sure," I said, waiting.

  "I don't have any," she said. "I just meant it was okay to smoke here. That's an ashtray," pointing to a flat silver dish on the top of a black lacquered coffee table.

  I took the pack from my jacket pocket, shook one out, put it in my mouth. I opened the little box of wooden matches, the one with the name of the nightclub in Chicago I'd never been to. I leave them places, throw trackers off the scent. She put her hand on mine, said "Let me do it." I handed her the matches. She pulled the cigarette from my mouth, put it between her lips, struck the match. When she got it going, she handed it to me.

  "Thanks."

  "You didn't say anything about the taste this time," she said, soft–voiced. "I really liked it when you did that. Flirting. It's sweet fun. People don't do it much anymore. What you said…that was a line, right?"

  "No. I never said that before in my life. It just happened."

  "I bet."

  "Don't bet. You haven't learned to tell the truth when you hear it by now, all you'll ever be able to do is play—you'll never be for real."

  "I'm sorry," she said, dropping her eyes. "Did you mean the other stuff, what you said before? About me looking like a merry girl?"

  "Yes."

  She shifted her body so she was facing the TV set. "I don't just play—I work too," she said. "Watch."

  She hit the remote. Chamber music came from the speakers. The screen background was a neon blue. Black letters popped up: A LESSON FOR MELISSA. Credits rolled over the music. CANE PRODUCTIONS, trick lettering—the "P" in "PRODUCTIONS" formed a stylized cane. Some other stuff. The camera dissolved to…Fancy. In a high–necked, long–sleeved, dark velvet dress with a gathering of white lace at the throat, tight bodice, full skirt. She was seated on a flat bench, both hands in her lap. "Get in here, young lady!" her voice cracked out from the speakers.

  "Yes, mistress," said the woman walking on screen. A young woman, medium–height and slender, with long straight hair. She was wearing a schoolgirl outfit—dark plaid jumper over a white blouse, long white socks almost to her knees, flat–heeled shoes with Mary Jane straps.

  "It's a standard script," Fancy said, pushing a button on the remote. MUTE appeared in yellow letters at the bottom of the screen.

  There was some exchange of conversation between the two women, then the slender girl lay across Fancy's lap. Fancy pulled up the other girl's skirt and spanked her for a long time, occasionally stopping to say something. The camera shifted, zooming in from screen left to display the other woman's underpants. Back to a close–up of the woman's face, contorted in mock pain. Pulling away to a long shot: Fancy pulling down the other woman's panties, now smacking her with a hairbrush. The cameras danced around the show—at least three of them, an expensive setup.

  The scene seemed to go on and on, with the slender woman turning her head once in a while to say something. The camera lensed lovingly over her bottom, now a bright red. Finally, in response to something Fancy said, the woman slid off Fancy's lap, Fancy hooking a thumb into the panties so they slid off the other girl's legs as she stood up. Fancy pointed screen right. The other girl walked off. The closing shot was of the other girl, standing in a corner, her face to the wall.

  There were no actors' credits at the end. Just the Cane Productions sign and a P.O. box in Atlanta where you could order a catalog.

  Fancy hit the remote and the screen went dark.

  "That's me," she said.

  I lit another smoke, waiting for the punch line. Fancy got up, rewound the cassette, popped it out of the VCR and put it back into a plain case. The case went into an open spot on the bookshelf. She came back over to the couch, sat down again.

  "What do you know about me now?" she asked.

  "I know you're a pro domina," I said. And a blackmailer—where were the cameras hidden in the little house?

  "That's right. You think it's so bad?"

  "Bad how?"

  "Bad like…sick, okay?"

  "It's a fetish," I told her. "There's lots of them. They're bad if they hurt you inside—if you hate yourself every time you do it. Or if they get in the way of what you have to do. Or if you use force to make someone do it with you. Otherwise, what's the difference? Some people get pumped up by high–heeled shoes, some like to dress up like cowboys. If you have to pay for it, it just costs more, that's all." What a risk to be so needy. If you have a special way you need to play, how do you meet others like you? Coded ads in the personals columns? Advertise in the freak sheets? How could you ever trust them with your secrets?

  "You know about it?"

  "Not a lot."

  "It's a great business. Completely legal too. It's not just the videos—we have still photos, audiotapes, even custom stories."

  "Stories?"

  "Yes, a customer can set up a scenario, and we have people who will write them a special story. Just for them. Even put their name in it if they want. It's all on computer, in different fields. We can give the customer any setting he wants: schoolmaster, girls' dorm, sorority house, husband–wife, daddy–daughter…anything. And we have standard ones too, not custom. Like pamphlets."

  "What does it cost?"

  "It varies. The videos are forty–five dollars, the pamphlets are five. The custom stuff costs the most."

  "Yeah. Always does. Special costs more than straight on the street too."

  "I'm not a whore," she snapped. "And I'm not a degenerate. I don't slam dope, I don't booze, and I didn't get this shape from snarfing sweets. Don't you dare look down at me.

  "I'm not, I—"

  "Just listen," she interrupted. "I'm an actress. A role–player. I'm like a therapist too, for some of them. It relieves tension…like a massage. The girl–on–girl stuff is the most popular. Everybody in the scene says I'm a star."

  "Whatever you say." There's plenty of honest whores —whores who don't take your picture with hidden cameras.

  "It's true. It's a business. A good business."

  "Most of your customers are men?"xW

  "For the live scenes, sure. But we get women too. Couples, even. And we have plenty of women buyers for the videos. Some mostly buy…kid stuff."

  I turned my head so I was looking deep into her eyes. She held my stare for a minute, then she nipped at the palm of her hand, just below the thumb, and cast her eyes down. "Audio and custom," she said. "That's mostly what they want. There's a woman in Iowa, she advertises in all the magazines. You want to see?"

  I didn't react. Why would I want to see? This was coming too quick, secrets piled on secrets. When that happens, there's always a trade lurking close.

  She got to her feet, walked out of the room. She was back in a minute, holding a slick–paper magazine with a black and white photo of a woman bending over on the cover—there was another person in the photo, but all you could see was the paddle in their hand. I stood up, joined her under the light. She thumbed through rapidly, looking for the ad. It was marked with a red ink star, hand–drawn. I held it close to read the small type:

  Proverbs 13:24(!)

  Next time your kid has a good one coming, make a full–size cassette of the chastisement and send it to me. I pay $50 for fifteen minutes, more for longer. Good sound quality a must. I travel frequently, with my own equipment. Write to make arrangements.

  Only a P.O. box was listed, no name. A new kind of kiddie porn, legal too—I'd never heard of it before. Freaks carefully recording their own children getting whipped. To entertain other maggots. For money. I felt ice–picks of fire in my chest.

  "Why did you show me this?" I asked her, my voice flat and level.

  "Cherry told me. A long time ago. She said that's what you do."

  "That?"

  "No. She said you…hunt people like that. She knew you a long time ago, that's what she said. And she ran across you a few times. Not in person. Your name, what you do. She said she had your number, but I was always afraid to call. When y
ou walked in the kitchen, I knew it was you. Even before you said your name. I thought you'd be…bigger."

  "Why?"

  "Cherry always said if Randy got in trouble, she'd call you," she finished, ignoring my question.

  "You think Randy's in trouble?"

  "I think he thinks he is. He's a cowardly little kid, always scared of something. All those suicides, I know they made him afraid—he told me once.

  "So what's this whole show about? Where do you think I fit in?"

  She turned away from me, walked back over to the couch. "I hate them," she whispered, almost choking on the words.

  "Who?"

  "People who hurt kids. Especially their own kids. I know all about this stuff. Spanking. I'm an expert on it. It's not for discipline, it's for sex. Some people get turned on by it, some people get off on it. A good submissive, she can come just from getting spanked. There's men like that too. They whip their kids for fun. Their own fun. And it hurts the children. Because they know. They know why they're getting it. It's a sex game. And it stays with them. I know a woman, she's over thirty and her father still spanks her. What's that for?"

  "You know what it's for."

  "That's right, I do. And I hate them. I thought if you knew about it .

  "You want to hire me? Is that it?"

  "Hire you? You mean, you do it for money?"

  "I do some things for money."

  "I thought…I mean, Cherry said…you did that. She told me. About that mercenary who raped kids. He wanted to go to South Africa. And you…made him disappear."

  A thin, cold fluid ran up my spine right into my brain, freezing my face into show–nothing survival.

  Cherry had my number. Had it all this time.

  Cherry. South Africa. Diamonds. Sure. She wasn't getting rich with hanky–spanky blackmail, that wasn't her game. But how much would a man pay for a tape of him confessing to homicide?

  I could feel the tape recorders. Voice–activated, reel–to–reel with overlapping backup, microphones planted all around. Felt the fever–spike of fear whip through me and land in my gut, screaming Stay safe! I turned to Fancy and chuckled. "Yeah, sure. That's me all right. Burke, the masked avenger."

  "But…"

  "Hey, give me a break," I said, laughing harder now. "I'm not saying I never did anything wrong in my life. I'm a hustler. A thief. But kill somebody…forget it. That's not my speed. Cherry was just pulling your chain. I haven't seen her in a hundred years, but even then she was a world–class bullshit artist."

  Her face was white under the artificial tan, hands shaking. "I thought…"

  "What? That I was some kind of vigilante for kids? Because fucking Cherry told you?"

  "Yes!" she sobbed, her face in her hands. I watched her cry for a minute, her body shaking under the blue T–shirt.

  "Cut it out," I told her. "That's a fairy story. You're too old to think there's a Santa Claus."

  She leaned her head against my chest, still crying. I put my hand on her shoulder, pulled her into me. Held her while she cried.

  The outfit Michelle bought for me would look good in the movie the blackmailers were making, but even a Grand Jury of cops wouldn't indict Ice–T on the contents of the audio track.

  The light was on in the kid's bedroom—I could see it as I turned into the garage. Maybe he was scared of the dark.

  I took off the camouflage clothing. It was about two–thirty in the morning. I wasn't sleepy—too much to sort out.

  What Fancy told me was true. It takes a player to know the game. Even the child molesters who call what they do "intergenerational sex" know what "domestic discipline" is all about. But why would Cherry tell Fancy about what I do? What I did. How much did she know? Or was it all a bunch of guesses, needing my own words to drop me for the count.

  Today, people don't think about working to get rich. Or stealing either. It's all upside down now. People hear someone they know was in a car accident, they envy them…what a great lawsuit. Lawsuits and lottery tickets, that's the way you do it now.

  You don't run across straight blackmail much anymore. Why risk doing time when you can make a bigger score from selling secrets to the media? Treason is fashionable today. You have an affair with someone famous, there's a cash market for letters. For tapes, whatever. It helps if you're willing to pose nude later—show the people what the famous man wanted so bad.

  The important thing is to do it for the right reasons—because you got this desperate need for the public to know the truth—the media likes its whores better when they dress up.

  There's a bounty on famous people. Everybody knows where to go with the tapes.

  A celebrity's sister sells her diary to the garbage press. Sells her own sister. A young man writes a book about how some industrialist needed bondage to get off—a private game turned public for cash. A spoiled–stupid little girl pleads guilty to attempted murder of an older woman. She says she was having an affair with the woman's husband, that he told her to do it. He says it never happened, the girl is delusional. She's out on bail before she goes away to prison. She goes to see her boyfriend, another older guy. They talk, play with each other. She says spoiled–stupid stuff, jokes about the shooting, tries so pitiful–hard to be cool, sound tough. The boyfriend has a video going the whole time, sells it to a TV show.

  I guess that makes him famous too.

  It's not against the law, selling secrets. Why bother with extortion? Threats to expose are a waste of time when you can score more by actually pulling the trigger.

  Save those letters. Tape those calls. When I was first coming up, the worst thing you could be was a rat. Now it's a respected profession.

  There's a bull market in betrayal.

  But the tape I took from Cherry's hidden safe…I didn't recognize the man in the video—whoever he was, he wasn't that famous. Private blackmail. Leave the cash in a drop and you'll get the negatives…you don't see that stuff much anymore. There's money in it, sure. But not enough to buy fistfuls of gems.

  Unless it was a pyramid. Show some sucker who works for the government the tape. You want the tape back? Maybe we need to talk about being the low bidder on a defense contract. Or a judicial appointment. Or…

  No, it didn't add up. You can't be sure your target has any particular fetish. It takes years of work to set something like that up.

  So why would Fancy show me her video? Why would she talk about kids?

  I didn't have enough. Like trying to cross a fifty–foot chasm over a forty–foot bridge—I could be jumping to conclusions.

  If I did that, I didn't want it to be an accident.

  The kid was outside when I got up the next morning, waiting around downstairs like he had something on his mind.

  "I saw your light when I got in last night," I said. "You leave it on when you went to sleep, or what?"

  "I was awake. I was going over some stuff I had."

  "About race cars?"

  "Yeah." He shot me a smile. "I was wondering—"

  "Look, I gotta make a run into the city, okay? I won't be long, probably be back before this afternoon. Can we talk about it when I get back?"

  "Sure, I was just—"

  "Randy, is it important, kid?"

  "Not that important."

  "You get a call? Somebody say something to you?"

  "Nothing like that. It can wait, all right?"

  "Sure. Keep the phone with you if you go out."

  "I will. Uh, Burke…?"

  "What?"

  "Could you take the Lexus? I thought I'd…"

  "You got it," I told him.

  The Lexus was right at home in the commuter traffic, common enough among humans who worship products. I took my time, not pushing it. When I turned off at Bruckner Boulevard for Hunts Point, the Lexus fit in just as well—they're as popular with the dope boys as Mercedes used to be.

  I motored past the deadfall near the filthy water, watching the rapacious gulls circling. Meat–eaters all, they battle wit
h the wild dog packs for the refuse from the nearby meat market, unafraid of earthbound humans who occasionally trespass.

  "Nice car, Burke," Terry greeted me, running his palm over the sleek flanks of the Lexus. If the dogs noticed the upgrade in my transport, they didn't let on. I told Terry the Lexus wasn't mine, but I'd be driving it for a while. He nodded, holding his eager kid questions, imitating the Mole's way of doing business. I showed him the pistol. He nodded again, sagely pondering the obvious problem. "I got something that'll work. Wait here, okay?"

  I fired up a smoke, watching the dogs work their way across the junkyard in the studied Z–pattern of the predator pack. They were like the Mole too—they were used to humans, but didn't like many of them.

  The kid came back with a flat piece of black metal. It had a pair of black rubber grippers bonded to the back, two heavy suction cups on the front. He walked around the Lexus, finally found the place he wanted under the fender—he showed me the exact spot. I fitted the metal piece into the spot, pushed down. Nothing.

  "Push real hard, Burke," he said.

  I locked my forearm, shoved with all my strength. I felt it pop home, lock in place.

  "You want to take it off, you have to push this little button on the side…see?" He guided my hand to the spot. I pushed, and the metal bar dropped into my hand. I put it back in place, shoved the gun's barrel between the rubber grips. It held like it was welded.

  "Can I get the gun out without taking the whole thing off?" I asked him.

  "Sure. Just grab the handle and pull in the direction of the barrel— it works like a fulcrum, see?" He pulled it out as easy as drawing from a holster.

  "Pretty slick, Terry."

  He blushed like a kid with a perfect report card. It was another minute or so before I realized he wasn't going to say anything. Waiting the way his father always did.

  "Mole around?" I finally asked.

  "He's got…someone with him."

  I looked a "Who?" question at him. The kid shrugged. Whoever it was, it wasn't Michelle.

  "Should I…wait, or what?"

  "I'll see," Terry told me, moving off.