"Stay here," I told her. She didn't reply.
I was about a half hour putting together everything I wanted. Nice thing about rich towns—the deli displayed a massive selection, and the art supply shop had just what I needed. I carried it back in a couple of environmentally correct paper bags with store logos plastered on them, put it all in the trunk.
Fancy was just where I left her, still looking down at her lap, her seat belt still buckled. I opened her door, reached across her and unsnapped the belt. "Come on," I said, taking her hand, pulling her up. "Give me a hand with this," I told her, pointing at the canvas top to the Miata.
She dutifully unhooked her side of the top, helped me fold it back behind the seats. We climbed back inside and took off. Out of town, meandering until I found the back roads that led to Crystal Cove. I played with the Miata on the curves a little bit—the little car seemed happier higher up on the tach.
Fancy still hadn't said a word. We were on a smooth straight stretch of blacktop. "Unbutton your blouse," I told her.
"What?"
"Unbutton your blouse, bitch," I said again, smacking my hand lightly against the side of her thigh.
She undid a couple of buttons, not speaking. "Do another one," I said, reaching inside her blouse as she obeyed, feeling for the clasp. It was in the front, a solid notch between her heavy, thick breasts. I popped it open and they came free.
"Very nice," I said, reaching my hand under her loose skirt. She looked straight ahead. I found her plump sex under the cotton, pinched hard. She made a little squeal. I pinched harder, feeling the wetness come.
"You gonna behave yourself?" I asked her.
"Yes sir," she said, still looking down.
"You gonna do what I want?"
"Yes, sir. Oh!" she yelled as I pinched her harder.
"What I want, I want a bouncy, merry girl to go on a picnic with me, see?"
"Yes."
"Then act like you understand. Close up your top. And give me a kiss."
She closed the bra, buttoned the blouse, twisted in her seat and kissed me on the cheek. I patted her knee, kept driving until I found the same spot we'd watched the hospital from. I pulled the Miata off the road. If anyone ever asked me another time, I'd been there before, legit.
I opened the trunk and took out some of the stuff I'd bought. There was no blanket back there—I guess rich kids didn't use them.
We walked away from the car until I found a spot under a tree. I took off my jacket, spread it out on the ground. "Sit, bitch," I told her. "I hope this is big enough to keep your fat butt off the grass."
"Close enough," she giggled, some color back in her face.
I unpacked the big paper bag. Handed Fancy a thick, stuffed croissant.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Halibut salad. The guy at the deli assured me it's the latest craze."
"Ummm," she said, taking a deep bite. "It's delicious. What did you get for yourself?"
"Roast beef and chopped liver" I said, biting into my pumpernickel bread sandwich.
"Ugh. Cholesterol City!"
"Shut up—it's good for you."
"Oh sure," she said, her mouth full of sandwich, gray eyes alive again.
I handed her a small bottle of champagne, opened a bottle of Ginseng Up for myself.
"You don't ever drink?" she asked me.
"No."
"How come?"
"I was overseas. In Africa. During some stupid war, a long time ago. I got malaria and some other stuff. Damaged my liver. Booze feels like acid running through my guts."
"Oh, you poor man".
"Because I can't drink alcohol? Big deal."
"No, I mean…a war. And all those diseases. It must have been terrible."
"It's over," I told her. "That's what happens with things. You survive them, then they're over."
"Some things," she said.
I held up my bottle of soda, acknowledging the truth.
The sun was warm. We finished the meal. I lay on my back, head in Fancy's lap, smoking a cigarette, watching the clouds. Waiting.
"She always thinks she knows everything," Fancy said. "She always has to be on top. Charm…she's had a charmed life, all right."
"What was bothering you so much?"
"Did you see the way she looked at you? At me?"
"Yeah."
"That's what I hate about the scene so much—you can't ever have anything private. Anything to yourself. That's why the videos don't matter—they all know about you anyway. They say it's like a family…the hanky–spanky people say that, anyway. Us against Them, you know?"
"Yeah."
"Well, it isn't. It just isn't. It's a way of having…sex, I guess—it isn't all you are. But with them, that's all there is. That's the way Charm sees it—if she knows what you like, she knows you. She saw me, sitting there like that…I wanted to confuse her, just for once."
"Why couldn't I just be a friend of yours?"
"I wouldn't have a friend at my house. Not a man friend. I never had one, anyway.
"Not a boyfriend? Even in school?"
"Sometimes. But never for long."
"Why would it bother you so much if Charm thought I was a trick?"
"Because you're not, that's all. She always wants to find out about things. How they work. Keys, she calls them. She's a biochemist. She even has her own lab."
"Where?"
"In her cottage. She has one just like mine, but she doesn't live there. She lives in the house."
"All alone?"
"Except for the staff."
"Your parents are…?"
"Dead. My mother had a stroke of some kind. A blood vessel broke in her head. It was a long time ago."
"What happened to your father?"
"He killed himself," Fancy said, fingers playing idly in my hair. "He left a note. On the computer. Then he took sleeping pills. A lot of them."
"I'm…sorry."
"Don't be," she said.
She had her door open almost before I brought the Miata to a stop in her driveway.
"Where's the fire?" I asked her.
"I forgot," she said, sounding forlorn. "Remember what you asked me to do? I have to get going, make some calls, find out—"
"Slow down, little girl. It's not a matter of life and death."
"It is to me. I said I'd do it. I told you I'd do it. I want you to trust me."
"I do trust you," I said, grabbed the front of her blouse, pulling her close for a kiss. Thinking about other videotapes she'd starred in—
ones she'd never showed me. I handed her the other paper bag I'd picked up. "Put this in your front room. And don't open it, bitch."
"What's in there?"
"You'll see."
"When?"
"Tonight. After dark."
The Plymouth was missing. I went upstairs. Found a note neatly taped to the outside of the door.
"Be back by 5," it said. Signed: "Sonny."
I changed my clothes, glad I hadn't been wearing anything Michelle bought—I wouldn't want to face her with grass stains on the fancy duds. I took the Lexus, drove till I found a pay phone. Dialed the Mole. He answered the way he always does, with silence.
"It's me," I said. "Best time to go in is this Sunday. Anytime between eleven in the morning and four in the afternoon. I'm going to leave a car in the parking lot of the Three Trees Mall, right outside of town. Terry's seen it—he's got the key."
The Mole grunted—I couldn't tell if he was surprised.
"Tell them to take that car when they go in. Return it to the same spot when they're done. Anyone sees it in the driveway, they won't get excited."
"Okay."
"I'll come back, late Sunday, all right?"
"Yes."
"I've had it with take–out," I told the kid. "How about if we go someplace, have a meal for dinner?"
"Okay, sure. Where do you want to go?"
"Anyplace someone else does the cooking, preferably right on th
e premises."
He flashed me a grin. We took the Lexus. "It's only a couple of days until the races," he said by way of explanation.
"You giving the beast a rest?"
"It's not that. I just don't want anybody to see her until…"
"I got it."
The place he took us to looked like a giant diner from the '50s, all glass and chrome, every seat near the windows. The parking lot was half–full, mostly with the kind of sports cars rich people buy their kids. We found a booth near the back. The joint was packed with twenty–something children, all working hard to be too hip for the room.
"Did you see Gaby? She's all glam'ed out. That cat's–eye makeup, it's so razor," one girl twittered at another. "I just skeeve her, the bitch!"
"Yeah, that's wicked cute, all right. But, that makes me, like…what?" her pal replied.
I sure as hell didn't have the answer.
The menu promised Steak in Twelve International Styles as well as a Complete Selection of Gourmet Beers. The kid wanted hamburgers. I opted for the meat loaf, prepared for the worst.
The waitress was a skinny dishwater blonde with heavy black makeup around her eyes, giving her the much–coveted raccoon look. She took our order smoothly and moved off, not wasting a motion. The food came on heavy white plates. Big portions. The meat loaf was a deep rich slab, with a fine thick crust. The mashed potatoes tasted like they came right out of the skin. Even the mixed vegetables looked fresh, but I didn't taste them to find out. The kid wolfed his food, holding the burgers in both hands, juice running down his chin.
The waitress cleared our plates, asked if there'd be anything else.
"Is the lemon pie good?" I asked her.
"You like the meat loaf?" she replied.
"Sure did."
"The pie's better. They bake it fresh every day."
"That's for me," I told her. "Sonny?"
"A hot fudge sundae," the kid responded, showing impeccable taste.
I was working on an after–dinner cigarette when I saw the kid look up, watching something behind my back. I didn't turn around.
"Hey, there's my boy! What's shaking, Randy?" Brewster. With a flunkie on each side. Expanding his chest, grinning. He stepped forward, so he was standing between us, looking down.
"Brew," the kid acknowledged him.
"Heard you were gonna be running on Sunday. Why don't you dump that little kiddie car of yours so you and me can hook up?"
"I'll be running the Open Class," the kid said, level–voiced.
"Is that right? What're you gonna bring?"
"I'm still working on it," the kid replied.
"Still got your bodyguard, I see," Brewster sneered.
The kid ignored him.
"How's the caretaker business?" the big dummy asked me, leaning over.
"Interesting," I told him, holding his eyes until they dropped.
"Hey," he said. "No hard feelings, right? How about I buy you guys a beer? Waitress!" he shouted. "Come on over here!"
The blonde made her way over, pad in hand. "Where's your table?" she asked.
"Right here," Brewster said, sliding in next to the kid. One of his flunkies pushed against my shoulder, telling me to move over. I looked him over, not budging. Then I stood up, pointed to the inside. The flunkie moved in, sitting across from Sonny. The other one faded.
"Well?" the blonde asked.
"Coors," Brewster said. "Draft. For me and him," pointing over at his flunkie. "What about you?" he asked the kid.
"Do you have any Red Stripe?" he asked the waitress politely.
A quick grin lit up her face. "We don't get much call for that here, but I think there's some in the cooler." She looked at me—I shook my head.
She came back with a tray. Gave Brewster and his flunkie each a bottle and a clean glass. "I told you draft," Brewster glowered at her.
"All out," she said, unimpressed. She handed Sonny a big mug, frosted. The waitress poured the Red Stripe into the mug, taking her time, watching the head.
"Okay?" she asked Sonny.
"Perfect," he said, throwing her a smile.
"Hey! How come he gets the special treatment?" Brewster asked her.
"He's a special guy," the waitress said, winking at Sonny. She moved away with an extra twitch to her hips.
Brewster had a confused look on his slabby face, puzzling it out. "I gotta order that stuff next time," he muttered.
Sonny worked on his beer right, not sipping it, not chugging it either. Enjoying it. Brewster was talking a blue streak…something about new tires he got for his Corvette, whether it was going to be good weather for the races, yak–yak. The kid listened, responding in monosyllables. "We gotta go," he finally told Brewster. "Got a lot of work to do."
He got up to leave. I was right behind him. I carried the check over to the register, not wanting to leave cash on the table and deal with Brewster's sense of humor. The check came to a little over thirty bucks. I pulled on the kid's sleeve, handed him a pair of twenties. "No change," I told him.
I watched as he handed the check and the bills to the waitress. Saw the grin split her face at something he said. He walked out tall.
"Could I use the Plymouth tonight?" he asked on the drive back.
"Sure. You gonna burn it in?"
"No. I think it's okay, except for the tire pressures. I can't fix that until I see the track. I'm taking Wendy out. To a drive–in," he said, ducking his head. "She loves monster movies, and there's a couple of good ones playing near Bridgeport. I thought it'd be more comfortable, the seats and all."
"Works for me," I told him.
I took a nap. It was almost ten when I woke up. I called Fancy from the phone in the apartment—anybody listening wouldn't get anything they didn't already know. I told her I'd be there soon.
I took the Lexus. When I got to a straightaway, I punched up the kid on the car phone. He answered on the first ring.
"It's me," I said. "I forgot to ask you…you set up the answering machine?"
"Sure. Tested it too."
"Any calls?"
"Just some junk. Not the…guy you were expecting."
"Thanks. Keep the channel open, okay?"
"You got it."
I tapped lightly on Fancy's door. She was right there, snatching it open.
"Hi!" she greeted me, bouncy.
"You look sweet," I told her.
"Sweet?" she challenged. "Maybe you'd better take another look," she said, turning to walk away. She was wearing a pair of electric blue spandex bicycle pants, molded to her tighter than most people have skin. "It took me half an hour…and a whole bottle of talcum powder to get into these. You ever see anything so tight?"
Sure I had. When I was a kid, there was this girl who used to run with us, Brandi. She was famous for her tight pants. She told me how she did it—she'd buy a pair of jeans a couple of sizes too small and cram herself into them. Then she'd stand in the shower until she got them soaked all the way through, and let them dry right on her. Brandi always carried a razor. Not because she was a gang girl—because it was the only way to get the pants off. Money was tight then, for all of us. Buying a pair of pants you could only wear once, making that kind of commitment…it was worth what it cost. I looked over at Fancy, posing in her spandex. For the privileged, life is a karaoke machine—even if they can't sing, the background's always there for support.
"No," I told her. "Not for a long time."
I put my jacket over the back of the couch. "Where's the package I left?" I asked her.
"Right there," she said, pointing to the wooden stool.
"You didn't open it?"
"I swear I didn't. I didn't touch it."
"Good," I told her, tearing open the top. "Do you have a strong light? One that's portable?"
"I think so," she said. "Just a minute."
She came back with the black floor lamp, the one with the gooseneck top.
"Perfect," I told her, kneeling to plug it in. I bent the
head down, stepped on the button in the base to turn it on. A narrow cone of bright white light shone on the top of the stool. I took things out of the paper bag, lining them up neatly.
"What is all that?" Fancy asked.
"This," I told her, holding up a pen with a point that looked like a hypodermic needle, "is a Tombow. With a two–X nylon point. Kind of a drafting pen. And this is black dye—that's what it uses instead of ink."
I unscrewed the pen, put one end in the long narrow bottle of dye, and let capillary action do the rest. I smoked a cigarette through while I was waiting. Then I adjusted the point. "Have you got a piece of paper?"
She brought me a pad of pink squares with a little butterfly design around the top. I ran the pen over the paper—the line was thin, but so dark you could see it easily. I took out some more stuff: sharp–pointed #2 pencils, a calligraphy–point felt–tip pen, a package of premoistened towelettes, individually wrapped in foil.
I carried the stool over next to the couch, setting it up so it was readily to hand when I sat down. Then I unplugged the lamp and moved it over to the couch, adjusting the cone until it fell on just the right spot. Fancy watched me, fascinated, not saying a word.
When I had it all arranged, I sat down on the couch.
"Come over here," I told her.
She walked over slowly, uncertain. I took her hand, pulled gently. She came willingly enough. I kept pulling until she was sprawled across my lap. I yanked the spandex pants down over her rump, almost down to the back of her knees. Her panties were black silk, matching the patent leather pumps on her feet. I slid the panties down to her thighs, moved her bottom slightly toward me with my hand.
"Hold still," I told her.
"What did I do?" she wanted to know, a pouty tone to her voice.
"You opened your big mouth," I said. "Now don't do it again."
She lay still, her face in the couch. I rubbed the residue of baby powder off her bottom with my hand. Then I took the #2 pencil and lightly traced what I wanted on her right cheek. I took a close look— no good. I rubbed it off, tried again. Finally, I got it right.
"What are you doing?" she asked, voice muffled.
"I told you to shut up," I said, smacking her hard on the rump. A red spot the size of my palm flared in the intense light from the lamp. "Don't move," I told her.
Down in the Zero Page 19
