Down in the Zero b-7 Read online

  "Just a few minutes. Then she went over to the house."

  "You go over there with her?"

  "No," he said again, his face still down.

  "Stay here," I told him, heading for the stairs.

  If she'd tossed the place, she was good. I could see the search–signs, but they were faint. Subtle.

  It only took me a minute to find the listening device inside the handpiece to the telephone.

  Downstairs again, I ignored the kid's look, walked past him over to the big house. The back door was open. I let myself in, moving quiet. Cherry's bedroom looked the same. I worked the buttons on the intercom and the sliding door opened in the marble wall to the bath. When I looked inside, the compartment was empty.

  I stepped out of the bedroom, heard a noise downstairs. I moved back down the corridor, into one of the bathrooms, flushed the toilet, counted to ten, and came down the stairs.

  The kid was sitting at the kitchen table pouring himself a glass of milk, a box of chocolate donuts standing open in front of him.

  "Hey, Burke. You want a donut?"

  "Didn't I tell you to stay by the car?"

  "I thought…you meant until you were done in the apartment. I didn't…"

  "Don't think so fucking much," I told him. Then I walked out the back door.

  Back in the apartment, I took out my notebook, started to go over the list of parents of the kids who'd died. Blankenship scanned legit to me— maybe I'd get lucky with one of the others.

  I picked up my tapped phone, dialed Fancy's number. She answered on the second ring.

  "Hello."

  "Ten o'clock tonight," I told her, my voice flat and hard. "Get your fat ass over here. And don't be late, understand?"

  "Yes," she breathed soft into the mouthpiece.

  I hung up on her.

  Just past four, I heard a tentative knock on the door. I looked through the glass. Randy. I walked over from the couch, let him in.

  "What?"

  "Burke, I'm sorry. About Charm. And about…not staying where you told me. I was gonna…be different. The car…I can't explain it."

  "Sit down," I told him gently, stepping back from the door.

  He crossed over to the couch, leaving me the easy chair. He sat there for a minute, collecting himself.

  "My mother told me about you," he said.

  "Told you what?"

  "She said she knew you a long time ago. When she did you that…favor, remember?"

  "Yeah."

  "My mother doesn't talk to me much. She never did, really. She said she wanted me…real special. That's why she went through all that, with the artificial insemination and all. She's not around here very much. She always says, someday she'll tell me things. She never says what things. Just…things. Things I need to know. I guess…"

  His voice trailed off. I lit a smoke, not saying anything, letting my body language tell him it was okay, I was listening, patient, all the time in the world. He took a little gulping breath, got going again.

  "Anyway, my mother told me you were a…tough guy. I mean, real tough, not like a weightlifter or anything. Dangerous, that's what she said. Burke is a dangerous man."

  You tell a lot of people stories about me, don't you, bitch?

  I kept my face quiet, mildly interested, waiting for him to continue.

  "She knew you when you were, like, my age, right?" the kid went on. "She said that's the way you were then, too. She said you were a man of honor— that you'd honor a debt. She really told me about you a long time ago. When she went away. I was just a little kid, like ten or something. She said, if anyone tried to do something to me, I should call you. Just call you and tell you, and you'd fix it. For the debt."

  "Do something like what, Randy?"

  "Like…I don't know. She didn't say. She would…leave me with people. Caretakers, she called them. She always did that. It was them she meant, I think. But I know what she said. If anybody makes me scared, I should call you."

  "Did that ever happen?"

  "No, not…really. But my mother thought it might, I could tell. I was in her room once, just playing around. I found a maid's outfit. You know, like a black dress with a white apron? I thought it was Rosemary's. She was the maid we had then. From Ireland. So I put it in her room, on the bed. My mother saw it there. I heard her yell for Rosemary. When Rosemary came upstairs, I hid. I was scared, my mother sounded so mad. She asked Rosemary why she took the outfit. Rosemary said she didn't, and my mother slapped her. Right across the face. She told Rosemary to put it back in her room. Then when Rosemary came back, my mother slapped her again. I never told her it was me.

  "It was a long time ago," I said. "Don't worry about it."

  "My mother asked me later, did Rosemary ever do anything to me? Like…punish me or something. I told her no, Rosemary never did that. That's when she said the thing about calling you, the first time."

  I played with my cigarette, letting him drive his own car.

  "When I called you, I was scared. Like something was gonna happen, but I didn't know what."

  "The suicides?"

  "I guess so. There's…something else too. I can't tell you. But I knew if you were around, it wouldn't happen."

  "That kid Brew?"

  "No!" he snorted a laugh. "Not him. Anyway, when I started to…do stuff with you, I thought I could…maybe help, I don't know. I don't smoke dope anymore," he said, looking straight across at me, eyes clear. "I don't booze either. And I'm not gonna tank, next time they have a party. I want to do…something."

  "Drive?"

  "Yes! When I drive, it's like I'm the car. It feels…connected. I don't know. You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

  "No. No, I don't. All the great drivers, that's the way they talk about it…like it's all one piece."

  "Did you know any? Great drivers, I mean."

  I couldn't tell him. I started to lose it for a second, but I reached down and grabbed hold. I fussed with a cigarette until I had it under control. "I did time with one of them," I told the kid. "Long time ago. He was a great, great wheelman. Drove on some of the biggest hijacks in the country, bank jobs too. The Prof knew him better than me, but I talked a lot to him too."

  "You mean like a getaway driver?"

  "More than that, kid. He was stand–up, see? No matter what happened inside, Petey wouldn't leave you there. He'd be waiting at the curb when you came out."

  "But when he drove…"

  "Driving, that's only a small piece of it. I had this pal once, Easy Eddie. One time we were out riding, nothing special. But what he didn't tell me, he was holding dope. Heavy weight. And we got stopped. Now it worked out okay— the cops never saw it."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. But if they had, it would have been Kaddish. Easy Eddie and me, we were as close as brothers. He was a stand–up guy. He didn't mean any harm— never thought about getting me in trouble. If we'd gone down for the dope, he would have taken the whole weight."

  So?"

  "So he was real sorry about what happened. And I never rode with him again."

  Randy's face changed colors as it hit him. "I get it," he said.

  "Do you?" I asked. "Here's what a guy told me when I was just coming up. About working in a crew. You can't be counted on, you can't be counted in, understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Being a wheelman, it's not just about driving, Randy. Next time I tell you to stay someplace, you do it. Okay?"

  "I will," he said, a bit of steel under the softness of his voice.

  I had plenty of time before Fancy. "I need to make a phone call," I told the kid. "Want to drive me?"

  "Sure," he said, starting for the Plymouth like there was no other choice. He didn't say anything about there being plenty of phones in the house— maybe he was a faster learner than I thought.

  "Where to?" he asked, adjusting the rearview mirror, rocking gently back and forth in the driver's seat, getting the feel.

  "What I need is a pay phone, all righ
t? An outdoor phone, if you know where one is."

  "There's some on the highway. In case someone has a breakdown."

  "Let's ride."

  He pulled out of the driveway without spinning the rear wheels, nursing the throttle, but as soon as we hit pavement he dropped the hammer, road–running at double the speed limit.

  "Back it off," I told him. "The trick to driving, the real trick, you got to blend, understand? Any fool can drive fast— the game is to drive fast smooth, see? Especially in the city. A real pro, he can drive faster than it looks like he's going…the way a karate man can close space on you before you realize it."

  "Okay," the kid said. He motored along in silence for a few minutes. "Can I try it?" he asked.

  "Try what?"

  "Blending. I'll go through town first, okay?"

  "Sure."

  The kid had a sweet soft touch with the wheel, piloting the big car in the light traffic with assurance. He pulled to a smooth stop behind a chocolate Porsche coupe, waiting patiently for the light to change.

  "Give yourself more room," I told him.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're too close to the Porsche. If he stalls, or just decides to sit there, you can't go around him without backing up first, see?"

  "Yeah," he said, nodding.

  "Drive with a zone around you, like a pocket of air. Another car comes in the zone, you adjust, understand? It's like you always leave yourself an escape route, never get boxed in."

  He turned off to the highway, stayed just past the speed limit, looking over at me for approval.

  "On the highway, stay with the packs, all right? Always keep cover around you. You want to pass, make sure there's another clump out ahead of you."

  He nodded again, rolled into the middle lane behind a Subaru wagon. The kid held his position for a bit, then he pulled into the left lane, circled the Subaru and pulled in behind a three–car train in the middle lane.

  "You got it," I told him. "Remember, this car is a crate. That's what it looks like, that's what people will see. Only time you show what it can do is when you got no choice."

  The kid ignored the speedometer, driving by the tach and the oil pressure gauge. Another few minutes and he pulled over by a freestanding pay phone.

  "See that switch?" I asked him, pointing to a toggle under the dash. "You throw that, the brake lights will disengage. You can leave it in gear with your foot on the brake, nobody watching will know you're ready to go.

  He threw the switch as I got out, left the motor running.

  I tossed coins into the slot, made the connection.

  "Gardens," Mama answered.

  "It's me. I need to talk to the Prof. Can you reach out, ask him to be at the phone anytime after midnight?"

  "Sure. Everything okay?"

  "Getting tricky. But I can see a light, maybe."

  "You want Max yet?"

  "Not yet, Mama."

  I stepped back into the Plymouth. The kid had it rolling away before I had the door closed, merging with traffic like a pigeon joining a flock.

  "Nice," I said.

  He flushed, didn't say anything.

  "You need me for anything tonight?" he asked.

  "No. I got stuff to work on. You?"

  "There's a party. At Roger's house."

  "Party?" This kid was so damn in–and–out…one minute panicked, the next partying.

  "It's cool. There's a…girl I know. Maybe she'll be there. I thought maybe I'd ask her if she wants to come along Sunday. For the race."

  "Why don't you just call her and ask her?"

  "Well, I don't really know her that well. I mean… she doesn't exactly know who I am. I met her and all, but…"

  "I got it. What's her name?"

  "Wendy. She was in classes with me at school. Then I didn't see her when she went to college. She…writes poetry. I read some once— it was in the school magazine."

  "You like her, huh?"

  "I always liked her. But she doesn't hang with my crowd. I mean, she smokes dope and all, but she doesn't tank or anything. She's very deep."

  "So what makes you think she'll be there tonight?"

  "She's close with Scott's girlfriend Denise. I just figured…it's worth a shot, right?"

  "Always is," I told him. "You want the Plymouth?"

  "Oh no," he said. "I don't want anybody to know what I'm gonna be running on Sunday. That's a surprise. I'll take the Miata."

  "Good luck, kid."

  "Thanks."

  "Take the phone with you."

  "It's right here," he said, tapping the pocket of his jacket.

  I heard the rasp of the Miata's exhaust a little past nine. I prowled the apartment, probing the edges of my plan in my mind, looking for weak spots. The bugged phone— I couldn't tell if it was a line tap or a full–house microphone. There was the intercom too. Maybe the Mole could figure out what was what, but me, I'd play it like the whole thing was an audio zone.

  Ten o'clock came and went. No Fancy. I smoked a cigarette, wondering if I'd miscalculated. A nervous tap on the glass. I went over, let her in. She was wearing a white T–shirt over a pink linen skirt, carrying a matching jacket in one hand and a big black leather purse over one shoulder. She stood there in white medium heels, head slightly down.

  "I'm sorry I was late," she whispered.

  I glanced at my watch: six minutes past the hour. I reached out and took her right hand, held it in my left with her chubby palm up.

  "I don't want to hear your excuses, bitch!" I said, and slapped her upturned palm hard. The sound was clear in the quiet apartment— I hoped the microphone got it.

  Fancy looked up, firelight in her big gray eyes.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered again.

  "Come over here," I told her, jerking her by the hand toward the couch. She came compliantly, breathing harsh now. I walked her past the couch toward the back bedroom. In the doorway, I pulled her to a halt.

  "You know what, bitch? I think you'll get the message better if I teach you someplace else…like outdoors. Would you like that?"

  "Yes," she said, real soft.

  "Come along," I told her, switching my grip from her hand to her wrist. I walked her back to the door, pointed down. She took the stairs, stopped at the bottom and waited. I took her into the garage, opened the passenger door to the Plymouth. She stepped in, held the pose way too long. When she figured out I wasn't going to smack her offered rump, she sat down. I crossed to the driver's side, started the car and backed it out.

  She didn't say a word on the drive, sitting like a girl in church, hands in her lap. I found the place I wanted, one I spotted on my recon visit a few days ago. A stand of high trees maybe a hundred yards off the highway with a creek running past. I guess it belonged to somebody, but I didn't see a fence. I turned off, parked so the Plymouth's nose was pointing back out the way we'd come, killed the engine.

  "Sorry about all that," I told her, handing her my pack of cigarettes.

  "I …don't understand," she said. "I thought you were going to…"

  "People were listening," I told her.

  "Where?" she asked, a shocked–scared look on her face.

  "Back at the apartment. At least I think so. Cherry's got some kind of intercom hooked up," I told her, not mentioning the phone. No risk there, Randy knew about the intercom himself.

  "But why…?"

  "If anyone's listening, they would have thought you and me were gonna play, right?"

  "That's what I thought too."

  "Light that for me, will you?" I said. She fumbled in her purse, came up with a silver lighter that looked like a lipstick. Fired it up, handed it over. "Thanks, girl. Look, did you mean what you said? About helping me?"

  "Yes."

  "If you did, now's the time," I said, putting it right to her while she was off–balance. "Can you get me into Rector's?"

  "Rector's? Sure. I could get you a guest pass. But I couldn't go as your slave— they don't know I swit
ch. I don't, actually."

  "Switch?"

  "Be a submissive. I don't do that. If any of my…clients saw me there wearing a collar, it might turn them off."

  "I wasn't— "

  "But I wasn't lying," she went on like I hadn't spoken. "I mean, in your bedroom, that first time. I gave you your choice because I thought it would turn you on but I…got wet when I made the offer. And I came tonight expecting…I don't know. I wanted to try it. And when you slapped me, it worked."