Down in the Zero b-7 Page 15

  "The slap was for the sound," I said. "So anyone listening would think…"

  "I was late on purpose," she replied, as if she hadn't heard me. "To give you an excuse. To punish me."

  "Look, Fancy, I don't want to get into Rector's when they're having one of their parties. Isn't there any after–hours for a joint like that? In daylight or something?"

  "It closes at four. There's a cleaning crew after that. And it doesn't open up again until eight at night. I…go there sometimes in the day."

  Sure you do— nothing like a quickie during lunch hour when you're in the blackmail business.

  "By yourself?" I asked out loud.

  "No…"

  "So even if someone saw you go in with me, they wouldn't think anything of it?"

  "Yes, that's true, but…"

  "But what?"

  "What do you want in there?"

  "I want to look around. I think one of the people who goes there may he involved in the suicide thing," I told her, lying glibly. What I wanted was a good look— maybe Cherry had another hiding place. Or a laptop computer.

  "How long would you have to be in there?"

  "An hour. No longer."

  "All right. I'll do it. I have the keys. It'll take a couple of days…"

  "That's okay. Perfect." I put an arm around her shoulders. Her breasts strained against the T–shirt as she turned toward me. I dropped her hand to her hip, pulled her close.

  "Don't," she whispered. "Please don't…kiss me. I hate that."

  I snapped my cigarette out the window with my left hand, watching the red tip sail toward the creek. She put her face into my neck, I could feel her breath against my throat. "I don't want to neck," she said urgently. "It's too…innocent. Like kids. I don't want to be a kid. Tell me what to do. Tell me what to do— order me to do it."

  "Fancy…"

  "Please!"

  I took a deep breath through my nose, smelling the mossy darkness. Then I slid across the seat toward the middle, touching her hips with mine.

  "Get on your hands and knees," I told her.

  She did it, facing out her window, back arched.

  "No, stupid bitch," I said, hard–voiced. "Turn around."

  She did that too, pulling herself around with her hands on the back of the seat.

  "Unzip my pants," I said.

  Her dark hair fell all around her face as she bent to do it. The zipper sound was like fabric tearing.

  "Take it out." My cock sprung free, standing up rigid. I put my right hand on the back of her neck, shoving her down across my lap, flattening my cock against me. She moaned as I roughly pulled her skirt up around her waist. The pink silk bikini panties were just a thin strip across the width of her bottom— I hauled them down past her knees.

  "Don't take them all the way off," she whispered. "It's better if they— "

  "Shut up," I said, pulling the panties down more, leaving them hooked over one ankle. I turned slightly sideways, put my thumbs under her heavy breasts, wrapping my hands around her back. I picked her up, dragging her against my chest. Then I put my left hand on the inside of her right thigh and pulled her leg over so she was straddling me. She was sopping wet but it was still a tight fit. I set myself, rammed up hard. She grunted, penetrated. Her breasts pressed against me, her face next to mine, looking out over the back seat. I could feel the wetness all around me, smelled the blood beneath her skin.

  "Wiggle your butt, bitch," I whispered.

  She ground into me, humping like she was going to buck herself off, muttering words I couldn't understand. I stroked her back, then gripped her shoulders from behind, slamming her into me with each downstroke. I heard a deep, sharp intake of breath.

  "Don't make a goddamned sound," I told her.

  She let go with a rush, a split second before I did.

  Holding her, I could hear the soft slapping of water over rocks in the creek. She was crying softly, gulping like a kid does, trying to get it under control. We stayed like that until my cock softened and gravity pulled it down…out of her.

  She wasn't going to move. I gently pushed on her left shoulder, turning her around as I took her off my lap, felt the slight adhesive tear from the dried fluids bonding us.

  She slumped against me. I zipped up my pants, ran my hand over the front of her thigh.

  "Pull your skirt down, Fancy."

  "Sleepy," she said softly, curling up, putting her head in my lap. I patted her back. She squirmed into a comfortable position, pulling her knees up to her waist.

  I lit a cigarette. She didn't stir. I looked down. She was on her side, quiet, the pink panties around one ankle. I tugged her skirt down almost over her hips, the way you cover a sleeping child.

  Sitting there, I went someplace else in my head, searching. There was a thread somewhere. A strong thread, so deeply woven that if you pulled it, the whole fabric would unravel. I knew it, but I couldn't see it.

  When Fancy played her domina games in that white room, was anyone else in on the profit end? Even if there was, a blackmail racket didn't explain things. Not all of them, anyway. Blackmail's a high–wire act— one slip and they sponge you off the concrete. And blackmail wouldn't pay the kind of money Cherry was showing.

  If she was on to the new identities of people who disappeared, that would buy her a whole lot more of those gems that I'd found. But how would she know?

  And how did Charm know about Cherry's stash if she wasn't working with her?

  Why would Cherry tell Fancy about me? Why did she tell Randy? There's a tropical spider, I don't remember its name. What this spider does, it climbs into another spider's web. But it doesn't get trapped, it waits. The spider who spun the web feels the vibrations, runs over to wrap up its prey. Then he's lunch.

  Fancy rolled her head back and forth in my lap like she was wiping her nose. She sat up, tugging her skirt down the rest of the way, smoothing it over her thighs. She reached down, plucked the pink panties from her ankle, put them into her purse.

  "You were going to stay here all night?" she asked.

  "I didn't want to wake you."

  "That was sweet…but I wasn't asleep."

  "You were…peaceful."

  "Can we go outside?"

  "Sure, if you want."

  She took off her heels, slid over against me. I opened my door, climbed out. Held out my hand. She took it. We walked down to the creek in the darkness. Fancy found a fallen tree, the tips of its dead branches dangling into the creek. She tugged on my hand until I sat down next to her. Then she let go of my hand, spun so her back was against me, stuck her legs straight out on the tree, balancing easily.

  "That was my first one," she said, facing away. "My first real one.

  "Your first real what?"

  "Climax. At least that's what I think it was. I could feel it inside. Hot bolts, like lightning crackling. Then…whooosh!"

  "Good."

  "Good? That's all you can say?"

  "I don't know what to say," I said to her back.

  "Did you really want me to help you?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because you said you wanted to."

  "Get you into Rector's? I didn't say anything about that."

  "That isn't all of it," I told her, improvising, steering it away.

  "What, then?" she asked, spinning to face me.

  "I have to talk to some people. People from around here. The parents…of the kids who died. I figured, some of them would get suspicious. I'm going to tell them Cherry hired me. Because she was concerned about Randy and all. I thought you could back that up, maybe come along with me while I worked."

  "You really do…want me to help?"

  "That's what I said."

  "When do we start?"

  "Tomorrow," I said. "And, Fancy…don't tell anybody about this, okay?"

  "Who would I tell?"

  I drove back to the apartment, Fancy sitting close to me the way girls did years ago, before seat bel
ts.

  "Can I come upstairs?" she asked. "Not tonight, child. I've got to go out again."

  "Don't call me 'child.' I hate that. I'm not a child."

  "It doesn't mean anything, Fancy. It's just an affectionate term."

  "I like 'bitch' better."

  "Okay."

  "In front of people, you understand? It's a property word."

  She got out of the Plymouth, opened the door to her black NSX. "Tomorrow, okay?" she murmured, coming into my arms.

  I gave her a squeeze, patted her bottom. "I'll call you, bitch," I told her, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead before she could protest.

  The black car pulled off. I glanced over at the garage— the Miata was still missing.

  I dropped the coins, dialed home base.

  "You speak to the Prof?" I asked Mama when she answered.

  "Right here," she replied.

  "What you done, son?"

  "I'm not sure, Prof. I got something…maybe a big score. Not on the phone, okay?"

  "Keep it tight— we fly by night."

  "You can get out here?"

  "Name the place, I'm in the race."

  I told him take the turnpike, grab the first gas station past the Greenwich tolls. Midnight tomorrow.

  "I'll be at the spot. On the dot."

  "How'd it go last night?" I asked the kid. He was sitting at the kitchen table, tearing into his third bowl of cereal like he needed the fuel.

  "I'm…not sure. It was different. Not the party. I mean, that was like it always was. Me, maybe."

  "You get to see that girl? Wendy?"

  "Yeah. She was there. We…danced. Outside."

  "I didn't think you all went in for dancing at those parties."

  "We…they don't. The music…you really can't dance to it unless you're wrecked. We went outside, on the patio. I asked her to dance. Not to the music, just to dance."

  "You can do that?"

  "Dance? Sure. My mother sent me for lessons when I was a little kid. Ballroom dancing, like. I can do all the old stuff."

  "Sounds pretty good."

  "It was. Really good. We didn't stay there. I took her for a drive. We just drove around. I told her…about racing on Sunday. She said she'd be there. It was…I can't really explain it. She showed me some of her poetry. In this big notebook she's always carrying around. I never knew what was in it."

  Something in his face. "What?" I asked.

  He looked across at me. "One of the poems…it was about suicide. I got upset. Scared. I asked her, did she ever consider…doing it? She told me she didn't, not really. But she thinks about it. She said a lot of people do. Not 'cause things are bad…just 'cause there doesn't seem any reason. For anything."

  "Randy, was she ever at Crystal Cove?"

  "No. I asked her. She said it was none of my business at first, got mad at me a little bit. So I didn't say anything. But later, she asked, was I really scared for her? I told her I was. It was true. She…kissed me then. Just before I dropped her off at her car. And she told me she was never there."

  "It sounds all right."

  "I know. But that poem…it was all about suicide, I know it was. 'Sweet Darkness,' it was called."

  "If she's a poet, she lives a lot in her mind, kid. It doesn't mean she's going over."

  "I know. But…she's gonna be okay. I'm gonna…stay close."

  "Good."

  "Today, I mean. We're going to go to The Hills. It's like a park. Have a picnic. You think that's dumb?"

  "I think it's righteous."

  "You don't need me for anything?"

  "Just take the phone with you."

  He tapped his side pocket again. I finally realized where I'd seen that gesture before. The black kid with the 8–Ball jacket.

  I considered my lawyer suit, finally rejected it in favor of Michelle's outfit. If Fancy was going to come along with me, I wanted to look like I might be in her circle.

  She opened the door to her cottage before I knocked, holding a giant fluffy white towel in front of her, water beading on her shoulders.

  "Am I early?" I asked, stepping inside.

  "No, you're right on time. I was waiting…so you could tell me what to wear.

  "Just put on…"

  "No, come on — tell me." She walked toward a back room, still wrapped in the towel. I followed close behind. The cottage had an extension in the back, a greenhouse, built right in. The summer sun slanted through the sharply sloped glass. Fancy kept walking, all the way to a bedroom. The walls were a soft pink, the bed was covered in a quilt of the same shade. She opened a closet. "Tell me," she said again, a pleading undertone to her voice.

  I pawed through the racks, picked out a rose silk outfit. It had a simple collarless bolero jacket, with a straight skirt underneath.

  "This," I told her, holding it out to her. She stood there, holding the hanger. I found a plain–front white silk blouse with a loose turtleneck collar, held it against the rose silk. "This too," I said.

  "Burke…"

  "Get dressed, bitch. I want to get going."

  She turned away, dropped the towel. I walked out of the room, heading for the greenhouse.

  It was peaceful in there. The walls were lined with shelves, all kinds of plants. One shelf was a neat row of bonsai. Orchids were bunched in a corner, standing under a gentle mist from some kind of machine. I was fingering a big green plant loaded with small, hard buds, not quite ready to burst.

  "What's your favorite?" Fancy's voice behind me.

  "Favorite what?"

  "Plant. What kind of plants do you like?"

  "Blossoms," I told her. "Any kind of blossoms."

  "Yeah …" she mused. Then she stepped between me and the plants. "How do I look?" she demanded.

  "You look great, Fancy."

  "You want some coffee?"

  "No thanks."

  "A drink?"

  "No."

  "Well, are we ready to go?"

  "Just about. Let me look over my notes for a minute."

  I walked back to the front room, sat down. She sat across from me, knees close together, hands in her lap.

  "How's Randy doing?" she finally asked.

  I looked up. "Seems like he's doing real good. Had himself a date last night. I think he took her dancing."

  "Oh, he's a good dancer. I made him dance with me once, at a party Cherry gave.

  "Yeah, he's got it all over me there."

  I wonder why I never met a woman who couldn't dance. Maybe it's genetic.

  "What do you mean? You can't dance?"

  "Not me. The only dance I ever learned when I was a kid was the Y dance."

  "What's the Y dance? I never heard of it."

  "Stand up— I'll show you."

  She came over to me, stepping naturally against my chest, both hands going around my neck. I put my left hand around the back of her shoulder, dropped the other to her butt, pressed her hard against me. "Why dance?" I asked her.

  Fancy giggled, rubbing against me.

  "Hey, don't you think you should put on a bra if we're going out?"

  "You didn't tell me to."

  "What?"

  "You didn't tell me to…just the dress and the blouse."

  "Jesus Christ. All right, go put on some underwear."

  "Come on, show me. I've got lots of stuff."

  She did. "Aren't these uncomfortable?" I asked her, holding up a pair of black leather panties.

  "No, they're good. They make you sweat when you work. Then I make the client put them in his mouth…like a gag," she said, gray eyes mocking.

  I found a modest underwear set, pristine white. "This," I said. "Can I wear a garter belt…please?" she asked, taking off the bolero jacket.

  "Sure."

  We took the Lexus. When Fancy said we were getting close, I turned slightly in my seat, making sure I had her attention.