Down in the Zero b-7 Read online

  "Too easy," the Prof whispered.

  He was right. I could feel the buildings standing across the broad expanse of neatly trimmed lawn, bristling with…what?

  "This is enough," I whispered back. "Give it another five minutes and we're off."

  We settled back against the wall, watching, nerve endings throbbing, fully extended.

  It was quiet as a congressman's conscience.

  I threw a hand signal at the Prof. We climbed over the wall, him first. When we got to the other side, we took off running.

  The Plymouth was standing, ready to roll, the back doors open, Clarence down on one knee by the front wheel.

  "Go!" I barked at Randy as the Prof and I piled into the back seat with Clarence a step ahead of us in front.

  The kid came out of the chute like a rocket sled, straight and true, making the adjustment from grass to pavement perfectly. The Plymouth's monster motor was wound tight in seconds, holding in low gear with a baritone scream. Randy felt his way into the J–curve, running without lights, working the big car into a controlled skid, goosing it through with the throttle.

  "They're coming," I said into his ear, leaning over the back seat. "Let it out."

  The Plymouth gobbled the straightaway in humongous gulps, the engine singing a different harmonic as Randy upshifted. We came to a switchback— the kid braked and downshifted in one motion, staying on the gas with his other foot, keeping the spring coiled. He was a skater on black ice, leaning into the curves with the Plymouth, being the car. We hit another straight stretch and I looked over his shoulder— the tach was at five grand and climbing, way over a hundred miles an hour.

  "You bought us some time, kid," I told him. "Quick— find a place to pull over."

  He hit the brakes, snapped the Plymouth into a turnoff as neatly as a tongue–in–groove carpenter, stayed alert at the wheel as we all jumped out. The Prof and I each pulled one of the Day–Glo circles off the black doors, Clarence stripped the tape from the bumper. The license plates took only another minute…and we were legit.

  "Speed limit now, Randy," I said, getting back into the car. "Lights on.

  He drove the rest of the way like he was taking the final in Driver's Ed.

  "Follow us," I told Clarence through the window. His Rover was standing next to the Plymouth, motors running, side by side, like getting set for a drag race.

  "This is not no race car, mahn."

  "We'll do it slow and easy," I assured him. "If we get stopped, just roll on home— I'll call."

  He threw me a half–salute. I nodded to Randy and he dropped the Plymouth into gear.

  The kid watched the rearview mirror for a minute, making sure Clarence was in position. I lit a smoke, leaned back.

  "You did good," I told him. "Drove like a veteran."

  "Thanks. I know about the plates…but how come you put those orange stickers on the car?"

  "It changes the appearance. It's the one thing anyone chasing you remembers. Like when you do a stickup— a fake scar on your face or a phony tattoo on your hand, that's what the mark will fix on. If we had to, you could reach out and pull off the tape even with the car going, see?"

  "Yeah. That's why the brake lights don't go on? And why there's no light when you open the door?"

  "Sure. But I didn't expect you could drive that fast without headlights."

  "Well, I knew the road pretty good. And I can see in the dark fine."

  "Had a lot of practice, haven't you?"

  He didn't answer. Concentrated on his driving, like he hadn't heard me.

  Clarence was right on our rear bumper in the driveway. When the headlights went off, we were in darkness, the only light coming from the kitchen window of the big house.

  "You leave the light on?" I asked the kid.

  "Yes. I always do."

  "Okay. Let's go someplace where we can talk."

  "Can't we just go upstairs?" he asked, nodding his head in the direction of my apartment.

  "Better not. Somebody's been playing with microphones."

  "The…intercom. From my mother's— "

  "I don't know. Somebody. Can't take chances," I told him, opening the trunk. I took out a couple of heavy army blankets.

  "We going to have a picnic, mahn?" Clarence wanted to know.

  "Close enough."

  "Then I got some stuff too," he said, going into the Rover's trunk and pulling out something that looked like a small toolbox. The Prof stood in one spot, turning a full 360, smelling the ground.

  I opened the garage, pointed. Clarence got behind the wheel of his Rover, drove it inside. I pulled the Plymouth in too.

  "You know a decent spot?" I asked Randy.

  "I…guess so. The back pasture, okay? I mean, there's no more horses there or anything."

  "No bulls either, mahn?" Clarence said, looking around suspiciously.

  "No."

  We walked a short distance past the wood fence, found a spot on a grassy slope, spread out the blankets, sat down.

  I lit a smoke. Clarence unsnapped the top of the box he was carrying, took out a dark bottle, offered it to Randy.

  "You have a beer with us, mahn? To celebrate success. You sure earned it."

  "I…"

  "Go on, mahn. This is Red Stripe. Best beer in the world. From the Islands, where the air is sweet and the women are sweeter."

  "Thanks."

  Clarence took out a church key, popped the cap, handed the bottle to Randy.

  "Long as it's free, how's about me?" the Prof piped up, reaching in to help himself.

  Clarence took one too. "Got your poison right here too, Burke," he smiled, handing me a screw–top bottle of pineapple juice. It was cold. Clean and good.

  "To Randy," the Prof said, holding his bottle high in a toast. "My man can drive, and that ain't no jive."

  "Word!" Clarence acknowledged.

  "You got my vote," I said, tapping my bottle against theirs.

  Randy hung his head. I could feel the blush. But when his eyes came up, they were heavy with regret.

  "What?" I asked him.

  "It's…gonna sound stupid."

  "Ain't no 'stupid' among friends, mahn," Clarence encouraged him.

  "What's it about? Spit it out," said the Prof.

  It was quiet for a minute. Then Randy looked somewhere into the open space between the Prof and me, blurted out, "I hate my name.

  "Randy? Or…?"

  "Randy. It's a kid's name. A baby name. Everybody always calls me that. Randy. I mean, nobody would say Randall. That's a name on a business card."

  "You don't like the game, you turn up the flame," the Prof told him. "A man don't pick his mother. Don't pick his father neither. But a man can choose his family, right?"

  I reached over, tapped bottles with him again. Underlining the bond.

  "You a man, cuzz. You old enough to play, you old enough to say, okay?"

  "I…suppose so."

  "We give you a name, mahn," Clarence said, caught up in the idea. "Like a baptism."

  "You came through tonight," I told the kid. "What do you want your name to be?"

  "I don't know. I mean…I never thought about it."

  "Ain't but two names for the outlaw game," the Prof said. "You a bad man behind the wheel. Drive like a hell–hawk tracking a mouse. Got to have a bad man's name."

  "Like what?"

  "Like I said: whatever you do, it's one of two. It's Junior. Or Sonny. Got to be either Junior or Sonny."

  "Those don't sound like a bad man's names."

  "What I gonna do with this rookie, schoolboy?" the Prof said to me. "True–clue him, all right?"

  "It's the way things are," I said to Randy. "You meet a man named Junior or Sonny, you know you're dealing with serious stuff. Those are heavy–duty names."

  "I knew a man named Junior Stackhouse back home," Clarence said. "Baddest man in town. Junior would get himself drunk, nothing he liked better than to fight the police, mahn. He was a terror."
r />   "Junior…sounds like…I don't know. Like it should be Randall Cambridge the Second or something lame like that."

  "Well, maybe Junior's too slow around all this dough," the Prof said. "Sonny it is."

  "I never knew a man named Sonny that wasn't a stone dangerous stud," I put in. "Like the name was a brand so people could tell."

  "Rhymes with honey, too," the Prof added. "That seals the deal."

  Clarence held out his hand, palm up. Randy slapped him five. "Damn, cuzz," the Prof told him. "You look badder already."

  The night didn't have a chance against the kid's smile.

  "Here's what we got so far." I ran it down. "Somebody's doing ID switches— big money in that. And we got the suicides too. I can't see the connect, but there almost has to be one. If there is, Crystal Cove is the link."

  "The link stinks, bro," the Prof replied. "Kids off themselves. Do it all the time. Don't take much, 'specially out here. The beds are soft, but the life could be hard. Out here, they whip their kids with words. Cuts just as deep."

  "I know."

  "I don't see going in, Jim. What we need, we need to talk to the boss. The list…that's the key to that lock."

  "I may have another one," I said. "Few more days, I'll know for sure."

  "Company," Clarence whispered, his hand going inside his jacket. I stubbed out my cigarette. Headlights cut the night, bluestone crunched under tires. A pearl white Rolls–Royce sedan pulled to a stop just past the garage.

  "Charm," the kid whispered. "That's her car."

  Minutes passed. A car door opened and a person stepped out. I couldn't see anything about them— whoever it was wore a long black coat with a hood covering their head. The hooded figure walked confidently over to the big house, unlocked the back door and went inside. Lights went on.

  "She has a key?" I asked.

  "I guess so," the kid replied, not sounding surprised.

  She was inside maybe ten minutes. Then she went back to her car. There was nothing in her hands that I could see. The Rolls purred off, as unhurried as its driver.

  We spent some more time out there, talking things through.

  "Follow me back to the highway," I told Clarence. "I'll get you pointed toward home."

  The kid got up, reaching in his pocket for the keys. "I'll drive," he said.

  He pulled over just before the highway, Clarence right behind. We stood together in the dark.

  "Be cool, Sonny," Clarence told him.

  "I will."

  The Prof gave him a light punch on the shoulder, waved at me, and climbed into the Rover.

  In a minute, their taillights vanished.

  "Burke?"

  "What?"

  "Is it okay…I mean, are you going to go to sleep?"

  "I don't know. Why?"

  "Well, I thought…if it was okay I'd go over and see Wendy."

  "It's almost four in the morning, Sonny."

  He blinked a few times at his new name, found his voice. "She doesn't sleep. At night, I mean. That's when I go over. Around the back. I toss some dirt against her window and she comes out."

  "Go for it," I told him.

  I took a quick shower, changed my clothes, and headed the Lexus toward Fancy's. Halfway there, I reached for the car phone— tossing some dirt against a girl's window, you can do that when you're young— when you still believe in things.

  "Hello." Her voice was thick with sleep.

  "It's me. I wanted to be sure you were awake."

  "I…guess I wasn't. I didn't think you were coming."

  "I said I was."

  "I'm sorry.

  "Don't be sorry for your thoughts. See you soon."

  All three cottages were dark. Lights on in the main house, different dots of brightness in the blackness. Like a constellation.

  Fancy's NSX was parked in the long driveway, carelessly sprawled, like it was abandoned. I didn't see a white Rolls–Royce anywhere. I walked past the fender of the Lexus, pulled the pistol free, slipped it into my jacket pocket.

  Fancy opened the door, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, hair tousled. She was barefoot, dressed in a short blue nightie. The only light was a soft spill from somewhere in the back of the house…maybe the bathroom door standing open? I took off my jacket, draped it over the back of the couch. She walked over, reached for it.

  "Don't touch that," I told her. "Just leave it where it is."

  "Yes sir."

  "Fancy…"

  "Tell me what to do."

  Christ. I was tired. In my body, in my heart. Tired of games. Guessing games. "Turn around," I said.

  She did it, her back to me, head slightly bowed. I found an amber glass ashtray standing on one of the broad arms of the couch— it hadn't been there the last time. I picked it up, looked around. In one corner, a bright red steamer trunk with two heavy straps wrapped around it, a thick pillow on top, like a gym mat. In the opposite corner, a four–legged, round–top wooden stool.

  All set up.

  I put the ashtray on top of the stool, picked them both up and carried them over to the side of the only easy chair in the room. I took out my cigarettes and a box of wooden matches, put them next to the ashtray.

  I sat down in the chair, stretched my legs out. So tired.

  Fancy was still standing, back to me. "Come here, girl," I said.

  She walked over slowly, head down, hands clasped in front of her. When she got close enough, I reached up, took her left hand and pulled her down. As she tumbled forward, I kept pulling, turning her around so she spun into my lap. She made a purring noise as I put both hands on her hips, shifting her weight so she was sideways, her face in my neck. I patted her hip with my right hand, settling her in.

  "Should I— ?"

  "Ssshh," I soothed her. "Just be still." I reached for the cigarette, got it lit, lay back, Fancy's springy girl–weight spread across me, sweetly balanced. I blew some tension out with the smoke.

  Closed my eyes.

  Fancy wiggled her bottom, just a mild tremor.

  "Burke?"

  "What?"

  "Is this…yours?"

  "What?"

  "Is this the way you like to do it?"

  "I'm too tired for word games, bitch," I said gently. "What are you talking about?"

  She turned her face so she was speaking right into my ear, baby's–breath soft.

  "Sitting down. Like in your car. I like that too. I'm all wet. See?" grabbing my hand, pulling it toward the triangle between her thighs.

  "Fancy, I want to hold you on my lap. Understand?"

  "Just hold me?"

  "Just hold you, now."

  "I thought— "

  I lifted the hem of her nightie, slapped the side of one sleek cheek. "Shut up. I thought you were going to do as you were told."

  "I am."

  "Then sit still, bitch."

  She snuggled into me obediently, a clean, moist smell rising off her tawny skin. The cigarette burned itself out in the ashtray as I closed my eyes.

  I woke up, feeling the change of light in the room. Almost daybreak. Fancy was asleep in my lap, breathing through her mouth. I bounced her lightly on my knee to bring her around.

  "Wha…?"

  "Wake up, Fancy. It's morning."

  "Morning?"

  "Yes, girl. You had a good sleep, but if I leave you here much longer my leg's gonna be paralyzed."

  "I'm sor— "

  "Shut up, bitch. I'm tired of hearing that. Come on, get up. I'm going to get you into bed before I go."

  "Go?"

  "Ah, come on," I said, shifting my weight, boosting her up. She got to her feet, rubbed her eyes with her fists, as unselfconscious as a child. When I got to my feet, my right leg was asleep. I stomped it a few times on the carpet, feeling the pins and needles, getting the life back. Fancy stood in one spot, eyes heavy–lidded, still dopey from sleep.

  I took her hand, led her back toward the bedroom. I half pushed her onto the bed. She lay on her side, look
ing up at me standing there. I bent over, kissed her next to her mouth.