Down in the Zero Read online

  The homeless always ride to the end. Then they wait for the train to head back the way it came. They never get where they're going.

  I always stayed on the train past Peter's station. The F makes its last useful Manhattan stop at West Fourth. I got off, switched to the A. Lots of people do that—the A stops at Chambers, same as the E, but the E goes much deeper into the station…all the way to the World Trade Center. You switch to the A, you save about a half–mile of walking if it's Chambers Street you really want.

  I watched everything. On the platform, one of the steel girders has a metal flap covering a faucet. I watched a homeless man take a plastic bottle—the kind yuppies keep in their refrigerator to have pure spring water always available after their workouts—out of a tattered duffel. He carefully removed the spigot from the bottle, turned it face up, and filled it from the faucet. Finished, he replaced the spigot, picked up the bottle by its carrying handle and shuffled along. He saw me watching.

  "At least I got fresh water, amigo," he cheerfully informed me.

  On the white tiles surrounding the stairway leading up to the street, a proclamation in black Magic Marker:

  I wondered if Angel was a man or a woman—they both pimp in the city now. Or maybe it was an S&M game.

  I got on the A train. Sat right next to a white man who'd shaved only half his face that morning. His eyes were spinning in their sockets. One wrist was bandaged, the other had a watch tattooed on it, beautifully detailed. The maniac looked down at his wrist, saw it was 7:15. By the third stop, he'd checked it three more times, tapping his fingers impatiently.

  I walked home from Canal, got some sleep. Around noon, I strolled over to the Brooklyn Bridge stop on the Lexington Avenue line. Took the local uptown so I could be ready for Peter's lunch hour.

  A man with shoulder–length hair had the corner of the car to himself. He smelled like rot, dressed only in a baggy pair of blue jeans and a torn red T–shirt. Gym shoes, no socks. He was muttering, a vicious dialogue with an invisible enemy. Two black teenagers watched him, awestruck. I could see what they were wondering at—the man's upper body was bulging with sharply cut muscle mass—he looked like an ad for bodybuilding.

  I could have solved the mystery for the kids: psycho–isometrics. The poor bastard had been raging against the chemical handcuffs for years before they "de–institutionalized" him.

  It was hard to get a seat on that train—a pain for some, a chance to vogue for others. A pair of pretty–girl teenage twins got on, dressed in matching green sheaths so short you could see the heavy black bands around their thighs where their stockings stopped. One took an open seat, the other sat on her lap, kicking her legs, smiling, showing off. They chattered to each other like they were the only ones there, but they registered it all. At Fourteenth Street, they switched places…so they'd each have a turn on stage.

  I got off at Fifty–first, took a short walk. Had a couple of cigarettes. Waiting for Peter.

  A bubble–butted model pranced on the sidewalk, holding the pay phone at the end of the cord in one hand like a rock singer with a microphone. A trio of flash–dressed young execs watched her, dreaming of trophies you could buy with gold cards. A limo driver waited at the curb, bored. A bag lady shuffled past, pushing a baby carriage full of returnable plastic bottles.

  Most days Peter just walked around. Sometimes he'd buy a hot dog from a street–corner vendor, sit on a bench, munch it slowly. Some

  times he didn't eat at all. He made a decent salary—maybe he was just cheap.

  A whole week went by, same routine. It was a Tuesday when Peter started walking. Up Fiftieth, against the traffic flow. By the time he crossed Sixth and turned left, I had it figured out.

  The topless joint served overpriced meals, but nobody was there for the food. Peter ordered a drink and a sandwich. He spent the rest of the lunch money he'd been saving on a tall girl with long black hair who danced for him. Right on top of his little table. Her high breasts stayed unnaturally stiff no matter how much the rest of her bounced. He looked up at her, never moving his face. Tipped her good too, stuffing a few bills down the front of her G–string. She acted like she knew him, gave him a little kiss before she walked off, switching her marriage–wrecker hips.

  The black–haired girl worked hard for her money. In those joints, management doesn't pay the talent—they're all independent contractors, renting space to do their work. They keep their tips, management gets the booze and meal money. It doesn't bother the yuppies— they can put the whole thing on their business account as long as they don't eat alone. It's easier for them to watch for–sale flesh in packs anyway.

  Extras are extra.

  In the back, in the VIP Room, they have lap dancing available. It's just what it sounds like. Peter didn't go back there. Didn't go for the shower room, the slow–dance body rubs…any of the extras.

  It was just before rush hour when I headed back. The subway car was almost deserted. A slender, light–skinned black kid with a short, neat haircut got on. He was wearing a resplendent soft leather jacket. The front panel was maroon, ballooning white sleeves ran over the top of the shoulders with a black circle on each one, a white 8 inside the circle. The back was a red triangle tapering to the waist, with blue filling in the gaps, a huge eight ball smack in the middle.

  An 8–Ball jacket is a major prize for ratpacking teenage gangstahbandits—they cost a few hundred dollars. I caught the kid's eyes, shook my head, telling him he was a chump for being such a target. The kid looked back, calm, tapped his waistband, gave me a sweet, sad smile. You want his jacket, you ante your life.

  That's what it costs today.

  It's easy to stalk—all you need is the time and the focus. It was a little past four in the morning when the tall black–haired girl hailed a cab in front of the topless joint. A couple of other girls stood on the sidewalk next to her. Not talking, tired from the work.

  I pulled out behind the cab, my old Plymouth an anonymous gray shark, a moving block of dirt in a dirty city. The yellow cab crossed town, heading east. I followed to the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge, trailed it all around the loop to Queens Boulevard. It settled down then, rolled straight ahead.

  She got out in front of a squat old building in Rego Park. There was no doorman to greet her.

  The table dancer was named Linda. Lynda, she spelled it now, but it was Linda on the lease she signed. Linda Sue Anderson. The apartment was a one–bedroom. She paid $650 a month, utilities separate. She'd been there seven months, never caused any problems. I TRW'ed her through a guy I know. It was easy—her righteous Social Security number was on the credit application she'd filled out for the apartment. Date of birth too. She was twenty–nine, right on the border.

  Linda Sue was a college girl. LSU, class of 1986. Drama major. Came to New York in 1987. Big dreams, dying slow, dancing on tables instead of the stage. Her legs weren't long enough for the Rockettes, I guess. And the implants wouldn't hold the stealing years back forever.

  Her apartment was on the same subway line Peter took every day, a local stop. Peter would have to switch to the G train to get off where she did.

  He never did that, coming or going.

  I could have braced her someplace, got her to tell me all about Peter.

  But I already knew all about Peter.

  I told Michelle to tell the customer it was a false alarm—Peter didn't have anything on the side.

  I've gone dead before. But this time, it didn't feel like it would cycle out.

  When it got real bad once, I went over to Max's temple. Worked the heavy bag in his dojo until I couldn't see straight, until I couldn't lift my arms to throw another vicious shot.

  I never laid a glove on the sadness.

  Betrayal was around. A piece of the environment, like winos sleeping on park benches. I didn't check with Mama much, just enough to keep her from thinking I was gone. Belinda kept calling. I'd met her working the last job. She was jogging in the park, stopped and said she liked
my dog. Turned out she was a cop. Maybe she was working undercover in the park, maybe she was working me. I never did find out. Never returned any of her calls.

  I might have gone on like that forever, just numbing my way through the finish. Now I didn't even want to try. Didn't want to die either—at least not enough to just do it. In prison, the scariest guys were the anesthetics—once they went off, you could club them, mace them, it didn't matter—they just kept coming. Maybe they didn't feel the pain. Maybe it was like you get in a gunfight…the blood–adrenaline rush blocks your ears so you don't even hear the shots.

  I was walking around like that.

  I was in Mama's restaurant, waiting for Michelle. I'd promised to drive her up to the junkyard. Max was there, trying to be with me. Max the Silent, not even talking with his hands now, a warrior lost without an opponent. But lost only with me—he had another life. His woman, Immaculata. And their baby, Flower. Not such a baby anymore.

  We still played at our life–sentence gin game once in a while, but I couldn't get with it. Max had been on a winning streak for months, even with Mama's occasional dumbass advice.

  I felt…institutionalized. Used to it. They didn't need the Wall— I wasn't going to make a break.

  Michelle came in, made a big show of kissing Max, bowing to Mama. At first, they had walked soft around me, giving the pain plenty of room. But that passed. For them, anyway. Now I was furniture.

  "You ready to go, baby?" Michelle asked me.

  I nodded, started to make my move. One of the pay phones in the back rang. Mama got up to answer it.

  "For you," she said. "Money man."

  With Mama, it's all in the inflection—she meant a man who came from money, not a man with cash.

  "Tell him I'm not here," I said, not looking up.

  "You not going to work?" Mama asked. "Not make money?" Her tone was confirmation of my madness.

  "I got enough."

  "Don't be crazy, Burke."

  I could see this wasn't going to end. So I did what I'd been doing…just moved with it. I got up, went to the pay phone.

  "What?"

  "Mr. Burke?" A young, thin voice, tremolo with something worse than nervousness.

  "What?"

  "I have to talk to you."

  'Talk."

  "Not on the phone. Please. I…I think I'm next."

  "Next for what?"

  "I can't… my mother said to call you. If I ever got in trouble, big trouble. She said to call you.

  "Tell your mother she made a mistake, kid."

  "I…can't. She's not here."

  "Where is she?" Dead? Which one of them is gone, now?

  "In Europe. Switzerland. In the clinic. She goes every year. There's no phones there, nothing."

  "Look, kid, I…"

  "Please! My mother said…

  "Who's your mother?"

  "Lorna. Lorna Cambridge."

  "I don't know her."

  "She said to tell you it's Cherry. Cherry from Earls Court. She said you'd remember."

  I did.

  I did, and I owed her. I guess I had that much left. I answered on auto–pilot.

  "I'll talk to you, kid. Talk, you understand?"

  "Yes. Sure! Just tell me…"

  "You know Grand Central?"

  "Grand Central Station?"

  "Yeah."

  "Sure, I can—"

  "Be there tomorrow morning. Before ten. Stand under the clock. You know the clock?"

  "Yes, I—"

  "Just wait there. Someone'll come up to you, ask you your mother's name. Just go with them, understand?"

  "Yes. Sure, I'll…"

  I hung up on him. Went back inside. Told Mama to find the Prof, have him sheep–dog the kid in from the station tomorrow.

  I drove Michelle to the junkyard. She goes there on her own all the time—I'm just easier than a cab. We slipped through the city, over the bridge to the South Bronx, the Plymouth finding its own way to Hunts Point. Terry opened the gates, shooing the dogs aside. He walked around to my side of the car—I started to slide over so he could drive the rest of the way when Michelle barked "Hey!" at him through her window.

  The kid stopped dead in his tracks. Walked around to the passenger side, said "Hi, Mom," gave her a kiss. She tried to look fiercely at him, reminding him of his manners, but it was no go—love beamed out of her eyes, bathing the kid in its glow.

  Terry got behind the wheel. He didn't adjust the seat, just worked the pedals with the tips of his toes. He piloted the big car expertly, not showing off anymore like he used to, just a man doing a job.

  After the car was hidden, we switched to an old Jeep they keep there as a shuttle—Michelle ripped the Mole one hell of a speech last time about having to walk through the junkyard in her spike heels.

  The Mole was sitting on the cut–down oil drum he uses for a chair, looking into the middle distance where he spends most of his time. A tawny shadow flitted at the edge of my vision—Simba, boss of the wild dog pack. The beast came closer, sat on his haunches, tongue lolling, watching with more interest than the Mole showed.

  Terry went into the bunker and came out with a chair for Michelle. A real one, black leather, sparkling clean. She sat down, lit a smoke, took the glass of mineral water Terry brought for her. At home like it was a cocktail lounge.

  Terry sat next to her. They talked, close in. After a while, the Mole would come down from wherever he was, and he'd talk too—as much as the Mole ever does. I didn't wait for that.

  I walked back to the Plymouth, feeling the dog pack around me. I drove slow, meandering my way back downtown.

  Before I went upstairs to my place, I grabbed a pay phone, rang the restaurant.

  "It's me," I told Mama when she answered. "You find the Prof?"

  "Just now. He say he bring the boy tomorrow, okay?"

  "Sure."

  I drove by the restaurant early the next day. Checked the window. Only the white dragon tapestry was standing there…the all–clear flag flying.

  I parked in the alley behind the joint, tapped on the flat–faced steel door, walked through the clump of gunmen masquerading as cooks, went past the bank of pay phones into the dining area.

  I took my booth in the back. Mama detached herself from her cash register, walked over to me, snapping something in Cantonese to the men in the back. She'd gotten tired of me saying no when she asked me if I wanted food…now she just brings it. She sat across from me, served me a portion of her infamous hot–and–sour soup from the tureen, served herself. I blew on my spoon, took some of the potion into my mouth, feeling her eyes.

  "There's something different," I told her.

  She bowed slightly, so slightly I could still see the little twitch at the corner of her mouth.

  "Good. You pay attention."

  "Yeah. What is it?"

  "Ginseng powder."

  "How come…"

  "Ginseng for wounds."

  "I'm not wounded anymore," I told her, tapping my shoulder where the bullet had taken me coming out of that house in the Bronx.

  She bowed again, expressionless.

  I finished the soup. Waited for her to refill the bowl, sipped it more slowly this time—if I emptied it too fast, she'd just deal another round. I looked at my watch: 9:30. Plenty of time.

  "You work soon?" Mama asked.

  "Maybe."

  She left me after that, going back to her wheeling dealing stealing.

  The bell over the front door sounded. Too early for customers, especially with the CLOSED sign displayed. I looked up. The Prof stepped in, a tiny man with the face of an African prince. He was wearing a white and blue poncho that looked like an Indian blanket…it trailed almost to his feet. Behind him, a white kid. Gawky, tall and skinny, pasty–faced, dark hair long in the back, spiked straight up in the front. The kid was dressed in a black chino sport coat two sizes too big, worn over black baggy pants gathered at the cuffs around black Reebok hightops. The huge tongues of the
sneakers had little orange circles on them…Pumps…the only spot of color anywhere on him. Clarence came in behind the kid as if his mission was to take up the chromoslack with a canary yellow silk jacket that draped almost to his knees. A heavy gold bracelet dangled from his left wrist—his right hand was in his pocket.

  The convoy rolled over to my booth. The Prof slid in first. Clarence ushered the kid into the next seat, then sat next to him, boxing and blocking. One of the waiters walked past, ignoring us, taking up a position at the front. The place started to bustle. It might have felt like a restaurant gearing up for customers if you'd never spent time in a guerrilla base camp. A stranger was inside—time to see if he'd brought friends with him.

  "It's done, son," the Prof said to me. "This here's Randall Cambridge—he's lean and he's clean."

  So whatever the kid was, he wasn't wired.

  "You wanted to talk to me?" I said to him.

  "I…thought we could speak…alone."

  "We can't."

  "This is kind of…personal."

  I reached for my pack of cigarettes on the tabletop but the Prof was there first—he had hands faster than Muhammad Ali. Always did. I cracked a wooden match, fired both our smokes, blew some in the kid's face. He blinked rapidly, started to touch his eyes. Clarence shifted his weight, twisting the shoulder next to the kid. The kid's hands stayed on the counter—the Prof would have schooled him about the rules for a meet on the way over.

  "Tell me about your mother," I said.

  "She's…Lorna Cambridge. Like I told you. Cherry, that's the name she said to give you. Cherry from…"

  "Yeah, I know. When did she tell you about me?"

  "Before she left. Before she left the first time. I asked her not to go, but she has to. She always goes. Every year. She said, if you didn't believe me, I should tell you something. A man's name. Rex. Rex Grass."

  "Okay, you told me. I got it. Now tell me what you want."

  "It's…hard."

  "So's life, kid. Me too. I'm not a fucking guidance counselor, okay? Spit it out or go back where you came from."