Down in the Zero b-7 Read online

  "Here," he said, opening a walk–in closet full of enough clothes to stock a small store. Just past the door was a control panel, a small round speaker set into the top, a double row of buttons beneath it, each button numbered. He pushed one of the buttons. The string music from the stereo flowed out of the speaker.

  "See?" he said. "She has the whole place wired."

  "Every room."

  "Yes." Something in his face, couldn't tell what in the reflected light.

  "Is this the only control panel?"

  "Yeah."

  "So if I stay over there, how will you…"

  "I'll sleep in here tonight," he said, his face down.

  I shouldered my duffel, headed back across the yard alone. Climbed the wood stairs along the side of the garage. The door to the apartment had a glass pane next to a dime–store lock. A clear message to burglars about what was inside— either nothing worth stealing…or Rottweiler who hadn't been fed in a while.

  I used the key the kid gave me, stepped inside and flicked on the lights. It was nicer than I expected, the living room furnished with substantial, expensive–looking pieces that had aged out of chic. Even the living room carpet was deep and decent, a muted blue with a thick pad underneath. Against one wall was a stereo–tape–CD combo with bookshelf speakers. The kitchen was small, but all the appliances looked serviceable. The bathroom was small too, a plastic curtain turned the tub into a shower on demand. I crossed over to the bedroom, which was dominated by a heavy, carved wood frame for the double bed and a matching dresser with a mirror.

  I kept looking. The refrigerator was empty except for some bottled water, but the kitchen cabinets had a good supply of canned goods. Pots and pans too. The pilot light was working on the stove. The hall closet had towels and sheets. No security system that I could see. I spent another fifteen minutes searching the living room for the microphone that would connect to the house intercom. No luck. I finally found it in the bedroom, a thin wire with a bulb tip running under the base of the window frame. The window looked out over the back area— the three and a half acres the kid had been bragging about. It slid open easily when I shoved. Maybe twenty feet to the ground. Okay.

  I poured myself a glass of cold water, lit a smoke and sat on the couch. A white telephone sat on an end table. Probably recycled from the main house too. I checked the number— it was different from the one over there. I picked it up: dial tone.

  Okay.

  I was up at first light the next morning. Made myself some prison–tasting orange juice from powder I found in a kitchen cabinet, walked around inside a little bit, getting a daytime feel for the place.

  I shaved and took a shower. When I got out of prison the last time, I took a bath every chance I got— something you couldn't get inside the walls. After a while, the pleasure wore off. After a while, a lot of pleasures do.

  Whoever lived there before me left some stuff behind. An old leather jacket on a coat stand in the living room, just past the door. A stack of magazines: Penthouse, American Rifleman, Road & Track. Maybe they had expensive tastes. In one of the dresser drawers, I found a green and black plaid flannel shirt, a couple of wool pullovers. And a black leather riding crop.

  I left the drawer the way it was. Unpacked my own stuff. Hung the jacket Michelle gave me in the bathroom, letting the steam run to refresh it.

  I went downstairs, opened the garage doors, started the Plymouth. I pulled out quietly, then I cruised in increasing circles, smelling the wind, making notes inside my head. I found some of the things I'd need: a bank of pay phones in the parking lot of a mini–mall, a deli with a coffee shop up front that was open at that hour, an underpass to the highway where I could pull the car in, make it disappear.

  It was a little past ten by the time I put the Plymouth back in the garage.

  The kid was still asleep when I went through the back door to the main house. I found him in his mother's bedroom, face down, covers to his waist. I left him there, went looking around.

  The basement was like an old–fashioned storm cellar, not the finished rec room I'd expected. Just an oil burner in one corner, some sagging wood shelves gray from dust, a collection of rusty old garden tools, some suitcases with stickers on them, a steamer trunk.

  I prowled through the house, looking for whatever. Didn't find it.

  He came downstairs a little before noon, wearing a red terry–cloth bathrobe, hair wet from the shower. I was in one of the leather chairs in the living room, having a smoke, thinking.

  "Anything happen last night?" I asked him.

  "No. Not really."

  "What?"

  "Phone calls. Hang ups, that's all. Just somebody playing with my head."

  "They do that a lot around here?"

  "I…guess so. I don't know."

  "When does your mother get back?"

  "Around Labor Day. That's when she always comes back. When school starts."

  "School for you?"

  "Yeah, I guess. College. If I go."

  "Yeah. Well, look, I can't stay that long. Just sitting around here, understand?"

  "You said…"

  "I said I'd come up here, and I did. Hang out with you a while, and I will. But I don't know where to go with all this. You're not doing any work."

  "Work?"

  "Yeah, kid, work. You said you were scared of something— I still don't know what that is."

  "Neither do I…exactly."

  "Your friends died, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And you said you thought it could happen to you, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And that's it? That's all you fucking know?"

  "I…"

  "Look, either you know more than you're telling, or you don't know enough. Either get off it, or get on it. Otherwise, I get on out of here, you're gonna be the same as before I came, see?"

  "Yeah." Sulky now. Sullen. I left him that way.

  Darkness drops softer in the suburbs— I couldn't feel it coming the way I do in the city. I changed my clothes, walked over to the main house. The kid was sprawled on the floor in front of the big–screen TV in the living room, smoking a joint, flicking the remote rapid–fire, getting off on the images.

  I sat down on the couch, pulled the remote out of his hands— it was making me dizzy. The screen image stabilized. CNN. Some twerp was talking. He had an Opie face, but his eyes were weaselly little beads. I hit the volume toggle, listening to the twerp squeak about family values. Lousy little Senator's Son. I had his family, I'd be all for family values too— wasn't for his family, he'd be kissing ass to be assistant manager at McDonald's.

  The kid giggled. It wasn't a political statement— he was halfway stoned, blissing.

  "Let's go for a ride," I told him. "You can show me the sights."

  We walked out to the garage. He started to climb into the Miata. I shook my head. The keys were in the Lexus. I got behind the wheel, fired it up. He got in the passenger side, cranked the seat way back so he was almost reclining.

  I backed out, pointed the car's nose toward the street, hit the gas and pulled away. The beige car handled like graphite— quiet and slick.

  "Which way?" I asked him.

  "To where?"

  "Wherever you all hang out."

  He made some vague gesture with his left hand. I turned left at the corner, tracking. The kid turned on the stereo. Too loud. I found the knob, dropped it down. I kept driving, following his hand waves every time there was a corner–choice.

  The town wasn't much— a long, wide street with little shops. Service stops for the locals, atmospheric joints for the summer people. The street had no pulse.

  When we hit the water, I turned right, following a winding road. Seafood restaurants, couple of one–story tavern–types, some smaller office buildings.

  A squad car came toward us at a leisurely speed, too fast for prowling but not in a hurry. The kid toked on his joint, unconcerned.

  "What's in there?" I asked him. We wer
e rolling past a freestanding building with a big parking lot full of cars, some of them covered with college–age kids. It looked like an upper–class version of a drive–in hamburger joint.

  "The Blue Bottle. A nightclub, like."

  "You ever go there?"

  "Sometimes. It's not really down."

  "Where do you hang out, then?"

  "Houses, man. In the houses. If you know the circuit, it's always party time."

  In the morning, there was a fat housefly buzzing around on the inside of my window screen. I found a plastic squeeze bottle with a spray top— the kind you use to mist houseplants— and filled it from the tap. I gently misted the fly until it stopped moving. Then I picked it up carefully, opened the window, put it outside on the ledge. I watched, smoking a cigarette. Finally, it shook itself and took off. You can't drown a fly.

  I dragged deep on the smoke, playing it in my head. Burke, he wouldn't hurt a fly.

  Just kill a kid once in a while.

  I got dressed slowly. Last night had been a waste. Driving around, looking at not much of anything. The kid didn't seem scared anymore, but every time I mentioned leaving, the panic danced in his eyes. He was going to make a list for me, give me a place to start.

  I'd seen his kind before— a herd animal, with no drive to be the bull of the pack.

  There was a strange car in the driveway. A black Acura NSX, gleaming in the sun, standing like it had been there awhile— I hadn't heard it pull in. I opened the back door. A woman was in the kitchen, playing with the coffeemaker, her back to me. She was maybe thirty, thirty–five, hard to tell. Medium height, with short black hair cut in a blunt wedge, wearing a white tennis outfit. She didn't turn around, just glanced at me over one shoulder.

  "Want some?"

  "Some what?"

  She made a little snorting noise. "Coffee. That's all I cook."

  "No thanks," I told her, opening the refrigerator, tapping the plastic water bottle into a glass. I sat down at the kitchen table, sipping the water. She finished what she was doing, turned to face me, leaning against the counter.

  "I'm Fancy," she said.

  "You sure are.

  "That's my name. I already know yours.

  I looked a question over at her.

  "Burke, right?"

  "Yes."

  "You're the caretaker, aren't you? Yes. You look like you could take care of things."

  I didn't answer, watching her face. Her eyes were light gray, heavy with mascara and eyeliner, set wide apart with a slight Oriental fold at the corners. Her nose was small, too perfect to be factory–stock. Her chin was a tiny point, emphasized by the broad, square shape of her face. Her mouth was small, the lips almost too thick, slashed with a dark carmine that ran against the light bronze of her skin. A lamp, I figured— this one would know all about skin cancer.

  "I was going to wake Randy up, get him to play some tennis with me. Work some of this off," she said, slapping a plump thigh hard enough to leave a welt, a sharp crack in the quiet morning.

  "Seems a shame," I told her.

  "Playing tennis?"

  "Losing any of that."

  She flashed a smile. "You like fat women?"

  "I like curves."

  "Ummm," she said, deep in her throat. "Your mother ever tell you you were cute?"

  "No." As pure a truth as I'd ever tell a stranger.

  She walked over to the table and sat down, holding her coffee mug in both hands. A diamond bracelet sparkled on her wrist. No rings on her fingers— the nails were long, carefully crafted, the same color as her lipstick. I took out a pack of cigarettes, raised my eyebrows.

  "You have nice manners," she said.

  "It's not my house."

  She nodded, reaching over to push an ashtray in front of me. I fired up a smoke, took a drag. She took the cigarette from my hand, held it to her lips, sucked in so deeply that her breasts threatened the white pullover. When she exhaled, the smoke only came out one nostril. She put the cigarette in the ashtray, turned it toward me so I could see the lipstick smear on the filter.

  "Your turn," she said.

  I took another drag.

  "How does it taste?"

  "Hard to tell from such a little piece."

  She made that sound in her throat again. Leaned forward. "Let's see if…" just as the kid stumbled through the door.

  "Z'up?" he greeted us both.

  "I thought we were going to play," the woman said.

  "Maybe later," he mumbled, helping himself to coffee.

  "Then I'll come back," she said, getting up. As she walked toward the door, I could see the harsh red mark where her hand had marked her thigh.

  "She's a bit old for you, isn't she?" I asked the kid.

  "Kind of young for you, though," he grinned back.

  I tipped my water glass toward him in acknowledgment.

  "She's really my mother's friend," he said.

  "Kind of drops in when your mother's not around, keeps an eye on you…like that?"

  "She keeps an eye on everything, the bitch."

  "You don't like having her around?"

  "Not really."

  "So…"

  "She's gonna do what she wants anyway."

  "Okay. You got that list we talked about?"

  "Not written down, exactly But I could tell you stuff about them if you want."

  "Who cleans the house while your mother's gone?"

  "Juanita. She comes in three days a week."

  "Un huh. And who cooks?"

  "I can always call take–out…there's a lot of different restaurants."

  "You got a summer job?"

  He gave me one of those "Are you crazy?" looks kids his age specialize in.

  "So what you do is dress yourself, make a few phone calls, watch TV…"

  "Get high…"the kid supplied.

  "And wait for the summer to be over?"

  "You got it."

  "Make the list, kid. I'm not your fucking secretary, understand? You want this done, you got to do your piece."

  "Okay, okay. It's no big deal. I just thought…if you wanted to get started right away, it'd be easier."

  "Just make your list," I told him. "Do some work."

  I went back over to the garage. The NSX was gone— deep ruts in the bluestone where it had peeled out. I dialed Mama's joint.

  "Gardens," she answered.

  "It's me."

  "That woman call again. Two times."

  Belinda. Nothing to do there. "Anything else?"

  "No strangers."

  "Okay. Tell the Prof it's quiet up here. Did Michelle call in with a new number yet?"

  "No."

  "Okay, take this one down I'll be here for a while."

  "Good. Okay. Be careful."

  "I am."

  I sat there for a while, working it through. Nothing. The kid was a field mouse, that's all. Spooked by the headlights. His list would be useless— cold ground doesn't hold tracks.

  The Prof was right about one thing— the whole town was lousy with money. I couldn't see an easy way into any of it. Sooner or later, the kid would need to go out, do something. If I could get him to go alone, I'd have time to look through the house.

  I walked back into the bedroom. A stiff white card sat on the pillow, a few words in careful calligraphy on its face.

  Call me.

  After dark.

  F.

  There was a number in the lower right corner.

  Back at the big house, the kid worked on his list. I watched TV. Every half hour or so the kid would come into the living room, bitching and whining about how it would be easier for him to concentrate in front of the TV— he always did his homework that way. I ignored him each time and he finally stopped.

  He made a couple of phone calls. I didn't pay attention. A knock at the back door. The kid got up, came back with a couple of meatball heros, handed me one. I got myself a glass of cold water, sat down to eat. The bread was doughy, with no real cr
ust. The sauce was thin and weak. The meat tasted like aged basset hound. In the city, the only people who'd visit that restaurant would be holdup men.