Down in the Zero (13 page)

"It's coq au vin. Like chicken with sauce on it. There's a French restaurant in town. They deliver too. I thought maybe you'd rather have something like a real meal."

"It's good," I said. "That was thoughtful of you."

The kid ducked his head again. We ate in silence for a bit, part of my brain still working over what Blankenship had told me.

"You know what a gymkhana is?" the kid asked.

"Where they race around in a parking lot?"

"Well, sort of. A real one, it's like a slalom, only flat. They set up pylons for the course, and you run through it for time. If you hit a pylon, they add time to your score, see? It's tricky. Not like real racing. I mean, they only let one car at a time go through. But it's slick. All kinds of cars do it, 'Vettes, Ferraris, one guy even has a Lola he brings."

"What do you get if you win?"

"Trophies. I mean, it's not for money or anything. But it's real serious—the drivers really go at it."

"You ever do it?"

"Sure. In the Miata, once. It was…okay. I mean, all the kids go there just to hang out."

"Do they bet on the races?"

"Bet? Gee, I don't know. I mean,
we
don't. But maybe the older guys do…we don't mix with them much."

"Did any of the kids who killed themselves race there?"

"No. At least I don't think so. I mean, that's not why I asked about it. I was thinking… maybe…if you wouldn't mind…"

"What?"

"Could I run the Plymouth in one? There's one next Sunday. I never saw a big American sedan run one—it would be boss, you know?"

"Can you get hurt doing it?"

"Nah. You could spin out, that's the worst. They make you wear a helmet, that's all."

"You really want to do it?"

"Yeah!
Big–time
. It would be—"

"Okay."

"You mean it?"

"Sure."

"Great! We could drive over early, get in a couple of practice laps, then we could—"

"Hold up, kid. What's this 'we' stuff?"

"I just thought…seeing how it's your car and all, you'd want to…"

I watched his face, seeing how different it looked from when I first met him. Thinking about why kids kill themselves. "Good idea," I said. "Let's do it."

"G
ardens," Mama answered the phone like always.

"It's me. You hear anything from Michelle?"

"Yes. She say, take Mole longer to read what you show him."

"Longer than what?"

"I don't know. You ask, okay?"

"Okay. Anything else going on?"

"Very quiet. You?"

"I'm not sure."

"Very pretty stones," Mama said. "Look careful."

I
learned to sleep in chunks a long time ago. Grab it when you can. I know that REM is the true deep sleep, the only kind that restores you. That's where you dream. I don't remember most of my dreams—it's one of the few things in my life I'm grateful for.

It was after eleven when I came around. I took a shower, thought about shaving again, decided the hell with it. I listened to some music while I was getting dressed in the outfit Michelle bought for me. The broken blank eye of the television stared at me—I guess I really only watch it with Pansy—she loves it.

I held my pistol in my hand, turning it over like it would tell me something. I couldn't leave it in the Plymouth with the kid driving it around, and there was no good place in the Lexus to stash it either. Finally, I just wiped it down, wrapped it in a sheet of heavy plastic and put it inside the toilet tank. It wasn't a world–class stash, but even if someone turned it up, it wouldn't connect to me. The piece was ice–cold—came right off the assembly line at the factory, never went through a dealer's hands. The serial number would never have been registered. I got it from Jacques, Clarence's old boss. Specialty of the house, guaranteed not to alert any law enforcement computer. If they found it, they'd have a hell of a time proving it didn't belong to whoever stayed here before me.

Fancy's house was in the same neighborhood as Cherry's, that's what she said, anyway. The same neighborhood turned out to be about five miles away—people measure differently out here. I found it easy enough: a big modernistic spread, all redwood and glass in front. It was midnight plus two when I pulled into the long drive. I angled the Lexus toward a long, wide building that looked like a six–car garage…where she'd told me to park. The doors were closed. I opened the car door and stepped out, getting my bearings.

"You're late," a voice said from the darkness. Fancy. In a pale blue T–shirt that draped to mid–thigh, standing barefoot a few feet away. She stepped forward, no real expression on her face.

"Come with me," she said, turning to walk away.

I followed her along a slate path around the back of the garage, past an Olympic–size swimming pool glowing a muted gold from underwater lights. The big house was to our left, but Fancy moved in the opposite direction, past a low structure that looked to be all glass.

"Is that a greenhouse?" I asked her.

"No, that's the pool house. Where people change into their bathing suits before they swim."

"It looks too big for just that."

She made a face over her shoulder, kept walking. One more turn and we were facing three little houses standing in a triangle maybe a hundred feet along each line. Two were dark; one had a soft orange light glowing next to the door. As we walked closer, I could see it was some kind of Japanese paper lantern over a bulb.

Fancy opened that door, stepped inside. "Over there," she said, pointing to a long white leather couch.

I sat down. Fancy went to the far corner of the room, did something with her hand, and a small cone of light hit the dark carpet. I could see it was a long black floor lamp with a gooseneck top bent toward the floor. Fancy stood watching the light for a second, hands on hips. Satisfied, she turned and came over to the couch. She sat, then curled her legs under her, turning so she was facing me.

"Could we start over?" she asked.

"Why?"

"You liked me when you first saw me. You did, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"How come?"

"I liked your look."

"My face? My body? What?"

"Not your looks. Your
look
. Understand?"

"No. Tell me. Please tell me," she hastily amended, like she'd made a fatal slip.

"You looked like a…merry girl. Bouncy. Sweet. A true–hearted girl."

"And I…showed you how I play. So you don't like me anymore?"

"I don't care how you play. I just don't have people playing with me."

"Are you scared?"

"Of what?"

"That you'd like it."

"I like a lot of things—the only things that scare me are the ones I need."

"And you don't need much?"

"I've had a lot of practice."

"Because you were poor?"

"I was born broke," I told her. That's the best way to lie to strangers—tell them the true truth.

She got up, walked over to a big–screen TV facing the couch. She bent over at the waist, cued a VCR, ran her finger down a stack of cassettes. When she found the one she wanted, she shoved it into the slot. Then she plucked a remote from the top of the TV set, came back over to the couch holding it in her hand.

"You want a cigarette?" she asked.

"Sure," I said, waiting.

"I don't have any," she said. "I just meant it was okay to smoke here. That's an ashtray," pointing to a flat silver dish on the top of a black lacquered coffee table.

I took the pack from my jacket pocket, shook one out, put it in my mouth. I opened the little box of wooden matches, the one with the name of the nightclub in Chicago I'd never been to. I leave them places, throw trackers off the scent. She put her hand on mine, said "Let me do it." I handed her the matches. She pulled the cigarette from my mouth, put it between her lips, struck the match. When she got it going, she handed it to me.

"Thanks."

"You didn't say anything about the taste this time," she said, soft–voiced. "I really liked it when you did that. Flirting. It's sweet fun. People don't do it much anymore. What you said…that was a line, right?"

"No. I never said that before in my life. It just happened."

"I bet."

"
Don't
bet. You haven't learned to tell the truth when you hear it by now, all you'll ever be able to do is play—you'll never be for real."

"I'm sorry," she said, dropping her eyes. "Did you mean the other stuff, what you said before? About me looking like a merry girl?"

"Yes."

She shifted her body so she was facing the TV set. "I don't just play—I work too," she said. "Watch."

She hit the remote. Chamber music came from the speakers. The screen background was a neon blue. Black letters popped up: A LESSON FOR MELISSA. Credits rolled over the music. CANE PRODUCTIONS, trick lettering—the "P" in "PRODUCTIONS" formed a stylized cane. Some other stuff. The camera dissolved to…Fancy. In a high–necked, long–sleeved, dark velvet dress with a gathering of white lace at the throat, tight bodice, full skirt. She was seated on a flat bench, both hands in her lap. "Get in here, young lady!" her voice cracked out from the speakers.

"Yes, mistress," said the woman walking on screen. A young woman, medium–height and slender, with long straight hair. She was wearing a schoolgirl outfit—dark plaid jumper over a white blouse, long white socks almost to her knees, flat–heeled shoes with Mary Jane straps.

"It's a standard script," Fancy said, pushing a button on the remote. MUTE appeared in yellow letters at the bottom of the screen.

There was some exchange of conversation between the two women, then the slender girl lay across Fancy's lap. Fancy pulled up the other girl's skirt and spanked her for a long time, occasionally stopping to say something. The camera shifted, zooming in from screen left to display the other woman's underpants. Back to a close–up of the woman's face, contorted in mock pain. Pulling away to a long shot: Fancy pulling down the other woman's panties, now smacking her with a hairbrush. The cameras danced around the show—at least three of them, an expensive setup.

The scene seemed to go on and on, with the slender woman turning her head once in a while to say something. The camera lensed lovingly over her bottom, now a bright red. Finally, in response to something Fancy said, the woman slid off Fancy's lap, Fancy hooking a thumb into the panties so they slid off the other girl's legs as she stood up. Fancy pointed screen right. The other girl walked off. The closing shot was of the other girl, standing in a corner, her face to the wall.

There were no actors' credits at the end. Just the Cane Productions sign and a P.O. box in Atlanta where you could order a catalog.

Fancy hit the remote and the screen went dark.

"That's me," she said.

I
lit another smoke, waiting for the punch line. Fancy got up, rewound the cassette, popped it out of the VCR and put it back into a plain case. The case went into an open spot on the bookshelf. She came back over to the couch, sat down again.

"What do you know about me now?" she asked.

"I know you're a pro domina," I said.
And a blackmailer—where were the cameras hidden in the little house?

"That's right. You think it's so bad?"

"Bad how?"

"Bad like…sick, okay?"

"It's a fetish," I told her. "There's lots of them. They're bad if they hurt you inside—if you hate yourself every time you do it. Or if they get in the way of what you have to do. Or if you use force to make someone do it with you. Otherwise, what's the difference? Some people get pumped up by high–heeled shoes, some like to dress up like cowboys. If you have to pay for it, it just costs more, that's all."
What a risk to be so needy. If you have a special way you need to play, how do you meet others like you? Coded ads in the personals columns? Advertise in the freak sheets? How could you ever trust them with your secrets?

"You know about it?"

"Not a lot."

"It's a great business. Completely legal too. It's not just the videos—we have still photos, audiotapes, even custom stories."

"Stories?"

"Yes, a customer can set up a scenario, and we have people who will write them a special story. Just for them. Even put their name in it if they want. It's all on computer, in different fields. We can give the customer any setting he wants: schoolmaster, girls' dorm, sorority house, husband–wife, daddy–daughter…anything. And we have standard ones too, not custom. Like pamphlets."

"What does it cost?"

"It varies. The videos are forty–five dollars, the pamphlets are five. The custom stuff costs the most."

"Yeah. Always does. Special costs more than straight on the street too."

"I'm not a whore," she snapped. "And I'm not a degenerate. I don't slam dope, I don't booze, and I didn't get this shape from snarfing sweets. Don't you
dare
look down at me.

"I'm not, I—"

"Just listen," she interrupted. "I'm an actress. A role–player. I'm like a therapist too, for some of them. It relieves tension…like a massage. The girl–on–girl stuff is the most popular. Everybody in the scene says I'm a star."

"Whatever you say."
There's plenty of honest whores —whores who don't take your picture with hidden cameras.

"It's true. It's a business. A good business."

"Most of your customers are men?"xW

"For the live scenes, sure. But we get women too. Couples, even. And we have plenty of women buyers for the videos. Some mostly buy…kid stuff."

I turned my head so I was looking deep into her eyes. She held my stare for a minute, then she nipped at the palm of her hand, just below the thumb, and cast her eyes down. "Audio and custom," she said. "That's mostly what they want. There's a woman in Iowa, she advertises in all the magazines. You want to see?"

I didn't react. Why would I want to see? This was coming too quick, secrets piled on secrets. When that happens, there's always a trade lurking close.

She got to her feet, walked out of the room. She was back in a minute, holding a slick–paper magazine with a black and white photo of a woman bending over on the cover—there was another person in the photo, but all you could see was the paddle in their hand. I stood up, joined her under the light. She thumbed through rapidly, looking for the ad. It was marked with a red ink star, hand–drawn. I held it close to read the small type: