Down in the Zero (28 page)

I went into that house to kill what they did to me. Told myself a lot of lies about it before it happened. None since.

People say you can't heal until you can forgive. Fucking liars. Cowards and collaborators. A beast steals your soul, you don't get it back by making peace with him. You make peace with yourself.

I went into that house to do that. With a gun in my hand. And I killed a baby.

Say it!
I killed a baby. I didn't mean to, but he's just as dead. Surrounded by the bodies of humans who tortured him.

Would he forgive me if he knew why I walked that walk?

I got it then. Really got it. The Zero isn't where you go when you die…it's where you go when you volunteer for the ride.

I could feel the dead child inside me—like Wendy's poem, talking across the barrier. The Zero was no good to me—I wouldn't find the kid there. But maybe he could hear me. I heard Wesley sometimes, maybe…

I will always hate them, I promised the child I'd killed. Always. I swear on my true family I will never forgive. And if I could find them, I would kill them.

Quick. Not like they did me.

Like they did you too, child.

I'm sorry, kid
, I said inside me.
But you're no place I can go to tell you—I can't make it right
.

I sat down on the cold floor and dropped below the Zero. Cried myself to sleep like I did when I was a kid myself.

Before they taught me nobody was listening.

T
he sun woke me, burning through the greenhouse. I was naked, cold, sore.

I didn't want to go into the Zero anymore. Didn't want to be in this rich ghetto anymore either.

I wanted my family back. The family I helped make for myself. I would die for them, but I'd die trying.

I missed Pansy. I felt sick inside. Not sad anymore, sick with knowledge.

A hundred years ago, I was standing on the prison yard, listening to the Prof tell me I couldn't use a shank to settle some petty beef I had with another con. Telling me to chill, get icy, pick my shots. I didn't want to hear it—what I wanted to do was stab the miserable motherfucker who sold me the tickets. "Do it like I say or get on your way," the Prof said, then.

I stayed. I was going to stay now. Stay the distance.

Fancy was sprawled on her stomach, face buried in a pillow, sleeping drained. The tattoo I'd drawn was almost gone. Fading away like the shroud around the mystery of her life.

I slid in next to her, covered her body with mine. She muttered something, still under. I nuzzled at the back of her neck until she stirred. As soon as she was sure it was me, I held her until she went back to sleep.

I
was chewing on a granola bar I'd found in her kitchen, washing it down with some ice water. So calm I could count my heartbeats. Fancy walked in. "How's this?" she asked, posing.

She was wearing hot pink stretch pants with a thick black stripe down the side of each leg. The pants ended at mid–calf. Shiny black spike heels. A black cotton bra with wide straps that crossed behind her back. She was holding a black sweatshirt in one hand.

"You going to put that on?"

"Well, of course! I just wanted you to see what's underneath first."

"I didn't see what's underneath those pants," I told her.

"There isn't anything," she said, sticking her tongue out at me. "There wasn't room. Is this okay?"

"Dynamite."

She turned sideways, shot a rounded hip, gave herself a hard smack on the rump. "Boom!" she whispered.

I
drove the Lexus to the parking lot where I'd promised it would be waiting, Fancy following in her NSX. She didn't ask any questions when I took the wheel from her.

By the time we arrived, there was already a long line to get in. A young girl in a set of bright orange coveralls was walking down the line, taking money, making change.

"How much?" I asked her when she got to us.

"Ten dollars per car to get in. It's another ten if you want a pit pass.

I handed her a twenty. "We'll take both."

She peeled off two stickers, one white, one blue. "You can paste these on your dashboard," she said. "Make sure they're visible through the windshield. Here, I'll…"

She bent over, put her head inside the car. "I'll take care of it" Fancy snapped at her, snatching the stickers out of her hand.

"Easy," I told her, pulling off.

"Oh,
I'll
take care of it," she mimicked, dripping sarcasm.

"She's just a kid, playing around."

"I'll give her something to play around with."

"That's enough."

"That's enough, what?"

"That's enough, bitch."

She unsnapped her seat belt, reached over and gave me a quick kiss.

We found the pit area. It was jammed. I parked Fancy's car over to the side and we starting looking around. The whole joint looked like a Concours de Cash…the occasional Mercedes stuck out like a poor relative, only invited to the wedding for the sake of form. Ferraris, Maseratis, a gullwing Lamborghini. All toothbrush–polished, shrieking status.

Fancy's sweatshirt draped down past her hips. We didn't get a second glance as we strolled through the grounds, even in that sea of Laura Ashley and country barn chic.

"There he is!" Fancy yelled, pulling at my arm. If a Mercedes looked out of place, the Plymouth looked like it was from outer space. The kid was standing next to it, a clipboard in his hand. A tall, slender girl with him, long reddish blonde hair almost to her waist, dressed all in black. But instead of the pasty indoor skin I expected, her face was porcelain, with a faint rose undertone.

"Burke!" the kid shouted, looking up and spotting us. "And…Fancy. Wow."

"You ready?" I asked him.

"Yeah. Burke, Fancy…this is Wendy."

The tall girl offered her hand. Black nail polish. I held it for a second, but even the strong sunlight didn't fluoresce wrist scars—if she'd ever secretly tried to visit her dead–and–gone friend, it hadn't been that way. Her eyes were a gentle gold–flecked copper, cheekbones prominent in a thin, patrician face.

"I love your hair," Fancy told her. "I wish I had it."

"Thank you," Wendy said. Not blushing, not arrogant either.

"Give it to him," I told Fancy.

"Here!" she bounced out, handing the kid the white box.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Just open it," Wendy told him, standing close, her hand on his shoulder.

He put it on the hood of the car, opened it slowly. Took out the jacket. "It's beautiful!" he said, holding it up. Wendy took it from him, gestured for him to turn around, helped him into it. The fit was perfect.

"I love it," he said softly, running his fingers over his name in the red script.

"Hey, Randy! They said you were over here. Where's your car?" Brewster, with half a dozen kids trailing him.

"This is it," the kid said, patting the Plymouth's flanks. I admired the big numbers whitewashed on the back door: 303. I guess they assigned them at random.

"This? You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope."

"Far fucking
out
!" one of his boys said.

Brewster rolled his head on the column of his neck, like he'd just taken a punch. "Whose jacket you borrow?" he asked the kid, standing close.

"It's mine."

"So who's Sonny?"

"That's me, too."

"Sonny? What kind of fucking name is that?"

"It's what his friends call him," Fancy said, stepping up like she was measuring Brewster for a right cross.

"That's sick, man," Brewster said, laughing. "One of your psycho ideas?" he sneered in Wendy's direction.

"There's one kind of sickness you'll never get, Brewster," she replied, gently.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Brain fever," she said. Two of Brewster's boys slapped a high five. His face flushed. "Don't even think about it," I said to him real quiet.

"See you out there, wimp," he said, stalking off.

S
onny swung the front end of the Plymouth forward, exposing the engine and upper suspension. A guy in a little cloth cap stopped by, stood off a few feet checking things out. I watched his face for that superior–snide look, but he was rapt with respect.

"Is that a four–thirteen?" he asked.

"It's a four–forty," I told him. "With sixty over.

"What a monster!" the guy said, open admiration in his voice. "I haven't seen one like that since I was a kid. You going to run her?"

"He is," I said, indicating Sonny.

"I guess you got enough torque for a short course," the guy said to Sonny. "But it's got to be carrying a couple of tons unsprung weight."

"Yeah," Sonny said. "But it loads to the outside wheels pretty good."

"Can you lock it up? Hold it in low gear all the way?"

"That's my plan. The automatic's just a three–speed—it probably won't even red–line."

"Good luck," the man said, offering his hand.

"Thanks," Sonny acknowledged.

The man walked away. "You know who that was?" Sonny asked me, answering his own question without waiting for my response. "That was John Margate—he used to race Formula One. Even did the Grand Prix…damn!"

"I guess he knows the real deal when he sees it."

"John Margate…the kid mused, chest swelling.

W
e watched the races from the roof of the Plymouth, legs dangling down across the windshield. Mostly sports cars: I spotted a sprinkling of Alfas, old Triumphs, an MGA coupe. Most of them handled the course pretty well, with only an occasional spin–out. An electronic board at the finish line flashed the time of each car as it came through. After a while, the course attendants went out on the track, moved the cones around, set them wider, opening things up. The next wave was stronger stuff: a white Nissan 300ZX, a blue Mazda RX–7, even an NSX like Fancy's.

"Pretty soon," Sonny said. He looked about as nervous as a pit bull facing off against a cocker spaniel.

We all climbed down. Sonny walked around the Plymouth one more time, stroking the big car, saying something I couldn't hear. Wendy took her long black chiffon scarf from around her neck, tied it carefully to the Plymouth's upright antenna, gave Sonny a kiss. He put on his driver's helmet, donned a pair of leather gloves, and started the engine. The Plymouth growled a warning, ready.

Sonny put it in gear and pulled off toward the staging area.

"He's gonna be fine," I told Wendy.

"I know," she said.

I looked around for Fancy, couldn't see her. Before I could puzzle it out, she strolled up carrying a cardboard tray with big paper cups carefully balanced, a white cowboy hat on her head.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked her.

"There's a concession stand on the other side," she said, handing an iced Coke to Wendy, another to me.

"I mean the hat."

"Oh. Some young boy was wearing it—he gave it to me."

"Come on," I said to both women. "Let's get over to where we can see it."

T
he first car through was a lipstick red Dodge Viper. The PA. system gave the guy's name, drawing some polite applause. He couldn't drive to save his life, wiping out on the twisting backstretch, spinning out of control. The car skidded harmlessly to a stop.

"You get three runs." I looked over at the speaker, a guy in his forties, wearing one of those suburban safari jackets. He looked fully equipped—a clipboard in one hand loaded with crosshatched paper, a monocular on a cord around his neck. "Most of them push too hard the first time through," he said knowingly. I nodded my thanks for the information.

The next car was a one–seater with some kind of boattail—I didn't recognize it.

"Herbert Carpenter. Driving a D–type Jaguar," the PA. announced.

Whoever he was, he was good. Real good. The dark green car zipped through the pylons smoothly, making a sound like ripping canvas. The electronic scoreboard flashed…1:29.44.

"Best time of the day," the guy next to me said.

Wendy tapped my forearm. "I'll be right back," she said.

"Brewster Winthrop. Driving a ZR–one Corvette," the announcer told us.

The 'Vette was Darth Vader black, bristling with aero add–ons right down to a useless rear spoiler that hovered over the tail like a stalking bird of prey. It charged around the course like an enraged bull, all brutish power and noise. But the jerk could drive, I had to give him that. He smoked past the finish line as the board flashed…1:29.12.

"All right!" the guy next to me cheered, marking something on his clipboard. He wasn't alone—Brewster got himself a heavy round of applause as he stepped out of his car. He pulled off his helmet, took a little bow.

"John Margate. Driving his famous Lola." The P.A. wasn't needed—everybody there seemed to know the car. Margate's blue beast slipped through the course like rushing water, fiber–optic threading, glass on Teflon. I didn't need the scoreboard to tell me he was faster than anyone else, but it showed the numbers for all to see…1:27.33.

"The best!" the guy next to me said.

It was three more cars before they called the kid's name. "Sonny Cambridge. Driving a… Plymouth."

"He's gotta be kidding," my tour guide remarked sourly, the monocular screwed into his eye.

"At least they got his name right," I said to Wendy.

"I went over and told them," she replied. "I wanted him to hear it." Sonny launched out of the starting gate like a dragster, threw the big car into a long, controlled skid, sliding from pylon to pylon like a bootlegger on a dirt road, a rooster–tail of smoke and pebbles behind him. He kept it high on the tach, braking against the gas pedal, cranking the wheel between extremes of full lock. Wailing!

The timer told the story…1:28.55. The crowd went wild as Sonny stepped out. He kept his helmet on, climbed back inside the Plymouth and motored off to the side.

We found him in the pit area. "That was great!" I told him. Wendy and Fancy each kissed a different cheek. The kid's face was a sweet shade of red. "I'm gonna skip the second run," he told me. "Unless somebody beats my time. The last run is just two cars—I think John Margate's gonna wait too."