Down in the Zero (7 page)

I was in town just after midnight. Passed a few restaurants, scoping it out. Didn't feel right, so I turned toward the highway. Found the Blue Bottle. Pulled in. I didn't get a second glance making my way to the entrance—maybe Michelle was right.

A blonde girl in a sequined halter top was taking money at the door, a bouncer hovering over her right shoulder in case someone's ID didn't check out. He was strictly Amateur Hour: big, sharp–cut muscles bulging out of an orange silk T–shirt, but his hair was too long, too easy to grab in a fight. And his hands looked like he only used them to pat on his cologne.

I gave the woman the ten bucks she asked for, moved past her toward the dance floor. As I passed by the bouncer, I tilted my head in a

"Come over here" gesture. He moved with a bodybuilder's strut, rolling his shoulders with his hands clasped behind his back. When he got close, I turned my shoulder so he came into a space just for us.

"I was supposed to meet some friends. Not here. At another joint. And I lost the address. Thought maybe you could help me out."

"What's the place?" he asked me, a practiced hardguy edge to his voice.

"Rector's."

He shot me a look. "I'm not sure I know where that is."

"Sure you do," I told him, opening my hand quickly, letting him see folded green.

He glanced over his shoulder, turned his attention back to me. "That's a private club, pal. I can't get you in there."

"Don't worry about it. That's covered. Just give me the directions, okay?"

He leaned close. "Follow the water to forty–one, take it north a couple of miles. You'll see the sign for Calm's Corners. Just turn in there, follow the road. It's a white house, big driveway out front. You can't miss it."

"Thanks," I said, shaking his hand, passing the cash.

I
found the sign for Calm's Corners, whatever the hell that was. Turned in, followed a two–lane blacktop ribbon. The house was there, like the bouncer said. Good–sized house, three stories. The driveway was one of those half–moons. From where I sat, I could see a couple of men in tuxedos standing at the front of the house, between two thick columns. Valet parking—that wouldn't work.

I drove on, looking for an opening. It took me three slow passes before I saw it—a side road that merged with the back parking lot. I nosed the Lexus in cautiously, but nobody was paying attention. The very back of the lot was just like Fancy had said. And empty. I backed the Lexus into the spot she said, checked my watch. 1:19.

I got out of the car, looked around. The parking lot had no fence— it ran right up against a forest in the back, following the tree line.

I returned to the car, dropped the driver's side window, watched. I saw cars being parked maybe fifty yards away. The guys in the tuxedos did it mostly, but once in a while somebody would do it themselves. Traffic all coming in…nobody leaving. No pattern to it: mostly male–female couples, but there were some singles too, and some same–sex combos.

The night was clear, but I couldn't hear anything. Either they ran a real quiet joint or it was soundproofed.

I waited there until twenty past two. No sign of Fancy. I drove the Lexus out the front way. Nobody paid me a glance.

I
stashed the Lexus next to my Plymouth. The red Miata was gone. I went upstairs, changed my clothes. Almost four in the morning, a good time to have a quiet, leisurely look around the big house. The kid probably wouldn't come back until well past daylight. Whatever had sent him into a panic didn't seem to have much staying power.

I had just opened the back kitchen door when a pair of high beams flashed against the garage. I slipped away from the house as Fancy's black NSX spun into the driveway, scattering stones as she stood on the brakes, skidding to a stop, the headlights aimed across the back yard. The lights went out, I saw her jump out of the car and slam the door, a long black coat trailing behind her as she marched up the stairs to the apartment.

I moved out of the shadows behind her, crossing to the bottom of the stairs just as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. I followed, moving quiet.

I stood outside the door. Heard the sound of glass breaking inside. I stepped in, breathing shallow. The long black coat was thrown over the back of the sofa. The TV screen was cracked, pieces of a heavy glass ashtray scattered all around. From the bedroom, sounds of someone rooting through the drawers. Harsh, heavy breathing.

I went down the hall. Fancy's back was to me. She was poured into a black leather mini–dress over dark stockings, standing there in bright blue spike heels, wrecking the place.

"You having a good time?" I asked her.

She whirled without a word, the black riding crop in her hand, slashing. I spun away, let her momentum carry her past me when she missed, slammed my shoulder into her back and took her down to the carpet. She squirmed, snarling something I couldn't make out. I locked my arm around hers, pinning it close, letting my weight hold her.

Finally… "Let me
up
!"

"Let go of the stick first," I told her.

Her fist unclenched, the riding crop slipped from her fingers. I shifted my weight from her hips, still keeping her shoulders pinned. Her dress was around her waist. I saw a flash of dark nylon over bronze skin. There was only a slash of black silk between the cheeks of her butt, some kind of thong.

"Nice, huh?" she whispered over her shoulder, calm now.

I rolled away from her, letting go my hold. She got to her feet, tugging down the dress, breathing hard.

"What's all this about?" I asked her.

"What?"

"Breaking in here, busting up the place, tearing through my things."

"I didn't break in here—I have a key."

"Who gave you…? Ah, never mind. What about the other stuff?"

"I was angry. You stood me up. People don't do that."

"I was there. At two, like you said. You never showed."

"Why didn't you wait?"

"For what?"

"People do what I tell them," she said, bending over and picking up the riding crop. She tossed it on the bed, turned to me. "They
love
to do what I tell them. You think you're something? You're nothing, Mr. Caretaker. I know your secrets."

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it? Okay? I know why you're here. I know what you want."

"Sure."

"Don't be slick—you don't have the looks for it. I could save you a lot of time, point you straight. That's not your secret—that's mine. You want it?"

"Maybe."

"People wait for me, I told you. You can wait too. You know how it works—you want something, you have to pay, yes?"

"How much?"

"A lot. Not money. I don't need money. You want to pay, you have to play. Play with me, get it?"

"No."

She walked over to the bureau, rummaged around, like she knew what would be in there. Came up with a fat white hurricane candle. She held it out to me.

"Light this," she said, her voice rough–edged, insistent.

I cracked a wooden match, held it to the wick. Her hand was steady. When the candle flickered into life, she went back to the bureau, held it in one hand over her head as she swept everything onto the floor with the other. She planted the candle, stepped back, watched the flame in the mirror over the bureau, adjusted it until she was satisfied.

"Go turn out the lights," she said, still giving orders. "Do it now.

I stepped back, hit the switch, still watching her.

The black dress had a wide zipper all the way down the front, anchored with a silver pull–ring the size of a half–dollar between her breasts. It made a metal–singing sound as she pulled it down. She shrugged her shoulders and the dress fell away. Then she stood facing me, hands on hips. Her breasts were bare. A humming sound came off her, not from her mouth. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband to the thong, pulled it slowly over her hips. When she had it worked down to just above her knees, she wiggled her legs and it dropped to her ankles. She stepped out of the little piece of black silk, hooked the toe of a blue spike heel into the pile and kicked the thong over in my direction. I felt it brush against my feet but I never dropped my eyes from her face.

She turned her back to me. Put one knee on the bed, looked over her shoulder. Climbed the rest of the way onto the bed, on her hands and knees, facing away from me.

"You want to play now?" she whispered.

I took out a cigarette. Walked over to the candle, got a light. I took a deep drag, put the cigarette on the dresser top. Her butt looked like a piece of white marble, the dark stockings setting it off like a centerpiece. The spikes of her heels were pointed back at me.

I took off my clothes, watching, breathing through my nose, something telling me I needed to keep a control card in my deck.

I hung my clothes over the back of a straight chair. Stepped to her. I put one hand on her hip, touched her deep with the other. She was wet. I entered her slowly. She snapped her hips to the side, throwing me out.

"Kiss first," she said, not turning around.

I put my hands on her shoulders to pull her around. She locked her arms rigid, resisting.

"Kiss my ass," she ordered. "Kiss it good."

I stepped back. "Not this year," I told her. Calm, not arguing.

"Make you mad?" she challenged. "Here!" handing me the riding crop, still not turning around.

I tossed it onto the floor, still watching her. The marble glistened in the candlelight.

I went back over to the bureau. Took another drag from my cigarette. She didn't move.

A piece of time passed. I walked back to her, put one hand on each of her cheeks, stroked with my thumbs.

"No!" she snapped. "Kiss it or whip it, that's all there you get. I don't do vanilla sex."

I stepped back again. Finished the smoke. Ground it out on the dresser top.

"Well?" she demanded, her voice thick.

"I don't like the choices," I told her.

She looked over her shoulder, still on her hands and knees. "It looks like you do," she whispered.

"That's my body," I said. "Not me.

She dropped her face to the sheet, arched her back. Her dark sex bloomed in the candlelight, framed in marble. "Last chance," she whispered. Sugar threats.

I shook my head. It was as though she could see it without looking. She backed toward me, backed all the way off the bed. Stood up. Walked over, put the dress on like it was a coat, bent at the waist and zipped it up. Snuffed out the candle with two fingers and stalked out to the front room.

I followed her. She was pulling on the long coat. I grabbed her from behind. She ground her hips into my crotch. I slipped my hands into the side pockets of the coat. Pulled out a bunch of keys, stepped back. The keys were all anchored to a piece of wood in the shape of a tiny cane. I rifled through the keys, picked out the one to the apartment, pulled it off the ring. She turned to face me. I handed her the rest of the keys. She held the keys so the tiny cane dangled.

"You know what this is?"

"No."

"It's birch. Get the idea?"

"Yeah."

"You think so? Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime. When you're ready."

She walked out, leaving the door open. I stood in the doorway, watching her walk to her car. It started up, moved off, no headlights.

I walked back through the wreckage to the back room, turning on the lights. Her black silk thong was on the floor of the bedroom. I picked it up.

It smelled like handcuffs.

I
got dressed, putting rich–bitch games out of my mind, centering on the job. I crossed the yard back to the big house. A burglar's dream—I had a key, and the cops wouldn't stop even if they saw lights on. I slipped on a pair of surgeon's gloves—all I'd need to slice this piece of cake.

It had to be her room. Whatever she was now, Cherry was a working–class girl—she'd need to keep the good stuff close. I worked the teakwood chest of drawers first, moving from the bottom up the way I'd been taught. It saves time—that way you don't have to close one drawer before you move on to the next. Nothing. I pulled out each drawer completely, checked for something taped underneath. A blank. I couldn't find an inset panel anywhere. Tapped the wood frame—it rang solid.

I went over the carpet section by section. It was seamless, a double–thick pad underneath. The nightstand by the bed supported an ice blue telephone in some free–form futuristic shape and a black clock with green hands, no numbers. The hands pointed to 4:45. In the base of the clock was a window with a digital readout—7:45. I let it roll around in my head, kept working.

Inside the nightstand I got lucky. A thick stack of bills, all hundreds, neatly banded. I quick–counted it—ten large. The bills looked Treasury–fresh, but the serial numbers were random. Toward the back of the little drawer, a black leather address book. I tossed it on the bed, kept looking.

I took the mattress off the bed. Nobody home. The box spring was next. Another blank. I checked the headboard for a compartment, using my pencil flash to spot a seam. It was made from the same teak as the dresser, and just as solid.

Only one picture on the wall. A sepia–toned photograph of a woman, her back to the camera. She was dressed in a dark Victorian suit, some kind of velvet it looked like, with a long skirt and long sleeves. Her hands were clasped in front of her, head slightly bowed. I took it off the wall, hoping for a safe. The paint was undisturbed— whoever cleaned the joint removed the picture every time they dusted.

Nothing left but the closet. I did the footwear first. She had everything from thigh–high boots to running shoes, but they were all empty. Then I went through the clothes, piece by piece. Found a string of pearls in one coat pocket, a pair of used theater tickets in another. Tissues, a blue chiffon scarf, a lipstick–size spray atomizer. I pointed it away from me, pressed the tiny button. Some kind of citrus perfume.

Against the back wall, I found a black silk cape with an attached hood. The lining was red. In a side pocket, a gray business card. Normal size, but twice the weight. In steel blue copperplate script: "Rector's." And a phone number. I put it on the bed next to the address book.