Down in the Zero (18 page)

"Could he have been playing a game? Russian roulette?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"Well…how many cartridges were in the cylinder?"

"One. Okay, I see what you mean. But it only
takes
one, right?" His wife muffled a sob, ran from the room.

"Sorry about that," he said to me. "She's a weak sister. Always has been. The boy took after her. Weak. That's what the boozing was really all about. Addicts are weak people. I don't smoke, don't drink. And I stay in shape. The business world, it's a tough racket, not for sissies. My wife thinks if I didn't keep guns in the house, he wouldn't have done it. That's bullshit!" he snarled vehemently. "Somebody wants to get hold of a gun, they can do it, am I right?"

"Dead right," I said.

His head snapped up. "Is that supposed to be some fucking kind of a joke?"

"No sir. It's my way of speaking. I apologize if I offended you."

"Yeah. Okay, anything else you want to know? I'm busy here, waiting on an important fax from Japan."

"He didn't leave a note, anything like that?"

"Absolutely not. And I'll tell you something else—his blood–alcohol level was sky–high when they did the autopsy. The boy was drunk, understand?"

"Yes sir. Sorry to have intruded. I won't trouble you further," I said, getting to my feet.

I offered my hand at the door. His grip was what I expected, a bone–crusher.

"I'm pleased to have met you," Fancy said demurely, holding out her own hand. He took it, expanding his chest, still staring at me.

"D
id I do all right?" Fancy asked, buckling her seat belt.

"You did fine. I didn't think he was going to open up at first."

"I did better than you know, honey."

"What's that mean?"

"He wouldn't have said a word if I wasn't there."

"How could you know that?"

"I didn't recognize his name, but I knew his face."

"So?"

"So he was a client, Burke. Last time I saw Mr. Macho Big Businessman, he was on his knees, licking my boots."

Yeah
, I thought,
and if I don't believe you, you can always show me the videotape.

I
took Fancy to lunch at a restaurant she told me about. It was just off the main drag, very high–tech, tiny portions on black glass plates, artfully arranged for appearance. Didn't taste bad, but it was more like samples than food.

Fancy had a good appetite, chowing down as if it was steak and potatoes instead of a thick disk of blackened tuna and a motley assortment of baby vegetables.

"You played it pretty good," I said, lighting a cigarette from the slim black candle sitting in a bud vase on the table. "No question that he recognized you?"

"He was the one wearing the mask. A black discipline hood with a zipper for the mouth. I made him put it on. It was a long session—he'd know me anywhere."

"So the rough–stud business tycoon bit—that was for my benefit?"

"Only partly," she said, reaching across and plucking my cigarette from the little round ashtray, taking a deep drag. "They never let you forget who's paying. It's not like it's a relationship. I'm a professional—he'd
expect
me to keep his secrets. Discretion is part of the game.

I fell into her big gray eyes, held on tight. They reflected back guilelessly—as if she'd never heard of blackmail. When she exhaled, the smoke shot out of the one nostril. Something there…I couldn't grab hold of it.

"They map out the scenes in front, then?"

"Most of the time. There's always a lot of crap about respecting limits, safety words…all that stuff. It's really hot now—all over the place. The hard–core magazines spell it out more, but even the upscale ones let you advertise. Some of them, you can't use words like 'dominant' or 'submissive,' but they always find a way. 'Role playing,' that's the favorite."

"No surprises?"

"Not really. Except, maybe, for virgins. The first time, they're not sure what they want, and it can get silly."

"What happens if you mark them up?"

"Mark them up?"

"Whip marks, like that. Wouldn't their wives want to know what—"

"I know what I'm doing," she said defensively. "There's no reason for that to ever happen in a private scene, unless they want it to. In the videos, that's different…the audience wants to see the marks. That's why girls with light skin make the best submissives.

"You been…doing it a long time?"

"Since the beginning," she said, eyes glazing at some memory.

"If you only go one way, how come you…?"

"I wanted to try it. See if it works. I…I'll tell you about it, someday."

"You don't have to—"

"I know. I never met a man like you before."

I finished my cigarette. "You want some dessert?" I asked her.

She nodded happily. I signaled the waiter. He rolled a four–tiered cart over. Fancy took three different pastries, gobbled them up, rolling her eyes, licking her lips. "I
love
sweets," she hummed. "They're perfect—specially 'cause I can't have them too often."

I took out my notebook, showed her the list. "I got an idea," I told her. "Let's not hit the next one blind, all right? How about if you call, try and make an appointment?"

"What should I say?"

"Just introduce yourself, express your sympathy for their loss. Tell them a few families got together to hire me—to look into the suicides. Make it a kind of community concern thing."

"I can do that."

"So do it, girl."

"Is that an order?" she smiled.

"You want me to say 'or else'?"

"No," she said, grinning. "I'd be too hot to find out what the 'or else' was."

"Now, Fancy."

"Yes boss," she said, getting up and walking off, switching her hips hard enough to blow out the candles on the other tables.

S
he was back in a few minutes. "I tried the Robinelles first. Got the mother. She said to come on over, right now."

"Good girl."

I paid the check. The waiter looked down his nose at cash, but perked right up when he saw what piece of it was his.

"Give me directions," I said as we rolled out of the restaurant parking lot.

"I don't give
you
directions," she told me, a heavy pout on her newly made–up lips.

I reached over, slapped her round thigh hard. "Tell me how to get there," I said.

She took me through town, out toward the water. "It's about another two, three miles down this road," she finally said.

I didn't reply, watching the scenery, trying to orient myself. Out here, you use landmarks, not street signs.

"I'm going to have a bruise," she said softly, touching a lacquered fingernail to the front of her thigh. "Look."

I flicked my eyes down and over. She was right.

T
he house was right on the waterfront, an architectural wet dream, skylights placed at odd angles on a steeply sloped roof of red Mediterranean tile, a tower of three stories cut right into the middle of a ranch–style design.

When the woman let us in, I could see the tower was a cathedral ceiling, like a hotel atrium without the fake waterfall.

The Robinelle woman was a blowsy blonde maybe fifteen pounds over the limit, a good deal of that spilling out the front of a sharply slashed V–neck blouse. She was wearing some kind of industrial–strength push–up bra, compressing her breasts into cartoon cleavage. Her blouse was red, the stretch pants a shiny black. A wide patent leather belt cinched in her waist, and the black spike heels exaggerated the jiggle as she walked toward the back of the house, telling us to follow.

She seated herself in a grotesquely curved white plastic chair that forced her back to arch, waving us toward a matching pair of green canvas director's chairs, spaced a few feet apart.

"I thought you'd be coming alone," she said to me by way of greeting. "Was it you that called me?" she asked Fancy.

"Yes."

"I don't feel comfortable talking in front of…neighbors. You
are
a neighbor, aren't you?"

"Yes. We live in the Crescent."

"That's nice. Well, perhaps Mr…"

"Burke," I told her.

"Perhaps, Mr. Burke, you can come back sometime."

"Go wait outside," I told Fancy.

"Look," she said, sitting up straight. "We hired you and—"

"And you're not calling the shots. Go wait in the car."

Fancy jumped to her feet, a flush under her dark tan.

"You don't have to do that," the woman said. "Perhaps you could just excuse us for a little bit? There's really a very nice library, just off the living room…"

Fancy looked at me. I nodded an okay. She flounced off, keeping the wiggle under control this time.

"I
hope smoke doesn't bother you," the woman said, helping herself to a cigarette from a box sitting next to an ashtray on a black plastic cube standing next to her chair. "Lorenzo—that's my personal trainer—he'd kill me if he caught me."

"Not at all," I told her, taking out my own.

"Now…" she said, taking a deep enough drag to give her blouse a workout. "What can I tell you?"

"Well, I'm not really sure. With this kind of investigation, you can't be sure there
is
anything. Was Lana depressed in any way before it happened?"

"Depressed? Mr. Burke, she was
born
depressed. Lana was always a strange girl. You know the type—dressed all in black, stayed in her room a lot."

"The…suicide wasn't such a shock, then?"

"Shock? Not to me. She'd tried it before."

"She tried to kill herself before?"

"That's what I just said. She wrote this long, incomprehensible poem first. A piece of drivel. Then she ran herself a warm bath, climbed in and cut her wrists. If my husband hadn't called the paramedics, she would have been dead then."

"How long ago was that?"

"Almost four years ago. She was still in high school."

"What happened after that?"

"She went into therapy, what else? Cost enough money, I can tell you. But it was a waste of time. This therapist, she wanted me and my husband to come in and talk about it. And we
did
that. But I wasn't going to spend the rest of
my
life in therapy because I had a sick girl for a daughter."

"Did she ever try it again?"

"She was
always
trying something. She and a friend of hers, another weirdo, they were always writing this sick poetry about death. She tried pills once, too."

"And…?"

"And they pumped her stomach out at the hospital. And she went back into therapy. What a joke."

"You don't seem much of a fan of therapy."

"Why should I be? Everybody I know has been. They want to quit smoking, their husband has an affair, they're losing their looks…whatever it is, some shrink will do a number on you. You want a therapy fan, you need to talk to my husband—he loves the stuff."

"Your husband has been in therapy for a while?"

"Sure. Started when he was a kid. He's a rich, weak man. If that sounds like a contradiction to you, it isn't. He inherited the money. From his mother. He was a sensitive poet too, just like his precious daughter."

"Was?"

"Oh, he's alive. If you can call it that. We have a cabin. In Maine. That's mostly where he spends the summers.
Writing
," she sneered, the last word rich with contempt.

"He's a writer?"

"Some writer. He
pays
to have his own stuff published, can you imagine that?"

"I've heard of it."

"That's so lame. So weak. Him and his
literary
little friends. Fags, most of them, the way I see it. I intimidate them. The only kind of women they like are so skinny you could use them to pick a lock."

"I know what you mean."

"Do you?" she asked, squirming in her chair to make sure I couldn't accuse her of being subtle.

"Sure. It's a class thing. Working–class men have different taste."

"And what class are you, Mr. Burke?"

"Low–class," I told her, earning myself a wicked smile. "Was Lana at home when she…?"

"Killed herself? Sure. She was only back from the hospital a couple of weeks. Crystal Cove. Another of these joints that charges an arm and a leg. To hear them tell it, we pay enough money, we'd get a brand–new kid."

"How was she when she came back?"

"The same. To be honest with you, I got pretty sick of it. My husband, he gives me my space. But not little Miss I'm–So–Depressed, not her. The shrink at the hospital told me the suicide crap was a cry for help. I never put up with it. I called her bluff all the time. Told her, you want to kill yourself, it can't be
that
hard."

"How did she react to that?"

"With a lot of babble. Like I said, I wasn't surprised. Only thing that surprised me was the way she did it."

"How did she do it?"

"She drowned. You know where Chalmer's Creek is?"

"No."

"It's maybe ten miles from here. It's not really a creek, more like a lake. But they call it a creek. They found her floating in it. The police said her lungs were full of water, so it was a drowning, I guess. But she didn't leave a note. That would have been the one thing I'd've expected from her—she always loved attention."

"The police tell you why they didn't think it was an accident?"

"They did think it was, at first. But when I told them all about her other attempts, they changed it."

"You've been very helpful, Mrs. Robinelle."

"Marlene."

"Marlene," I agreed. "Just one more question, if you don't mind. This friend of hers, the one she wrote poetry with…do you remember her name?"

"Wendy. Wendy something. She was only here a few times—I never really spoke to her."

"Would you have any of the poems?"

"No. The police took all that. They wouldn't even let me have her room cleaned until they were finished, can you imagine?"

"Yeah," I said, standing up to leave.

She got up too, standing very close to me. I could smell her overripe perfume, sweat running through baby powder. "If you need more information, you know where to find me."

"I appreciate that."

"My husband won't be back for a couple of weeks. It gets pretty tiresome, even with all this," she said softly, sweeping her hand to show me the water view through the picture window.

"I'm sure I'll have more questions."

"Then you come back. Call me first. But don't bring that nosy bitch with you."

I raised my eyebrows in a question.

"I like the way you handled her. I like a man who can take charge."

"She's paying the bills," I said.

"I can pay some bills too."

Fancy was sitting in the lush, paneled library, her face in an art book.

"Come on," I said to her.

She got up meekly and followed me. Marlene Robinelle didn't see us to the door.

"W
hat did you find out?" Fancy asked me from the front seat of the Lexus.

"You first," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play games, bitch. I know you used that time to stick that perfect little nose of yours places."

"Do you really think my nose is perfect?" she smiled.

"Yeah. Cute as a button. Now what did you—?"

"I never left the library. I was afraid you'd come back and catch me. I didn't know how long you'd be."

"And…?"

"She's a big phony. I found a list in a drawer. The last four, five weeks of the
New York Times
best–seller list, okay? And on the shelves, every single one of those books. Brand–new, never opened. You can tell, the spines were too tight. And inside each one, she had a photocopy of the review from the
Times
, see?"

"No."

"She doesn't read the books, just the reviews. So she can be with it at cocktail parties, see? What a tame cow she must be."

"Because she lets other people tell her what to do?"

"You can't be
that
stupid," she snapped at me. "I'm talking about your mind, not your body. Sex is different."

"Sex is only with your body?"

"What do
you
think it's with?"

"It's got to be with your mind. Otherwise, you could do a better job by yourself, right? Once your eyes are closed, once it's dark…how could you tell the difference?"

"Maybe there
is
no difference."

"Maybe not. But you have to throw the switch first."

She gave me a long look. "You scare me sometimes," she whispered.

"And you like that too, don't you?"

"Yes."

I piloted the Lexus back the way we came, not asking for directions, seeing if I could retrace my steps alone if I had to. Fancy wasn't talking, looking out her window, drumming her fingernails on the console between us.

"None of the books had been read?" I asked her. "In that whole huge library?"

"Oh sure, a lot of them. On a separate shelf. Like they were for separate people. Old books, you could tell somebody really loved them. And I'll bet my sweet ass it wasn't her."

"All that time alone, and that's what you found out?"

"Well, yes. It's a real clue to her character."

"Big fucking deal."

"Well, it could be. Did she offer you sex?"

"Kind of."

"That sow. If she ever climbed out of that girdle she calls an outfit, she'd flop around like a fish."

"Don't worry about it."

"I'd like to whip her fat ass. That'd be fun, but there's no market for it."

"What about—?"

"Nobody wants to see fat people being disciplined. They have to look good. And young.

"I guess you'd know."

"I'm a pro," Fancy said, turning her head so she could watch me.

"W
hat can I get you?" she asked over her shoulder, crossing the threshold to her house.

"A glass of water."

"That's all?"

"Yeah. I don't have much time."

She moved off. I closed my eyes, playing the tapes of my conversations with the parents, mentally engraving the notes I hadn't taken. My eyes were still closed when I heard the click of high heels on the hardwood floor, quick and close together, thinking:
Either a short woman or a real tight skirt
. It was both. Fancy, in a French maid's outfit right out of a porno movie. She had a glass of water on a wood serving board. She bent down, holding the serving board in both hands, just the trace of a smile on her lips.

"I always wanted to try this on," she said. "You like it?"

"It's very pretty."

"Pretty?
I'm
pretty—this is sexy.

"That's true."

"Wouldn't you like a maid of your own?"

"Sometimes…I guess I would."

"Here's your chance, mister."

"Not now," I told her. "I have to go.

Her gray eyes darkened. Sadness, not anger. "It's too good to rush–rush," I told her softly. "I'll be back."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"What about tonight?"

"I'm meeting some people. Late."

"Going back to fuck that sow?"

"What if I was?"

"I could come too. Did you ever—?"

"I'm not going there. It's business."

"Can't you come back? After?"

"It'd be way late. Three, four in the morning."

"That's okay."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I helped, didn't I?"

"You sure did."

"Well, if it's business, it's
this
business, right? Couldn't you come over, tell me about it?"

"All right."

She dropped to her knees, resting her chin on my knee. "Tell me to stay here," she whispered. "You know how to do it. Please."

I slapped her face, a short, sharp slap. It was louder than it was hard. "Stay here, bitch," I told her. "Don't leave. Right by the phone. I'll call you when I'm coming. And you better answer on the first ring."

"Yes sir," she said in a choky voice.