Down in the Zero (22 page)

"You're awake?" she asked.

"I guess I am."

"I didn't want to move—didn't want to wake you up."

"Thanks."

"You want a shower?"

"In a minute."

"A cigarette?"

"Sure."

She slid off me, a faint crackle between her legs as we pulled apart. She stood up, stretched. Then she padded off to the living room. Came back with an ashtray and my cigarettes, sat on the bed, lit one for me. I took it from her, dragged deep.

"I never did that before," she said.

"That?"

"Sex. Like that. Before last night. I mean, before
last
, last night, in your car.

"Like what?"

"With a man. Inside me."

"I seemed to fit easy enough."

She took the cigarette from my hand, pulled on it, exhaled. I watched the smoke fire from only one nostril, feeling her eyes, not connecting with them.

"I…put things inside myself. To get off. After I was done playing dom. Or sometimes, just thinking about it. And a couple of times, she did it to me…with a vibrator."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I'm going to take a shower. There's another one, down the hall, if you want."

"W
e can go. Sunday night," she said, standing at the door, her hand on my sleeve.

"Where?"

"Rector's. Sunday night, Monday's the next day. It doesn't open until late. Like you wanted. Okay?"

"Great."

"Do you have any tattoos?" she asked.

"What?"

"Tattoos. On your body. I…couldn't see in the dark."

"No."

"Nowhere?"

"Nowhere," I told her, remembering. I'd wanted one, all right. Not during the kiddie camp bits I served when I was a juvenile, but my first felony fall. There was a great tattoo artist in there, TKO Tony, a burly Irish prizefighter doing time for assault. He'd drunk himself out of the ring, but he was working himself up to number one contender status as a bar brawler when the Law took him down. He did beautiful work—panthers, dragons, snakes, anything you wanted. Going rate was four crates of cigarettes or a lid of grass. I wanted a hand of playing cards—Aces and Eights. I was a kid. The Prof pulled me up quick, crooning the truth.

"Skin art is for gangbangers and gunfighters, schoolboy. Not for professionals. You gonna work the stealing scene, you gotta stay clean."

He was right and I knew it. Tattoos were for those guys doing life on the installment plan.

"They're not for me," I told her.

"Could I get one?"

"A tattoo?"

"Yes."

"I…guess so. Why do you want one?"

"I want a brand. Your brand."

"Hold up, girl. It wouldn't look so sporty on the tennis court."

"Please!"

"Let me think about it, okay?"

"Okay. Where are you—?" She caught my look, stopped in her tracks. "I'm sorry. I…"

"I'll call you," I said. "Stay here."

S
onny was working in the driveway as I pulled in. He had the Plymouth opened to the bright sun, airing it out, doors and windows all wide open, front end assembly and trunk standing up, a hose in one hand, big bucket of suds nearby.

"Good idea," I told him.

"I'm going to do the undercarriage later. I've got a pressure attachment for the hose—it'll be like steam cleaning."

"You're a natural," I said. "Some people, you have to tell them to clean their tools after they use them. You know what to say? If the cops ask you where you were last night?"

"I…guess I don't."

"Okay, listen up. You always want to tell the Law something as close to the truth as you can. Their game is to catch you in a lie, like a loose thread in a weave, see? They pull the thread, the whole thing starts to unravel. So always keep it as simple as you can. Last night? You were cruising all around the area, testing the car, working on your moves for the races Sunday, see?"

"Yeah. So even if we were spotted…"

"Sure. I was gonna do some work around here, if I needed a car, I wouldn't use this one."

"'Cause it doesn't blend in, right?"

"Right."

The kid nodded, looking at the Lexus. I could almost see the gears mesh in his head, but he didn't say anything.

I went upstairs, changed my clothes. When I came back down, the Plymouth was still open to the cleansing summer breeze, but the kid was gone. I found him at the house, at the kitchen table.

"You want some food?" he asked.

"I could sure use something."

"I got some rye bread. Fresh from the bakery. And some pineapple juice."

"You're on the job, Sonny."

He ducked his head. Put a couple of slices into the toaster as I pulled out my vitamins. We ate in peaceful silence. I could see he had something to say—decided to let him get to it in his own time.

He waited until I was done, watching out of the corner of his eye. Then he pulled a piece of pale blue paper from his pocket, neatly folded.

"Burke?"

"Yeah?"

"Wendy gave me this. Last night. It's a poem. About Lana. Do you want to see it?"

"Sure."

He handed it over. It was handwritten, the letters precise, small, unslanted…almost like printing.

        Lana

Can I come over?

  Not yet.

But I miss you.

  There's time.

Are you still so sad?

  A different sad.

But you're not lonely?

  Not here.

Then why are you still sad?

  Because I can't come back.

Do you want to?

  Not to that.

Oh, Lana, why did you go?

  I had to go. Why, you already know.

I have to go too.

  Yes. But you don't have to go here.

Then where?

  You'll see.

But I don't.

  Then look! Look at tomorrow.

What's tomorrow?

  Tomorrow is every day.

That's a cliché.

  Not from here.

I looked over at Randy. "She gave you this…or you took it?"

"She gave it to me. Why?"

"You understand what she's telling you, then?"

"I…think so. She said Lana's mother was always beating on her. Not like…punching her or anything. Telling her she was a piece of garbage. Ugly. Stupid. Always in the way. Her mother, she used to leave stuff around where Lana could find it. If a girl killed herself in the newspapers, her mother would leave the article. She had real long hair, Wendy told me. Lana did. Real long. She never cut it from the time she was a little kid. One day her mother cut it off. While she was asleep. She thinks her mother put something in her food, knocked her out. When she woke up, it was all hacked off. Her mother had always been after her to be…fashionable. She wanted her to have short hair, but Lana never would. So she cut it all off. Then she took her to the beauty parlor so they could fix it."

"Fucking freak."

"She was, you know. I never met her, but Lana told Wendy stuff. The poem, it's like Lana saying maybe she should have run away instead. You can always do that."

"You think Wendy wants to run away?"

"Yeah. Not like…to the streets or anything. But out of…here. Around here, I mean. This is a dead place, Wendy says. I used to think she was…a little nuts, you know? But I can see it, see what she means."

"Me too," I told him.

"You don't think she's…I mean, that poem, you don't think it's crazy to be talking to a dead person?"

"It's just a poem, Sonny," I said. But it didn't feel like that. Maybe the channels were open. Maybe they were close enough, the emotionally abused girl and her pal who explored death with her soul. I hadn't spoken to Wesley in a long time. "I don't know where I'm going, but you better not send anyone after me." His suicide note. Just before he blew himself into the Zero. The ice–monster's voice is still in me when I hunt. Wesley, singing his killer's song in perfect pitch. The best, he was. Nobody could touch him until he got tired. So tired he touched himself. With a few sticks of dynamite. Even his name spreads terror from the grave.

And the last time I listened to his song, a baby died.

"I
t's time to crank this up," I told the kid. "And I need you for backup."

"To drive?"

"No. Not yet, anyway. I need to see this Dr. Barrymore. Talk to him a little bit. I'm gonna give him a call straight up, make an appointment if he'll see me. And I need you to cover me—tell him your mother hired me, you know the story."

"Okay. When are you going to do it?"

"Now," I told him, heading for the phones in the living room.

The Yellow Pages had two numbers listed for Crystal Cove, local and 8oo. I tried the local, asked for Barrymore.

"Hold please," a woman's voice, pleasant–efficient. Some sort of New Age Muzak kept me company. Then:

"Dr. Barrymore's office." Another woman, sounding like the pleasant–efficient balance was tipped a little toward efficient.

"Good morning. I wonder if I might speak to Dr. Barrymore."

"Who may I tell him is calling, please?"

"My name is Burke. I'm calling on behalf of Mrs. Lorna Cambridge."

"Let me see if he's available."

"Thank you."

No music–on–hold this time, just an expensive fiber–optic hum.

"This is Dr. Barrymore."

"Good morning, Doctor. My name is Burke. I'm a private investigator, retained by Mrs. Cambridge. She and some others have been concerned about some youth problems in the community, and I'm told you're the leading expert. I wonder if I could impose on you for a few minutes of your time, at your convenience."

"I'm not sure I understand the scope of your investigation, Mr. Burke."

"Well, it's a bit difficult to describe on the phone. If I could come and see you…"

"Let me check my calendar and have Lydia get back to you.

"I'd appreciate that. I'm staying at the Cambridge residence temporarily. The number is—"

"Oh, that's all right, Lydia will look it up. We'll be back to you in a day or so, will that be all right?"

"Absolutely, doctor. And, thank you for your time."

"No problem," he said, ringing off.

"Y
ou have an answering machine?" I asked the kid.

"Yeah. It's around here someplace. I never use it."

"Well, let's hook it up. I want to be sure to get the message if this Barrymore calls."

"I'll take care of it."

"Okay. You gonna be around for a while?"

"Yes. Wendy said she might…come over. Besides, I want to do some more work on the car."

"Yeah. Listen, Sonny, okay if I take the Miata?"

"Sure," he shrugged. "How come?"

"I was someplace last night, while you were at Wendy's. Looking around. I wouldn't want anyone who was watching to make the connection so quick."

"The keys are in the ignition," he said.

T
he Miata was nothing like my buddy's old Alfa. It didn't look so different, but it felt solid as a little ingot. I went through the gears

a couple of times, getting the feel, but there was nothing special about it, no quirks to deal with. I thought the kid might have tricked it up a bit, but it drove like it was bone–stock.

I got Fancy on the pocket phone. "You up and around yet?"

"I've been up for hours. I feel wonderful."

"Yeah, you do. I'm on my way."

"I'll be outside. Around back. By the greenhouse. Just come around, okay? I might not hear the door."

T
he grounds looked as deserted as they always seemed to. Fancy's car was in the same place it was last night. I parked the Miata in front of her cottage, walked around to the back.

She was in the greenhouse, wearing a short yellow pleated skirt, with a white button–front blouse, barefoot.

"This is over a hundred years old," she greeted me, pointing to one of the bonsai trees. The tiny trunk was thick, gnarled with age. The branches all went in the same direction, as if in obedience to a strong wind.

"What kind is it?"

"Cypress. That's one of the standards."

"Where'd you learn about this?"

"I took a course. At the college. And I read some too. The thing about bonsai, you have to be in control. Ruthless. You have to keep cutting back, keep the wires tight, stay on it. If you don't watch them close, they grow too big."

"They're beautiful."

"Strong, that's what they are. They live much longer than we do. In Japan, they pass them on from generation to generation."

"What's that one?" I asked, pointing to a hanging pot with a fragile network of stems and leaves.

"That's a bromeliad. They're epiphytic…air plants. They grow without roots."

Something flashed on the screen in my mind. I changed channels quick—I'd already seen the movie.

I watched her for a while. She pruned branches with a tiny scissors, reset the wires she was using to train them to hold a position. She finished with a light mist of water, bending close, using her own breath to distribute the moisture once it settled. When she was finished, she made a little bow in the direction of the bonsai.

"You want to sit outside for a while?" she asked.

"Sure."

She led me over to a small, elaborate deck. The wood was a weathered white, like a beached sailing ship. Flowering plants were set into the corners, in tubs built into the structure. We each took a chair next to a round table with a pebbled glass top.

"I want you to do something for me," I said.

"What? I mean, yes."

I explained what I wanted.

"I'll have to make some calls," she said. "But I can get the perfect thing, I know."

"In time?"

"Oh sure. All that ever costs is money."

"How much?" I asked, sliding my hand toward my pocket.

"Oh, I'll take care of it."

"No you won't. You can front the cash if you want to, but I'll make it up soon as you tell me the toll."

"Is that like an ego thing?"

"Huh?"

"Because you're the man, you have to pay? That's what my tricks think too. The man pays."

"It's not that. I have to pay for this because it has to be from me, understand? And as for your tricks, that's not a man–thing either. When you do women, they pay too, right? That's what lets them call the shots."