Down in the Zero (24 page)

The waitress was a skinny dishwater blonde with heavy black makeup around her eyes, giving her the much–coveted raccoon look. She took our order smoothly and moved off, not wasting a motion. The food came on heavy white plates. Big portions. The meat loaf was a deep rich slab, with a fine thick crust. The mashed potatoes tasted like they came right out of the skin. Even the mixed vegetables looked fresh, but I didn't taste them to find out. The kid wolfed his food, holding the burgers in both hands, juice running down his chin.

The waitress cleared our plates, asked if there'd be anything else.

"Is the lemon pie good?" I asked her.

"You like the meat loaf?" she replied.

"Sure did."

"The pie's better. They bake it fresh every day."

"That's for me," I told her. "Sonny?"

"A hot fudge sundae," the kid responded, showing impeccable taste.

I was working on an after–dinner cigarette when I saw the kid look up, watching something behind my back. I didn't turn around.

"Hey, there's my boy! What's shaking, Randy?" Brewster. With a flunkie on each side. Expanding his chest, grinning. He stepped forward, so he was standing between us, looking down.

"Brew," the kid acknowledged him.

"Heard you were gonna be running on Sunday. Why don't you dump that little kiddie car of yours so you and me can hook up?"

"I'll be running the Open Class," the kid said, level–voiced.

"Is that right? What're you gonna bring?"

"I'm still working on it," the kid replied.

"Still got your bodyguard, I see," Brewster sneered.

The kid ignored him.

"How's the caretaker business?" the big dummy asked me, leaning over.

"Interesting," I told him, holding his eyes until they dropped.

"Hey," he said. "No hard feelings, right? How about I buy you guys a beer? Waitress!" he shouted. "Come on over here!"

The blonde made her way over, pad in hand. "Where's your table?" she asked.

"Right here," Brewster said, sliding in next to the kid. One of his flunkies pushed against my shoulder, telling me to move over. I looked him over, not budging. Then I stood up, pointed to the inside. The flunkie moved in, sitting across from Sonny. The other one faded.

"Well?" the blonde asked.

"Coors," Brewster said. "Draft. For me and him," pointing over at his flunkie. "What about you?" he asked the kid.

"Do you have any Red Stripe?" he asked the waitress politely.

A quick grin lit up her face. "We don't get much call for that here, but I think there's some in the cooler." She looked at me—I shook my head.

She came back with a tray. Gave Brewster and his flunkie each a bottle and a clean glass. "I told you draft," Brewster glowered at her.

"All out," she said, unimpressed. She handed Sonny a big mug, frosted. The waitress poured the Red Stripe into the mug, taking her time, watching the head.

"Okay?" she asked Sonny.

"Perfect," he said, throwing her a smile.

"Hey! How come he gets the special treatment?" Brewster asked her.

"He's a special guy," the waitress said, winking at Sonny. She moved away with an extra twitch to her hips.

Brewster had a confused look on his slabby face, puzzling it out. "I gotta order that stuff next time," he muttered.

Sonny worked on his beer right, not sipping it, not chugging it either. Enjoying it. Brewster was talking a blue streak…something about new tires he got for his Corvette, whether it was going to be good weather for the races, yak–yak. The kid listened, responding in monosyllables. "We gotta go," he finally told Brewster. "Got a lot of work to do."

He got up to leave. I was right behind him. I carried the check over to the register, not wanting to leave cash on the table and deal with Brewster's sense of humor. The check came to a little over thirty bucks. I pulled on the kid's sleeve, handed him a pair of twenties. "No change," I told him.

I watched as he handed the check and the bills to the waitress. Saw the grin split her face at something he said. He walked out tall.

"C
ould I use the Plymouth tonight?" he asked on the drive back.

"Sure. You gonna burn it in?"

"No. I think it's okay, except for the tire pressures. I can't fix that until I see the track. I'm taking Wendy out. To a drive–in," he said, ducking his head. "She loves monster movies, and there's a couple of good ones playing near Bridgeport. I thought it'd be more comfortable, the seats and all."

"Works for me," I told him.

I
took a nap. It was almost ten when I woke up. I called Fancy from the phone in the apartment—anybody listening wouldn't get anything they didn't already know. I told her I'd be there soon.

I took the Lexus. When I got to a straightaway, I punched up the kid on the car phone. He answered on the first ring.

"It's me," I said. "I forgot to ask you…you set up the answering machine?"

"Sure. Tested it too."

"Any calls?"

"Just some junk. Not the…guy you were expecting."

"Thanks. Keep the channel open, okay?"

"You got it."

I
tapped lightly on Fancy's door. She was right there, snatching it open.

"Hi!" she greeted me, bouncy.

"You look sweet," I told her.

"Sweet?" she challenged. "Maybe you'd better take another look," she said, turning to walk away. She was wearing a pair of electric blue spandex bicycle pants, molded to her tighter than most people have skin. "It took me half an hour…and a whole bottle of talcum powder to get into these. You ever see anything so tight?"

Sure I had. When I was a kid, there was this girl who used to run with us, Brandi. She was famous for her tight pants. She told me how she did it—she'd buy a pair of jeans a couple of sizes too small and cram herself into them. Then she'd stand in the shower until she got them soaked all the way through, and let them dry right on her. Brandi always carried a razor. Not because she was a gang girl—because it was the only way to get the pants off. Money was tight then, for all of us. Buying a pair of pants you could only wear once, making that kind of commitment…it was worth what it cost. I looked over at Fancy, posing in her spandex. For the privileged, life is a karaoke machine—even if they can't sing, the background's always there for support.

"No," I told her. "Not for a long time."

I put my jacket over the back of the couch. "Where's the package I
left
?" I asked her.

"Right there," she said, pointing to the wooden stool.

"You didn't open it?"

"I swear I didn't. I didn't touch it."

"Good," I told her, tearing open the top. "Do you have a strong light? One that's portable?"

"I think so," she said. "Just a minute."

She came back with the black floor lamp, the one with the gooseneck top.

"Perfect," I told her, kneeling to plug it in. I bent the head down, stepped on the button in the base to turn it on. A narrow cone of bright white light shone on the top of the stool. I took things out of the paper bag, lining them up neatly.

"What is all that?" Fancy asked.

"This," I told her, holding up a pen with a point that looked like a hypodermic needle, "is a Tombow. With a two–X nylon point. Kind of a drafting pen. And this is black dye—that's what it uses instead of ink."

I unscrewed the pen, put one end in the long narrow bottle of dye, and let capillary action do the rest. I smoked a cigarette through while I was waiting. Then I adjusted the point. "Have you got a piece of paper?"

She brought me a pad of pink squares with a little butterfly design around the top. I ran the pen over the paper—the line was thin, but so dark you could see it easily. I took out some more stuff: sharp–pointed #2 pencils, a calligraphy–point felt–tip pen, a package of premoistened towelettes, individually wrapped in foil.

I carried the stool over next to the couch, setting it up so it was readily to hand when I sat down. Then I unplugged the lamp and moved it over to the couch, adjusting the cone until it fell on just the right spot. Fancy watched me, fascinated, not saying a word.

When I had it all arranged, I sat down on the couch.

"Come over here," I told her.

She walked over slowly, uncertain. I took her hand, pulled gently. She came willingly enough. I kept pulling until she was sprawled across my lap. I yanked the spandex pants down over her rump, almost down to the back of her knees. Her panties were black silk, matching the patent leather pumps on her feet. I slid the panties down to her thighs, moved her bottom slightly toward me with my hand.

"Hold still," I told her.

"What did I do?" she wanted to know, a pouty tone to her voice.

"You opened your big mouth," I said. "Now don't do it again."

She lay still, her face in the couch. I rubbed the residue of baby powder off her bottom with my hand. Then I took the #2 pencil and lightly traced what I wanted on her right cheek. I took a close look— no good. I rubbed it off, tried again. Finally, I got it right.

"What are you doing?" she asked, voice muffled.

"I told you to shut up," I said, smacking her hard on the rump. A red spot the size of my palm flared in the intense light from the lamp. "Don't move," I told her.

I traced the penciled design with the Tombow, working carefully so I didn't puncture her skin with the sharp point. My hands are surgeon–steady, but I'm no artist. It took me a long time before I was satisfied.

I held her there, one hand resting on her thigh, waiting for it to dry.

"Okay," I said. "Get up."

She struggled to her feet, red–faced, adjusting her panties, hauling the reluctant spandex into place.

"You have a good mirror?" I asked her.

"Yes. In the dressing room."

"Show me."

She stalked away from me, moving quickly. The dressing room had a full–length mirror, but the lighting was all overhead—I wasn't sure if it would work.

"Take those pants off," I told her. She practically ripped them down, kicking off her shoes, dropping the pants sullenly at her feet. I walked her over to the mirror, holding her by the shoulders. Then I turned her around so her back was to it.

"Pull down your underpants," I told her. "Take a look."

She did, craning her neck to see over her shoulder. She touched the black dot on her rump wonderingly. "What is it? I can't see it good."

"It's a tattoo, Fancy. Like you wanted. Only it's not permanent. This way, you get to see what it looks like. Feels like."

"Oh, I want to
see
it," she squealed, pulling up her panties and running from the room.

I followed her down the hall into her bedroom. She was standing in front of a makeup mirror on her bureau. The mirror was bordered by a string of tiny light bulbs, glowing a soft, rich yellow.

"It reverses, see?" she said, flipping the mirror to its back side. The new mirror was magnified, distorting the image unless you were real close. She pulled the panties all the way down to her ankles, stood on one leg as she kicked them off. Then she turned around so her back was to the mirror, bent over and thrust her bottom at the magnifying glass, looking over her shoulder.

"It's a little bomb!" she said.

I took a look for myself. Not bad, I thought. A little round bomb, complete with fuse, sparks coming off the end like it was going to go off any minute.

"You like it?" I asked her.

"Oh, I
love
it. But shouldn't it be…bigger?"

"No. Anyone getting near enough to see it, it should be something just between you and them, right?"

"I guess so."

"This way, it's like a beauty mark, unless you look real close."

"It's great," she said, wiggling her bottom hard. "Does it mean something?"

"Sure. It means you're an explosive girl. Tick…tick…tick…"

"You want to…take a closer look?" she asked softly, walking over to the bed, bending over.

"I
love my tattoo," she said later, lying on her side, touching it with one finger.

"You get to decide this way," I told her. "For now, it'll be a secret."

"I have lots of secrets," she whispered. Sad, not teasing.

"We all do."

"Charm does too. Charm has more secrets than anyone."

"You seem to know some of them."

"You mean the video? That's not a secret. She doesn't care what she does."

"It wasn't her idea?"

"It was…a long time ago. When it started." Fancy shifted her hips, throwing one leg over mine, warm wetness against my upper thigh. "She got to watch. When we were kids. I never did."

"Watch what?"

"Spanking. My father would spank me. All the time. For anything. For nothing. He'd call me and Charm into his den. He had a special chair for it. A chair with no arms. He would tell Charm to stand still. Then he'd put me over his knee and spank me. Hard. He always made me tell him why I was getting it. If I didn't tell him, I'd get it harder. It hurt. And it was…embarrassing. With Charm watching me and all. If I cried, I'd just get it more. Then he'd tell me to pull up my pants and go to my room, think about what I did. When I went out, he'd close the door behind me."

"He never spanked Charm in front of you?"

"No. I guess he always waited until I was gone. I hated her for that—it wasn't fair."

"How old were you?"

"When it started? I don't know. I was real little. Maybe first grade? I'm not sure. But it didn't stop until I was a senior in high school."

"How did you get him to stop?"

"I didn't. That's when he committed suicide."

"Did you ever tell anyone?"

"My mother. I told my mother. She tied me up. In a chair. She slapped me and slapped me, screaming. She told me I was a little slut. I didn't even know what it meant, then. She said if I ever told her filthy stories again, she'd burn me. She held a candle right up to my face. I was so scared I wet myself. She just left me there like that. For a long, long time. I never told her anything again."

"Christ."

"When I was about thirteen, Charm came into my room. When they were out for the evening. I was still sore. From what he did. She said she was sorry, asked me if I wanted her to rub some witch hazel on it, to take out the sting. I told her to get away from me—I hated her so.