Down in the Zero

out on the do–it–yourself plan. Stepped over. First two went out from an exhaust pipe. One drowned herself. Couple more overdosed on downers. And the last one, he ate a gun.'

'They do that…'

'None of them left a note, bro.'

'So?'

'He won't say why, but he thinks they got done. And what he's scared of, it's gonna happen to him.'

'So the move is…'

'He can't run, son. Something's going down in that town, and he thinks it's coming for him, Jim.'

'He wants…what?'

'A bodyguard, way he says it. Make sure he don't have himself an accident. But that plan don't scan, man. Got to be something else…'

'Where's the money?'

The Prof's voice dropped. He was talking without moving his lips, out of the side of his mouth. In the jailhouse, you talk two ways: loud when you're selling tickets, quiet when you're plotting. I leaned forward, tuned in.

'You be fucking surrounded by money, schoolboy. Up where the kid lives, the whole scene is green.'

'Yeah, but…'

'You don't like the bet, you can always jet,' the Prof rapped. 'Take the case, Ace.'

It didn't take me long to pack. Michelle dogged my steps, harassing me with questions. All I had was an address— told the kid I'd be there by nighttime.

'I don't know how long this is gonna take,' I told her. 'You can stay here, long as you want.'

'About a New York minute is as long as I want, baby. This place is creepy enough with you here— I'm not staying one single night alone.'

'Whatever you…'

'Yes, I know. I'll find a sweet little crib someplace, don't worry about me. Soon as you have a safe number, get it to the Mole.'

'Okay.'

'Now remember what I told you to watch for?'

'Yeah, yeah. What they wear, how they wear it, what they wear it with…'

'Don't be such a sarcastic bastard. How am I going to help you if I don't know the territory?'

'I said okay, Michelle. Soon as I know, you'll know, all right?'

'Shut up. And pack this too,' she snapped, tossing a package at me.

It was a silk jacket, midnight blue. Soft as down, almost weightless. A pair of pleated pants of the same material, a slightly lighter blue.

'It's beautiful, Michelle.'

'You got that right, dummy. That jacket's a genuine Marco Giallo. You can wear it with a pair of jeans, over a T–shirt, you still make a statement. Put on a nice shirt and a tie, you can walk in anywhere. Understand?'

'Yes. Thanks, honey.'

'It gets crumpled, you just turn on the shower, all hot water, fill the bathroom with steam, hang it up for a couple of hours, it'll be good as new.

'Okay.'

'Take the alligator boots too. Just wear them all the time, like a trademark. They'll never know you don't belong if you stand apart…got it?'

'Yeah.'

'And don't do anything stupid.'

'I got it, Michelle.'

'I love you, baby,' she whispered, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.

After she left, I packed the things she bought for me. And threw in a gray summer–weight business suit and some other stuff, just in case I had to work a straighter crowd.

I crossed the Triboro through the Bronx, took 95 North to the Connecticut Pike, rolling east, driving just past the speed limit, staying with the Exact Change lanes. The Plymouth's tach never saw three grand, its monster motor bubbling, so far within itself it was almost asleep.

Just off the side of the road, the carcass of a dead dog. Couldn't cross the highway, but he made it to the other side.

I threw one of my Judy Henske tapes into the cassette slot just past the bridge— I was already across the state line by the time I heard it stop to switch sides. I hadn't heard a note. If her flame–throwing angel's voice couldn't get through to me…