Down in the Zero

cash while she's gone.'

'Un huh.'

The food was hot. And limp. The soup was thin. The rice clumped, the vegetables sagged. The pork was undercooked. 'You like this?' I asked him.

'Yeah, it's great. They don't use any MSG either.'

'You need to try some of Mama's cooking someday,' I told him.

'What's the difference?'

'Same as between Debbie Gibson and Judy Henske.'

'Which is the Debbie Gibson?'

'This stuff.'

'Oh.' He took a deep mouthful of the food, chewed it experimentally. 'So who's Judy Henske?' he asked.

I

t was getting dark by the time I was done playing with the charts I had made.

'You going anyplace tonight?' I asked him.

'Not really. I was just gonna…hang out, you know?'

'Yeah. Okay, I'll see you in the morning.'

'Are you gonna do something?'

'Yeah. Take a look around.'

'Can I…'

'I'll be back before you,' I told him. 'And I'll sleep here again tonight, you want me to.'

'No, I didn't mean that. I just meant…maybe you want me to come along.'

'I'll meet you in the garage at ten,' I told him. 'Wear some dark clothes.'

H

e was there on the dot. Dressed in black pants, black hightops and a black satin Raiders jacket with silver sleeves.

'You have any fluorescent paint around?' I asked him.

'I don't think so. Why?'

'I was worried maybe that outfit wouldn't stand out enough,' I told him, pointing at the jacket sleeves.

He nodded his head, turned around and went back to the house. If he was sulking, I couldn't see it. Good. He was back in a minute, this time wearing a heavy black sweatshirt with a hood.

'It was all I could find. Okay?' he asked.

'Perfect,' I said.

He started for the Lexus. I held up my hand. 'We'll take this one, I told him, pointing toward my Plymouth.

He gave me a dubious look, but climbed in without another word. I turned the engine over. The kid gave me a look. 'That doesn't sound stock.'

I pulled out of the garage, turned onto the main road. 'You know where the bridge is? The one that girl jumped off of?'

'Sure. Take the next left.'

The Plymouth tracked flat around the curve, its independent rear suspension communicating to the wide tires. I fed it some throttle coming out of the turn, swooped past a white Cadillac and slipped back into the right lane.

'All right!' the kid said, so softly it was almost to himself.

I gave him a sideways glance. 'You like cars?'

'I

love

them. For my eighteenth birthday, Mom let me go to racing school. It was great. They had Formula Fords and everything. That's why I got the Miata— that was one of the cars they used in the school.'

'You want to race?'

'Oh yeah! More than anything.'

'You gonna do it?'

'Well, not

professionally

. I mean…my mother says I could race on weekends, maybe. Like a hobby. Some of the guys here do it. Like rallyes and gymkhanas and stuff. But that's not real racing.'

'You any good?'

'I…think so. It

feels

good, you know? I can't really explain it.'