Down in the Zero

'Oh. Hey, I'm sorry. I was just trying to…I don't know.'

'I know. You were trying to show respect, right?'

His chin came up, a bit of strength edged into his voice. 'That's right, I was.'

'Good,' I told him. 'Doesn't matter around here anyway… no way this beast is gonna blend in.'

'I know. It's…cool. I mean, she doesn't look like much of anything, but…'

'There's people like that too,' I said. 'You don't know what's under the hood until you hit the gas, right?'

He nodded, not sure who I was talking about— never thinking it could be him. 'That guy called,' he said. 'Like I told you.'

'Blankenship? Yeah, I was in the room when he did.'

'I told him my mother had hired you, before she went to Europe. I said she'd be back soon— she hired you because she was concerned that maybe the police weren't doing everything they could.'

'You did good,' I told him. 'But, listen, remember when I told you not to talk on the cellular phone?'

'I was on the regular line.'

'But I wasn't. Anyone can listen in to those calls. Some geeks do it with scanners— they got nothing else to do with their lives, so they stick their nose into other people's. Used to be CB's they listened to, now it's these cellular phones. So when we use them, we keep it short, right? No names, no information. Got it?'

He nodded gravely.

'I'm going upstairs to change. And I'm going to work again tonight. When I come down, we'll get some dinner, okay?'

'Okay. Uh, Burke…?'

'What?'

'What kind of oil do you run in her?'

'The synthetic stuff— you don't have to change it so often.'

'Yeah. Is that a dry sump underneath?'

'That's right,' I said, looking at him in surprise.

'I read about them all the time, cars,' he said, a grin on his flushed face. 'I wished they had auto mechanics in school, but they don't. But I sent away for books. I do all the work on the Miata myself. I thought maybe I'd change the oil and filters, put in some new plugs

'It's running fine, Randy.'

'I know, but…'

'What the hell,' I told him. 'It could always run better.'

He took off like a kid with a puppy.

'What is this stuff?' I asked him, spearing a bite–size chunk of white meat off my plate.

'It's coq au vin. Like chicken with sauce on it. There's a French restaurant in town. They deliver too. I thought maybe you'd rather have something like a real meal.'

'It's good,' I said. 'That was thoughtful of you.'

The kid ducked his head again. We ate in silence for a bit, part of my brain still working over what Blankenship had told me.

'You know what a gymkhana is?' the kid asked.

'Where they race around in a parking lot?'

'Well, sort of. A real one, it's like a slalom, only flat. They set up pylons for the course, and you run through it for time. If you hit a pylon, they add time to your score, see? It's tricky. Not like real racing. I mean, they only let one car at a time go through. But it's slick. All kinds of cars do it, 'Vettes, Ferraris, one guy even has a Lola he brings.'

'What do you get if you win?'

'Trophies. I mean, it's not for money or anything. But it's real serious— the drivers really go at it.'

'You ever do it?'

'Sure. In the Miata, once. It was…okay. I mean, all the kids go there just to hang out.'

'Do they bet on the races?'

'Bet? Gee, I don't know. I mean, we don't. But maybe the older guys do…we don't mix with them much.'

'Did any of the kids who killed themselves race there?'

'No. At least I don't think so. I mean, that's not why I asked about it. I was thinking… maybe…if you wouldn't mind…'

'What?'

'Could I run the Plymouth in one? There's one next Sunday. I never saw a big American sedan run one— it would be boss, you know?'