Down in the Zero

'Cherry always said if Randy got in trouble, she'd call you,' she finished, ignoring my question.

'You think Randy's in trouble?'

'I think he thinks he is. He's a cowardly little kid, always scared of something. All those suicides, I know they made him afraid— he told me once.

'So what's this whole show about? Where do you think I fit in?'

She turned away from me, walked back over to the couch. 'I hate them,' she whispered, almost choking on the words.

'Who?'

'People who hurt kids. Especially their own kids. I know all about this stuff. Spanking. I'm an expert on it. It's not for discipline, it's for sex. Some people get turned on by it, some people get off on it. A good submissive, she can come just from getting spanked. There's men like that too. They whip their kids for fun. Their own fun. And it hurts the children. Because they know. They know why they're getting it. It's a sex game. And it stays with them. I know a woman, she's over thirty and her father still spanks her. What's that for?'

'You know what it's for.'

'That's right, I do. And I hate them. I thought if you knew about it .

'You want to hire me? Is that it?'

'Hire you? You mean, you do it for money?'

'I do some things for money.'

'I thought…I mean, Cherry said…you did that. She told me. About that mercenary who raped kids. He wanted to go to South Africa. And you…made him disappear.'

A thin, cold fluid ran up my spine right into my brain, freezing my face into show–nothing survival.

Cherry had my number. Had it all this time.

Cherry. South Africa. Diamonds. Sure. She wasn't getting rich with hanky–spanky blackmail, that wasn't her game. But how much would a man pay for a tape of him confessing to homicide?

I could feel the tape recorders. Voice–activated, reel–to–reel with overlapping backup, microphones planted all around. Felt the fever–spike of fear whip through me and land in my gut, screaming Stay safe! I turned to Fancy and chuckled. 'Yeah, sure. That's me all right. Burke, the masked avenger.'

'But…'

'Hey, give me a break,' I said, laughing harder now. 'I'm not saying I never did anything wrong in my life. I'm a hustler. A thief. But kill somebody…forget it. That's not my speed. Cherry was just pulling your chain. I haven't seen her in a hundred years, but even then she was a world–class bullshit artist.'

Her face was white under the artificial tan, hands shaking. 'I thought…'

'What? That I was some kind of vigilante for kids? Because fucking Cherry told you?'

'Yes!' she sobbed, her face in her hands. I watched her cry for a minute, her body shaking under the blue T– shirt.

'Cut it out,' I told her. 'That's a fairy story. You're too old to think there's a Santa Claus.'

She leaned her head against my chest, still crying. I put my hand on her shoulder, pulled her into me. Held her while she cried.

The outfit Michelle bought for me would look good in the movie the blackmailers were making, but even a Grand Jury of cops wouldn't indict Ice–T on the contents of the audio track.

The light was on in the kid's bedroom— I could see it as I turned into the garage. Maybe he was scared of the dark.

I took off the camouflage clothing. It was about two–thirty in the morning. I wasn't sleepy— too much to sort out.

What Fancy told me was true. It takes a player to know the game. Even the child molesters who call what they do 'intergenerational sex' know what 'domestic discipline' is all about. But why would Cherry tell Fancy about what I do? What I did. How much did she know? Or was it all a bunch of guesses, needing my own words to drop me for the count.

Today, people don't think about working to get rich. Or stealing either. It's all upside down now. People hear someone they know was in a car accident, they envy them…what a great lawsuit. Lawsuits and lottery tickets, that's the way you do it now.

You don't run across straight blackmail much anymore. Why risk doing time when you can make a bigger score from selling secrets to the media? Treason is fashionable today. You have an affair with someone famous, there's a cash market for letters. For tapes, whatever. It helps if you're willing to pose nude later— show the people what the famous man wanted so bad.

The important thing is to do it for the right reasons— because you got this desperate need for the public to know the truth— the media likes its whores better when they dress up.

There's a bounty on famous people. Everybody knows where to go with the tapes.

A celebrity's sister sells her diary to the garbage press. Sells her own sister. A young man writes a book about how some industrialist needed bondage to get off— a private game turned public for cash. A spoiled–stupid little girl pleads guilty to attempted murder of an older woman. She says she was having an affair with the woman's husband, that he told her to do it. He says it never happened, the girl is delusional. She's out on bail before she goes away to prison. She goes to see her boyfriend, another older guy. They talk, play with each other. She says spoiled–stupid stuff, jokes about the shooting, tries so pitiful–hard to be cool, sound tough. The boyfriend has a