Down in the Zero

that. The papers just said it was a pistol…was it a revolver or semi–auto?'

'A revolver. Colt Python, .357 mag. What difference would that make?'

'Could he have been playing a game? Russian roulette?'

'How the hell would I know?'

'Well…how many cartridges were in the cylinder?'

'One. Okay, I see what you mean. But it only takes one, right?' His wife muffled a sob, ran from the room.

'Sorry about that,' he said to me. 'She's a weak sister. Always has been. The boy took after her. Weak. That's what the boozing was really all about. Addicts are weak people. I don't smoke, don't drink. And I stay in shape. The business world, it's a tough racket, not for sissies. My wife thinks if I didn't keep guns in the house, he wouldn't have done it. That's bullshit!' he snarled vehemently. 'Somebody wants to get hold of a gun, they can do it, am I right?'

'Dead right,' I said.

His head snapped up. 'Is that supposed to be some fucking kind of a joke?'

'No sir. It's my way of speaking. I apologize if I offended you.'

'Yeah. Okay, anything else you want to know? I'm busy here, waiting on an important fax from Japan.'

'He didn't leave a note, anything like that?'

'Absolutely not. And I'll tell you something else— his blood–alcohol level was sky–high when they did the autopsy. The boy was drunk, understand?'

'Yes sir. Sorry to have intruded. I won't trouble you further,' I said, getting to my feet.

I offered my hand at the door. His grip was what I expected, a bone–crusher.

'I'm pleased to have met you,' Fancy said demurely, holding out her own hand. He took it, expanding his chest, still staring at me.

'Did I do all right?' Fancy asked, buckling her seat belt.

'You did fine. I didn't think he was going to open up at first.'

'I did better than you know, honey.'

'What's that mean?'

'He wouldn't have said a word if I wasn't there.'

'How could you know that?'

'I didn't recognize his name, but I knew his face.'

'So?'

'So he was a client, Burke. Last time I saw Mr. Macho Big Businessman, he was on his knees, licking my boots.'

Yeah, I thought, and if I don't believe you, you can always show me the videotape.

I took Fancy to lunch at a restaurant she told me about. It was just off the main drag, very high–tech, tiny portions on black glass plates, artfully arranged for appearance. Didn't taste bad, but it was more like samples than food.

Fancy had a good appetite, chowing down as if it was steak and potatoes instead of a thick disk of blackened tuna and a motley assortment of baby vegetables.

'You played it pretty good,' I said, lighting a cigarette from the slim black candle sitting in a bud vase on the table. 'No question that he recognized you?'

'He was the one wearing the mask. A black discipline hood with a zipper for the mouth. I made him put it on. It was a long session— he'd know me anywhere.'

'So the rough–stud business tycoon bit— that was for my benefit?'

'Only partly,' she said, reaching across and plucking my cigarette from the little round ashtray, taking a deep drag. 'They never let you forget who's paying. It's not like it's a relationship. I'm a professional— he'd expect me to keep his secrets. Discretion is part of the game.

I fell into her big gray eyes, held on tight. They reflected back guilelessly— as if she'd never heard of blackmail. When she exhaled, the smoke shot out of the one nostril. Something there…I couldn't grab hold of it.

'They map out the scenes in front, then?'

'Most of the time. There's always a lot of crap about respecting limits, safety words…all that stuff. It's really hot now— all over the place. The hard–core magazines spell it out more, but even the upscale ones let you advertise. Some of them, you can't use words like 'dominant' or 'submissive,' but they always find a way. 'Role playing,' that's the favorite.'

'No surprises?'

'Not really. Except, maybe, for virgins. The first time, they're not sure what they want, and it can get silly.'

'What happens if you mark them up?'

'Mark them up?'