Down in the Zero

She turned sideways, shot a rounded hip, gave herself a hard smack on the rump. 'Boom!' she whispered.

I drove the Lexus to the parking lot where I'd promised it would be waiting, Fancy following in her NSX. She didn't ask any questions when I took the wheel from her.

By the time we arrived, there was already a long line to get in. A young girl in a set of bright orange coveralls was walking down the line, taking money, making change.

'How much?' I asked her when she got to us.

'Ten dollars per car to get in. It's another ten if you want a pit pass.

I handed her a twenty. 'We'll take both.'

She peeled off two stickers, one white, one blue. 'You can paste these on your dashboard,' she said. 'Make sure they're visible through the windshield. Here, I'll…'

She bent over, put her head inside the car. 'I'll take care of it' Fancy snapped at her, snatching the stickers out of her hand.

'Easy,' I told her, pulling off.

'Oh, I'll take care of it,' she mimicked, dripping sarcasm.

'She's just a kid, playing around.'

'I'll give her something to play around with.'

'That's enough.'

'That's enough, what?'

'That's enough, bitch.'

She unsnapped her seat belt, reached over and gave me a quick kiss.

We found the pit area. It was jammed. I parked Fancy's car over to the side and we starting looking around. The whole joint looked like a Concours de Cash…the occasional Mercedes stuck out like a poor relative, only invited to the wedding for the sake of form. Ferraris, Maseratis, a gullwing Lamborghini. All toothbrush–polished, shrieking status.

Fancy's sweatshirt draped down past her hips. We didn't get a second glance as we strolled through the grounds, even in that sea of Laura Ashley and country barn chic.

'There he is!' Fancy yelled, pulling at my arm. If a Mercedes looked out of place, the Plymouth looked like it was from outer space. The kid was standing next to it, a clipboard in his hand. A tall, slender girl with him, long reddish blonde hair almost to her waist, dressed all in black. But instead of the pasty indoor skin I expected, her face was porcelain, with a faint rose undertone.

'Burke!' the kid shouted, looking up and spotting us. 'And…Fancy. Wow.'

'You ready?' I asked him.

'Yeah. Burke, Fancy…this is Wendy.'

The tall girl offered her hand. Black nail polish. I held it for a second, but even the strong sunlight didn't fluoresce wrist scars— if she'd ever secretly tried to visit her dead–and–gone friend, it hadn't been that way. Her eyes were a gentle gold–flecked copper, cheekbones prominent in a thin, patrician face.

'I love your hair,' Fancy told her. 'I wish I had it.'

'Thank you,' Wendy said. Not blushing, not arrogant either.

'Give it to him,' I told Fancy.

'Here!' she bounced out, handing the kid the white box.

'What is it?' he asked.

'Just open it,' Wendy told him, standing close, her hand on his shoulder.

He put it on the hood of the car, opened it slowly. Took out the jacket. 'It's beautiful!' he said, holding it up. Wendy took it from him, gestured for him to turn around, helped him into it. The fit was perfect.

'I love it,' he said softly, running his fingers over his name in the red script.

'Hey, Randy! They said you were over here. Where's your car?' Brewster, with half a dozen kids trailing him.

'This is it,' the kid said, patting the Plymouth's flanks. I admired the big numbers whitewashed on the back door: 303. I guess they assigned them at random.

'This? You're kidding me, right?'

'Nope.'

'Far fucking out!' one of his boys said.

Brewster rolled his head on the column of his neck, like he'd just taken a punch. 'Whose jacket you borrow?' he asked the kid, standing close.

'It's mine.'

'So who's Sonny?'

'That's me, too.'

'Sonny? What kind of fucking name is that?'