Zero

By Sharon Killingsworth

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453557426

Sharon Killingsworth

Sharon Killingsworth is the author of many short stories including “E Street Trailer Park” and ”Good Cat.” Her short story “Born to Ride” appeared in the anthology Stories and Poems from Close to Home published in 1986, and her racetrack story “Crazy Sally” appeared in the 2015 anthology Carry the Light. Her first book, Zero, was published in 2010. This is her second novel. She is a native Californian and makes her home in Mountain View, California.

Book preview

Chapter 1

1958

Zero froze.

Where the hell have you been? His father’s angry words echoed in his ears.

Zero’s slim body tensed, ready to run. Why’d he bothered to come home anyway? Big mistake, stupid mistake. He drew in a shaky breath, brushed shaggy blond hair out of his eyes.

His father’s shoulders blocked the doorway of the tiny kitchen. Messy dark hair splashed across his forehead; a half-empty whiskey bottle swung from his hand. A deep scowl covered the unshaven face. I said, where’ve you been? his father repeated, moving toward him.

At school. Zero stepped back, felt the cold tile of the sink through his thin navy T-shirt.

You’re lying. The school called me again.

I was there. He hated school. Almost as much as he hated his good-for-nothing father. Hated how the teachers made him feel stupid. All because of the words. He just couldn’t get the words.

You’re just like her, his father said, waving the bottle. Just like your mother. Eyes like ice, the same lyin’ ways.

Zero tried hard to remember his mother’s eyes. But she’d been gone a long time. Maybe he was like her. He didn’t know. "I was at school. He took a careful step to the left. I was."

His father lifted the bottle and took a long swallow. A trickle of whiskey spilled down the stubble on his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Lyin’ again.

Zero edged sideways. His heart raced; cold sweat slid down his back. If he could just get his father to take one more step, out of the doorway. . . . So who gives a damn if I go to school or not?

The whiskey bottle crashed to the floor. A strong hand snaked forward, grabbed him by the shirt front, slammed him hard against the wall.

Where were you? Thick lips pulled back into a snarl. You were with that gang, weren’t you?

His father loomed over him; six feet to Zero’s five-six. The big hand, a vise against his chest, pushed him harder, harder against the wall. The smell of alcohol engulfed him.

His father slapped him. Just like her.

Zero’s head rocked back, his face stung. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Lemme go. A filmy red haze fell down over his eyes; his head throbbed. I ain’t gonna take another beating from you.

Yeah? Just what you gonna do about it?

Go to hell, Zero spat. He brought his right knee up hard against his father’s groin.

The bigger man caught his breath, groaned and released his grip. Zero darted past him toward the door. But a fist exploded into Zero’s stomach, doubled him up. He was pushed backwards; his head hit the wall. The air knocked out of him, he was still gasping when another fist slammed into his ribs. Everything went white, then red, then black as his lungs struggled for air.

He felt himself slide slowly down the wall. The floor came up to meet him with a soft thud, and he fell sideways onto the cracked linoleum. The rough floor felt cool against his cheek. He blinked, tried to focus on the heavy work boots in front of his face.

Why couldn’t he fight worth a damn against his father? On the streets he could beat almost anybody, but against his own father he was helpless.

He rolled to the left as the big hand thrust toward him again. Zero grabbed blindly, wrapped his arms around the khaki-covered legs, felt his father lose his balance. Zero twisted, somehow managed to jerk his father’s legs out from under him.

Now or never.

He was on his feet before the fallen man could get up. He yanked his jacket off the sofa, bolted out the door, down the stairs. Never once looked back. He ran until he reached the sidewalk below. Angry yells rang in his ears.

Liar! Just like her! Goddamned liar!

*     *     *

Darkness brought the wet and the cold. Zero ducked into the dimly lit doorway of Mac’s Pool Hall and shivered, his red Bishop club jacket and jeans soaked clear through. It wasn’t until he raised his arms and ran his fingers through his wet hair that he realized how sore his ribs were. He pulled a pack of damp cigarettes from his jacket pocket. After a couple of tries, he managed to light up, all the time wishing to holy hell he hadn’t promised to meet Preacher. It was Friday night—all he wanted to do was hang out at the clubhouse where it was comfortable, warm and dry.

Moments later his buddy joined him in the doorway, shaking water from his red jacket. Preacher’s wavy black hair was drenched, the ducktail temporarily gone. Damn. What a night. He glanced at Zero. What happened to you?

Zero reached his hand to the bruise on his cheek.

Your ol’ man again? Preacher frowned.

So what? Zero took a drag off the cigarette. Damn school called him. Said I wasn’t there.

You weren’t, the taller boy said.

Sure I was. A smile slid onto his face. I was there for lunch.

Preacher laughed, his dark eyes lighting up. You’re goddamned crazy, man, you know that?

Zero took another drag and the smile disappeared. Hey, Preach, his voice low, almost a whisper. You remember my mother?

Preacher cocked his head, looked at him funny. Yeah. Sure. She always gave us cookies.

What about her eyes? You remember her eyes?

I dunno. Why?

Zero stared off into the darkness at the abandoned warehouse across the street. A cat ran across the wet expanse and disappeared through a hole in the chain link fence. Sirens screamed somewhere in the distance. I can’t remember her eyes. You know that, Preach? I can’t remember her eyes.

More sirens wailed. He looked back at Preacher, and his buddy shrugged.

The pool hall door swung wide and two heavyset men wearing construction clothes and work boots came out, laughing, singing some Irish song Zero had never heard. One of them bumped into him.

Watch it, Zero growled. He flicked his cigarette into the street. They were just like his father. He could smell the booze on their breath. Why don’t ya watch where you’re goin’?

So keep outta the doorway, kid, the bigger guy said. The men laughed and moved on up the street.

Blood rushed to his head as he stared after them. He hated them, their arrogance, their smugness.

Hey. Preacher grabbed his shoulder. Forget it. We got business. A nice easy job that’s gonna pay.

Zero shrugged away. I don’t wanna go. The whole deal’s stupid. An’ wearing our jackets across town is really stupid. Preacher was supposed to be the smart one, not him. What if we run into Regents or somethin’? The rival gang was always in the back of his mind.

C’mon, Preacher said. We ain’t had any gang trouble in months, right? It’s the cops, they’re the only ones been causin’ trouble. An’ we’ll be on the damn bus. No problem.

Zero frowned. He wasn’t sure. Them drunks probably haven’t gotten too far. Maybe we could roll ’em, get us some dough.

Preacher shook his head. You’re crazy, man. Didn’t you get enough of a beating from your ol’ man? I think maybe he knocked your brains loose.

Aw, you’re chicken shit. We could take them guys easy. Zero said it, but he didn’t really believe it. Those guys had been pretty big.

A rain-streaked blue and gray city bus pulled up to the corner. Gears ground, brakes squeaked. Stinking black exhaust engulfed them.

C’mon! Preacher yelled, dancing out of the doorway into the rain.

Zero hung back for a second, then followed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

They jumped aboard, made their way down the narrow aisle as the bus lurched forward. Zero’s pale eyes paused for a moment on every face in the half empty bus, searching for Regents, for trouble. Satisfied they were safe, he sat down next to Preacher and tried to fold his arms across his chest. But the ribs still ached. Wet clothes stuck to him. He shivered and slouched down. At least the bus was warm.

Hey, cheer up. Preacher punched him on the arm. Like I said. This is gonna be easy money.

So why do we wanna play bodyguard to a bunch of rich punks? Don’t see why your fancy-pants cousin wants us there anyway.

’Cause we’re Bishops, man. Us just being there’ll scare off any party crashers.

Zero leaned forward, peered out the rain-splattered window. He studied the dim street signs, tried hard to memorize the bus route, the corners. Street lights, store fronts, headlights became a blur of rain and neon. He finally gave up, hoped Preacher knew where they were going and more importantly, how the hell to get back. He rested his throbbing head on the back of the blue plastic seat, closed his eyes.

In all his sixteen years, he had never been more than eight city blocks from home. Now he was going off his turf. Way off. Into enemy territory, maybe. A long way from the security and protection of the Bishops. And he didn’t like it one damn bit.

Chapter 2

The rain slowed to a dull drizzle as Zero followed Preacher along a block of big houses, all with plush green lawns, like a scene out of the movies. He had a funny, uneasy feeling deep in his gut, like he was in some foreign country. He tried to shrug it off, but it wouldn’t go away.

That’s it. Preacher pointed to a white two-story house. So what do you think?

Zero let out a low whistle. Your cousin must be rollin’ in dough.

He is.

So what happened to you, man? Zero pushed him playfully. Where’s your millions?

Beats me. Preacher shoved him toward the house. Let’s go.

I’m gonna have a house like this someday. Zero stared up at the wide second floor balcony. Yeah, he said. Just like this.

Preacher looked at him sideways. Yeah, right. Be sure to invite me over.

Zero flipped him off, followed him up gray stone steps. The kid who answered the door was at least six feet tall, with short dark hair, brown eyes and a long beak of a nose. He was dressed like somebody straight out of the magazines at the drugstore: tan cords, white shirt, stupid maroon pullover sweater. A square with a phony smile.

Glad you made it, Preacher’s cousin said, motioning them in. How you been, Jimmy?

Jimmy? Zero tried hard to hold back a laugh. Except for teachers, nobody had called Preacher by his real name since third grade.

Preacher, his buddy corrected. An’ this guy here is Zero. He hooked a thumb toward Zero.

Glad to meet you. Troy extended his hand.

Zero ignored it. Nice digs you got.

The older boy frowned and dropped his hand. You guys look a little wet. C’mon in. You can dry out in the living room.

They followed Troy into a large room with a red brick fireplace at the far end. Zero spotted the fire and headed straight for it, Preacher only steps behind. Thick beige carpet squished under his feet, like walking on wet grass. With his back to the warmth, Zero studied Troy. Definitely didn’t like the guy. And he didn’t like the job. He’d be glad when the whole stupid thing was over and they could get back to their home turf.

Troy shifted from one foot to the other. Glad you guys could come. Nobody’s gonna crash this party if they see those jackets.

Yeah? Zero pulled the damp pack of cigarettes from