Finding a pen next to the register, Johnny handed it to Monk, Monk marking up a napkin, saying, “Sayles got fields all over.” This being the one he knew about for sure, not saying how he found out. Saying the pot was planted in rows between the corn, drawing in the T intersection, Zero Avenue and the townline. “Should be a hundred plants or so. Marty’s guys are doing the same thing in fields all the way out to Chilliwack.”
Johnny whistled, thinking about it, watching Monk finish the map.
“Do it the one time only. These assholes find out they been ripped off, going to come looking, understand?”
Johnny nodded.
Tipping back his beer, Monk wrote a phone number in the corner, wrote the name Murphy under it, told him he’d let him know Johnny would call, slid the map across the bar.
“When?”
Monk shrugged, saying, “They got to harvest ahead of the frost, right? So I wouldn’t wait.”
“These guys armed?”
“What do you think?”
“And I guess they won’t be shooting rock salt,” Johnny said.
“Somebody shoots, you shoot back.”
Simple.
“Important you don’t get seen, right? Maybe get a different ride,” Monk said. “That thing of yours sticks out.”
Johnny guessed these two had been warned off by their prez to leave Marty Sayles alone on account of what happened at their clubhouse in White Rock. He knew better than to ask if it was true: half the bikers getting run off by a mob of pissed-off dads. Kicking in the door, wielding clubs and bats. The bikers drunk and caught off guard. The dads rushed in swinging, beating drunken bikers senseless, looking for teenaged daughters that weren’t there. Bikers and their old ladies pouring from the doors, jumping out windows. Those who could, ran into the night. A blow to the brotherhood, half of them quitting right then, leaving town or patching over.
Shoving the hundred bucks in a pocket, Monk headed for the exit, saying if Johnny scored big, he expected the other hundred, saying this wasn’t a charity, then asking who he had playing the weekend.
Johnny saying the Dishrags, Monk saying those underage chicks could play, then the two of them went out the back door.
The bikes fired up in the alley and pulled away, Arnie taking out the last of the trash, locking up the back.
“Waves of Nausea got a gig this weekend?” Johnny said to Arnie, sorry he didn’t get a chance to ask Frankie.
Arnie shook his head. “Practicing at the barn,” Arnie said, a quick glance at the map on the bar, recognizing the T intersection, the farm out on Zero Avenue. Pot growing in the corn out back of where they rehearsed. Could have told Johnny that much for free, same way he had told it to Monk, the guy who just sold Johnny the map. Arnie wishing he’d kept it to himself.
Folding it away, Johnny looked at the time, thinking he’d wait till tomorrow, after he scored a few sacks of weed, call Frankie up, ask her to catch the Dead Kennedys at the Legion Hall, the gig a couple of weeks off, give him a reason to call her. After he sold the weed to Monk’s guy, he’d have some walking-around money.
Saying goodnight, Arnie went out the front, locking up. The door next to the club led up the stairs to his room.
Wiping the bar top, Johnny wondered where he could get his hands on a van or truck. Emptying the coke from the foil, he tapped it with a credit card and made two lines, took a deuce from the till and rolled it up. Under the neon beer light, he did one line, tipped his head back, let it ride, then did the other. Turning on the crap TV over the bar, he adjusted the aerials, the late news wrapping up, something about the Ayatollah, angry crowd shots in the Middle East, people burning flags, then an interview with Maggie Thatcher talking economic policy. Johnny turned the volume down, watching her mouth move, got to thinking about Frankie, pictured her handling Marty in the can, knocking out the blonde. Would have paid to see it.
Reaching the CC from under the bar, he sat on the stool, looked at the bottle and thought why not? Splashed some in a glass and stared at the map, drinking and pouring shots, the sports wrap-up on the tube showing highlights from the Holmes-Shavers match from last week, eleventh-round TKO. Johnny pouring till he was too drunk to drive home.
Then it came to him. He looked out the front window, went and grabbed an armload of beer bottles and took them out to Middle Finger’s van three doors up. He tapped the door with his foot, the Doberman freaking out, snarling at the window, showing teeth.
Rolling down the window, Art said, “What the fuck, man?” Seeing the beer, he told the dog to shut up.
Johnny asked if the band wanted to crash inside, was lots more room in his club, plus there was a can. When they were all inside, he asked if he could borrow the van in the morning, said he’d put in a tank of gas.
. . . GO FUCK YOURSELF, MARTY
“What fucking time is it?” Marty said, his voice sounding groggy over the phone.
Frankie looked at the clock on the stove, told him, “Nearly one.”
“Ah . . . a real pisser, you know that?”
“Surprised you can sleep,” Frankie said, hearing Marty cover the mouthpiece, sure she heard a female voice in the background. Betting it was the same blonde, Marty offering comfort.
“What you saw, look . . . that was just business. Woman owed me from last week. Know I got to collect when people owe me.”
“Worked it out in trade, huh?”
“Meant nothing. Was a little drunk, you know how I get.”
“But of all places . . . Jesus, Marty.”
“Was high, top of that, I took a couple poppers, mixed with the booze . . . Why am I explaining to you?” More muffled voice. Frankie glad it was over, but wanting to know she still had the job.
“Thing you want to remember . . .” Marty said. The sound of his hand covering the phone, Marty telling somebody to shut up.
“What, me working for you?” Frankie said.
“Pretty sweet deal, you ask me.”
“What’s not working is the you and me thing.”
“What thing? We go out a couple times, you call it a thing?”
“Just to be clear.”
“Clear, you want clear?” Marty sounding pissed, saying, “Ought to think who’s five years past L.A.”
“What’s that even mean?”
“Means you’re not getting younger, Frankie. And in the music biz . . .”
“The hell you know about it? Tell you what, Marty . . .” The anger rising, this guy with the fucking receding hairline going gray, talking about not getting younger. “Next bimbo gets off her knees, have her spit, get her to run your shit. See how it works out.” Smacking down the receiver, the cord all looped around. Frankie flung the phone off the counter. Bouncing off the fridge, giving her dial tone. Kicked her bare foot at it. Felt the pain shoot up her leg.
Five years past L.A.
Then thinking, shit, what did she just do.
•
“Marty again?” Rita Myles walked into the kitchen, Lily of France panties and a tank top. Rita with the nice curves. Didn’t let Frankie call her Auntie, the woman defying her own age. Rita looked at the clock on the stove, bending for the phone, picking it up, untangling the cord and setting it back on the counter. Running a hand through her usually coiffed hair, she put the receiver to her ear, checking it was still working, setting it back in the cradle. Reached the Bounty dispenser, tearing off a sheet and passing it.
“Sorry I woke you,” Frankie said, blowing her nose. “The guy’s such an asshole.”
“Language.”
“Sorry.”
Pulling the door of the old Kelvinator, Rita reached a tub of Danone, one with the fruit on the bottom, strawberry, setting it next to the phone. Getting bowls and spoons, saying, “Want to tell me?” Peeling the lid off the tub, Rita ladled yogurt into the bowls. Slid one across the counter.
Dipping her spoon, Frankie took a taste, saying it wasn’t bad, telling Rita she caught Marty cheating, didn’t mention the blonde on her knees, or where she caught him. “Asshole says I’m five years past L.A., you believe that?”
“Language.”
“Sorry.” Frankie sighed, left the yogurt and went to the adjoining living room, lifting her Flying V from its stand, sitting on the sofa arm, the guitar across her lap. Strumming it unplugged, she turned the peg, tuning the A.
Rita had been there that day at the pawn shop across from the Laundry Lounge, the owner with no eye for vintage Gibsons, the body battered and scratched, its rosewood fingerboard, a pair of Dirty Fingers. The guy taking a hundred bucks, throwing in a handful of picks and a soft case. Frankie pulled a page from Punk or some underground rag and hung it on her wall, a shot of Steve Jones playing one just like it. Teaching herself to play, doing it every chance she could ever since.
Rattling off a Junior Parker riff, she played around and took it into some Wanda Jackson, adding bends and vibrato.
Reaching the bottle of vodka from the freezer, Rita poured a shot in her bowl, Danone with chilled Absolut, saying, “You want some, sweetie?”
Frankie nodded, said thanks.
Rita poured it, bringing both bowls.
Sliding the V between her feet, Frankie took the bowl and said, “Thought you were easing up on the sauce?”
“Yeah, why I switched to vodka,” Rita said, giving her a wink. Dipping a spoon, Rita sat on the opposite arm, saying, “All the flavors these guys put out, why not vodka on the bottom?”
“It’s good.” Frankie tipped her bowl, spooning boozy yogurt, telling Rita to write them, make a suggestion. The two of them laughing, then sitting quiet, finishing their yogurt. Frankie thinking of Marty’s farm out on Zero Avenue, bottom end of Surrey, letting Waves of Nausea rehearse in the barn. Out in the middle of nowhere, nothing but miles of corn.
It was a long drive, but they could crank it as loud as they wanted, finding their sound. Frankie hooking her Flying V through the Univox Super-Fuzz and Alamo Futura Reverb. Tweaking that tube distortion, getting the sound creamy and thick. The power cords running through a snake, coming off a generator right outside the barn door.
The two guys Marty kept down there, Tucker and Sticky, were his eyes on the pot fields, packing up illegal dexies, stepping on coke and meth, making hash from trims and leaves. And whatever else Marty was into. Like a drug warehouse.
Friday nights, she’d been running her old Karmann Ghia out to the barn. Arnie Binz and Joey “Thunder” Rhoades packing their gear in back of Joey’s mom’s Ford wagon: drum kit, amp and Fender bass in back. The three of them setting up and grinding it out on the sawdust floor. Frankie punking that rockabilly sound, taking it a mile from old school, feeling their sound getting tight. Waves of Nausea ready to cut the EP, a real one, a big step up from the homemade tapes she’d been recording on her portable Philips, the one she toted around in her bag. The three of them listening to those tapes over and over, tweaking their sound.
All of them eager since this guy, Bud Luxford, came in Falco’s one night, talking about putting together a compilation of Vancouver punk, said he wanted them on the record. The Waves excited about it, what with the Sticks putting out their third single, and D.O.A. set to release Triumph of the Ignoroids.
She’d been doing the booking for the Waves, getting them into any place she could, putting up her own money when she had any, taking care of any liquor permits, rental gear, whatever it took. Getting them into places like the Acadian and Odd Fellows, on bills with other emerging bands: Big Muff, Middle Finger, Infected, Ergot Fungus and Kiss the Carpet. Frankie living for the times like when they opened for U-J3RK5, or sitting in with the Generators, meeting guys like Buck Cherry and Harry Homo. Jamming with the Modernettes one night, back in the Active Dog days, switching guitars with Buck, him playing her Flying V, Frankie playing his beat-up SG.
Got to know Art and Barry the night the K-Tels did their Valentine’s Day Massacre show at O’Hara’s, back in February, passing joints and a jug of wine and talking about bands they loved. Buck introducing her to the guys from Sparkling Apple, the band calling their sound drunk-rock. Those guys inviting the Waves to a party at the Cave, living up to their drunken reputation, the Waves showing they could hold their own.
Joey Shithead had come out one night, catching the Waves at the Japanese Hall, saying she kicked ass, hot like that Poison Ivy chick from the Cramps. Frankie with the Flying V strapped on low, that wide-legged stance, wailing into the mic, hammering power chords. Didn’t matter Arnie was on bass, Joey doing his Keith Moon rolls. Shithead saying she was the show, could have done it solo. Told her to get a hold of Gary Taylor and get her band booked into the Rock Room. Put her in touch with the guy who booked out the Ukranian Club over in Burnaby.
When the Waves got to rehearse down on Zero Avenue, the two guys working for Marty Sayles, Tucker and Sticky, stood at the side of the barn, leaning on the boards, no appreciation for the sound, their eyes glued on Frankie, the girl in tight denim, whipping her hair and jumping around. Tucker calling it crotch rock, knowing the girl was hands-off on account of the thing with Marty.
“What about the barn?” Rita said, pulling Frankie from her thoughts, like she was reading her mind.
Frankie made a sour face, saying she likely screwed that up.
“This Johnny’s got a stage, right?” Rita said, guessing how Frankie felt, the way she talked about him. “Maybe something you two can work out.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Frankie smiling, spooning Absolut with Danone, saying, “But no way I’m cleaning his toilets.” Laughing, saying, “You got to see it.”
“No, thank you.” Rita glanced at the clock again, sighed and went and splashed in more vodka, offered Frankie some.
Frankie shook her head, thinking she could look into this fifth-floor warehouse space a couple of the bands had been using for rehearsal. Right in town. The place was set to be demoed but still had electricity. Top of losing her rehearsal space, breaking it off with Marty meant she was out of work. No more picking up dope by the gym bag from Zero Avenue, taking it to Chop Suzy’s and Euphoria’s Top Floor, or hiding packets under her spare tire and running it across the border.
“Could teach guitar,” Rita said, dipping her spoon, getting the last of it. “Do it right here if you want.”
“That or find a club, one that’ll let me swing round a pole.”
“You’re five years past L.A., remember? Whatever that means.”
The two of them laughing some more, Rita joking about sticking tassels on her titties, telling Frankie things would work out. Getting up, she took Frankie’s bowl, setting them in the sink, saying, “Got to hit the hay, kid, got an early day. You should, too.”
“Yeah.”
Too late to catch Carson. Frankie knowing if she lay down, she’d just stare at the ceiling, thinking shitty thoughts like not having a gig lined up till the one at Viking Hall, two weeks away, the three of them splitting a hundred bucks. The last gig had been at the Concourse, sharing the stage with Big Muff, a Blue Cheer knock-off band, both bands chipping in for the damage deposit, the management rolling out cheap carpet to save the hardwood underneath. The fans loving the show, but going crazy, ripping down the ceiling tiles and exit signs, leaving about a thousand burn holes and stains on the rolled-out carpet. The bands losing their deposit, but gaining some fans.
Rita’s door closed, and Frankie took up her Flying V again and ran a G scale, unplugged, turning it into that old Count Five riff, “Psychotic Reaction,” a G-major/F-major shuffle. Telling herself things would work out.
•
Waking stiff on the floor, the TV playing static, a bunch of guys on his floor, their amps, drum kit and gear stacked along the bar, everybody laid out in sleeping bags, the dog stretched out by the door. The Coors clock telling h
im it was nearly five in the morning, headache settling in like a fog, body feeling like both Holmes and Shavers pummeled the shit out of him.
Could go and knock on Arnie’s door. Take him with to raid the pot field, get him to help stuff some bags. Arnie the kind of guy who liked the edge, plus he knew the area. But Johnny thought better of it, Arnie being Frankie’s bass player. Decided to do this one solo, sure he’d feel better after pouring some coffee into himself.
Taking the Norton from a shelf below the register, the .22 pocket pistol he kept just in case. Johnny took the keys Art had left on the bar, stepped past the snoring dog and went out the front, looking at the mural van, thinking Jesus Christ. At least if Marty Sayles’s guys spotted the van, Middle Finger would be long gone down the coast.
The van smelled of feet and dog, Johnny having to drive with his window down. Tanked her up at the all-night Esso. East Hastings was dead that time of morning, Johnny stopping again before the PNE, a place called the Last Drop, waffles twenty-four seven. The takeout double eased his head as he rolled east on the Number One. Down to cold dregs as he crossed the top of Surrey, checking Monk’s map, taking the 176 south, past Fraser Downs, cutting across Eighth at the golf course, then south on the townline, gravel crunching under the van’s wheels. He tossed the takeout cup to the passenger floor. Asking the guy in the rearview if he was up for this.
Headlights off, he pulled to the shoulder, Zero Avenue just ahead at the T intersection. The top of a silo in the distance, a windmill with a weathervane. Taking the Norton from under the seat, he slipped it in his pocket, giving a last glance at the rearview. Grabbing a handful of Glad bags from the box on the passenger seat, he stepped around back of the van. Looking at the swaying corn on both sides of the road. The sky to the east just starting to get light.
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