Zero Avenue

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “Bonus is, you’ve got an instant arrest. Not much the perv can say. Pretty clever, really. With some guys it’s the only way.” Rita laughing, too.

  “Tell me you don’t have one?”

  “Thought about it, but how often . . . never mind. But, look, Frankie, take that with you, keep it in your bag.”

  Frankie thinking why not, dropping the pink gun into her handbag. “Always looking out for me, Auntie.” She smiled, then reached her flop-hat from the closet shelf, putting it on, twisting the brim, cocking her hip.

  Rita saying, “Go with the boots.”

  “Was thinking my high-tops, easier to jump around,” Frankie said, guessing easier to get away, too, then remembering she wanted to call Marty again, try and smooth things out, try and keep the rehearsal space past tonight, maybe get him to back Zeke off, this guy making changes.

  Rita got up, refilling her glass one more time and going to get ready for her shift.

  Watching her go, Frankie checked herself in the mirror again, hating the feel of the bra, the wire digging into her ribcage. Dreaded making a second call to Marty. Deciding to wait till Rita went to New2Me, where she made ugly look good. Planned to take off the bra before she dialed the number.

  . . . KING DOG

  “Hey ya, Marty.” Frankie leaned against the kitchen wall, black Bakelite phone to her ear, fingers playing with the curled cord.

  Silence, only the sound of his breathing on the line, Marty finally saying, “You again, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “You alone?”

  “Yeah, how about you?”

  “See now, there you go again,” Marty said, “thinking you can talk like that.”

  “Alright, I’m sorry, look, Marty, the thing at Falco’s . . . guess I was a little high . . . guess you were, too . . . me, I was just reacting, you know . . . the bimbo coming at me.”

  “Not looking for your sorry, Frankie.”

  “You even know the girl’s name?”

  Snorting, Marty said, “What the fuck you want, Frankie?”

  “Heard the girl needed stitches,” Frankie reining it in, going for sincere, saying, “Wanted to see how she’s doing.”

  “Yeah, well, when Sally came around, it was a toss-up who she’d call first, cops or lawyer. Can thank me for talking sense to her.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks, but, hey, she came at me, right?” Frankie said, “And maybe if you and me set some ground rules in the first place, that shit never would’ve happened.”

  “Thing you don’t get, Frankie, there was no you and me thing. What, we went to the movies, dinner a couple of times. So there’s no ground rules.”

  “Yeah, okay, fine.” Frankie thinking of the Beaver, pictured setting one on him, biting down and needing to be surgically removed. How’s that for ground rules, asshole.

  “So, guess you heard from Zeke,” Marty said.

  Frankie betting he was grinning on the other end of the line, enjoying himself now, saying, “Yeah, he’s acting all man in charge. Telling me he’s —”

  “We don’t talk this stuff on a phone, right?”

  “Hey, you asked. And, like you’d open the door if I came knocking.”

  “Might be fun to see, Sal opening the door, you two going for round two, her not as high and seeing it coming.”

  “Sal, huh, she keeping house at your place now, huh?”

  “All you got to know, girl, from here on, you go through Zeke. He lets you work, well, that’s up to him.” Marty ended the call.

  Frankie looked at the receiver giving her dial tone. She threw it, sent the phone bouncing off the Kelvinator.

  Beep, beep, beep.

  Frankie kicking the phone, telling it, “Fuck off.”

  . . . GOING MEDIEVAL ON THAT BITCH

  Dumb thing to do, call up Monk, meet him for a late lunch at the Only, under the neon seahorse. Scoring a chunk of black hash. Monk asking why she wasn’t getting bhang free off Marty.

  Frankie sliding into the booth at the back, saying, “Yeah, really got to ask?”

  Monk putting the rest together. Nick, the owner, coming over and taking their order, Monk going for the oysters, Frankie saying she wanted seahorse, like on the sign out front, Nick rolling his eyes, heard that like a hundred times, putting her down for oysters, telling her it tasted pretty much the same.

  Lunch didn’t disappoint, Monk picking up the tab. When they got out of there, she kissed his cheek, Monk getting on his chopper, Frankie going to her Ghia, dropping some of the hash on the car lighter as Monk roared off. Careful she didn’t burn her still-swollen lip, Frankie toked in the sweet smoke, needing a buzz to take off that edge. It wasn’t as good as the bhang, but it wasn’t bad. Then she shoved the stick in gear and drove south on Main, going through town, her Flying V and amp on the back seat. The sky was clouding over, meaning it would be dark early tonight. Hated driving to the barn alone, especially since she hadn’t heard back from Arnie. Joey Thunder saying he was driving down solo in his mom’s Country Squire. Tucker and Sticky creeped her out, the pair of them set to go off anytime, both always staring at her.

  The Clash cassette ended as she got to the bottom end of town, Frankie popping the tape out of the player, rolling across town, leaning to the glove box and fingering through the cassettes, sticking in the bootleg she made of Bullshot, Link Wray blowing her mind. Fell in love with the king of rockabilly the first time she heard “Rumble.” The guy was the granddaddy of the power chord. Rockabilly done right.

  Tapping her foot, getting into “Snag,” she bopped along, hoping the combination of Wray and the black hash would ease her nerves. Working out the riff in her head the way Link played it, singing along to “Just That Kind.” Tapping her hands on the wheel.

  Checking her rearview, half hoping to see Johnny’s orange ride two cars back, the guy playing Serpico with the stupid sunglasses and beanie on. The Ghia sending up a cloud of back-road dust all the way along Zero Avenue, nothing but a farm road running straight along the U.S. border, two countries separated by a three-foot ditch and scraggly blackberry brambles. Farm fields swished by, most of it corn, some cattle grazing in an open field.

  “Switchblade” thumped through the Pioneer speakers, Link Wray getting her where she lived. Zigging around a pothole, she hit a section of road that was like a washboard, Frankie having to eject the tape, saved it from getting chewed up from all the shaking, happened twice before.

  Then she was rolling up on the farmhouse, the one Marty Sayles picked up in some kind of foreclosure deal. The house wasn’t much, the barn was worse, but the property stood isolated, the nearest neighbor about a half mile away on the Canadian side, and nobody across on the U.S. side, just about a mile of marsh, nice and isolated.

  Instead of looking for the gate, her eyes went to the rearview, saying to herself, “Something wrong with you, girl, dealing with guys like this.” Knocking the mirror with a slap, her knuckles smarted, thinking she had to quit running Marty’s shit, simple as that. Didn’t matter what it paid. Didn’t matter about the rehearsal space either. She’d find someplace else, and she’d get the money for the EP, just have to do it another way. She’d been waiting for the phone to ring, hoping to hear about another Battle of the Bands, something the Georgia Straight hosted at the Commodore, the winner getting a recording session at Little Mountain Sound, with Bob Rock at the controls. Frankie thinking a girl could dream.

  She’d been at the first Battle when D.O.A. got passed over, their fans throwing bottles, not accepting that shit. Frankie catching the band again at the Canada Day gig at Stanley Park, playing that one with the Subhumans, those guys cranking out “Fuck You” like nobody’s business.

  Cops on horseback swooped down on everybody because somebody forgot to get a permit. Frankie had stood by an equipment truck, laughing, watching Shithead run off into the trees in that Nazi
helmet, an open beer in his hand, never spilling a drop.

  Some church group ended up letting them have their own park permit a few blocks over. The Christians packing up their picnic and letting the punks kick it for a couple of hours. Everybody going home happy.

  Driving right past the gate now, she jammed the brakes, her bald tires grinding, the Ghia coming to a stop in the middle of the three-way intersection. The engine cutting out.

  Getting it started again, she backed up to the wooden gate, pulled closed. Not a porch light on, the house dark. Just the glow of a light coming from the barn.

  No sign of Joey Thunder or Arnie. Quarter to seven, leaving them a short practice. Frankie hated getting there first, should have caught a ride with Joey. The farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. No street lights down here, nothing but shadows and the swish of corn in the breeze. The pink gun in the bottom of her bag.

  She waited for Sticky to come out and open the gate, picking out the bootleg Furies tape, picking Side A and slipping it in the player for the drive back, her tunes as important to her as gas was to the Ghia. Recorded this one live on Labour Day two years back, the Furies playing the weekend with the Lewd and the Skulls, a Hellrazors bash out in Matsqui. Was a shit recording made on her Philips portable with the handheld mic, but to her it was a collector’s item. Recording it right before the Furies split up. She took out the Ramones cassette, too, put it on the passenger seat, save her having to fish in the glove box on the way back. Copied the Ramones album off Arnie’s vinyl, a better recording made on Rita’s Sony Betamax, the album with “Beat on the Brat,” one of her faves: a hundred and sixty beats a minute.

  When she first got the Flying V, this was the album, Frankie working out the power chords, Johnny Ramone’s lightning downstrokes. Simple but righteous. Loved the way Joey sang the old Chris Montez number, putting an edge on “Let’s Dance.” One Rita remembered from back in the day.

  Giving a toot on the horn, she waited for the porch light to come on, Sticky finally coming out the screen door, a scrawny guy picking his teeth. In the light of her headlamps, his jeans looking shiny from not being washed, flip flops and an attitude, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. Frankie seeing the gun in his belt as he came to the gate, leaning on it. The guy taking his time. No wave hello, no smile, a real piece of work.

  Rolling down her window, she said, “Hey, Sticky, how about opening up?” Frankie looking around, no headlights coming along the road.

  Giving her a deadpan look, Sticky kept on sucking his teeth.

  Even swinging on a stripper pole with old man fingers sticking bills into her G would beat putting up with this shit. Thinking about “five years past L.A.” had her tapping her horn again.

  Sticky jumped, bitching at her as he unlooped the rope that held the gate, pulling the gate back, letting her roll up the hard-packed drive. Grumbling, asking if she ever heard about the fucking word please.

  Leaving the four-speed stick in first, she shut it off, pulling up the spongy handbrake between the buckets, telling him Arnie and Joey would be along anytime. Sticky shrugged and shut the gate anyway, looped the rope around the top.

  Pulling her beat-up guitar case from behind the seat, she said, “Be a pet and get that?” Glancing at her amp, saying, “Please.”

  Sticky stood with thumbs in the belt loops, tongue working between his molars. Not making a move.

  “Too heavy, I’ll ask Tuck.” She turned up the drive, knowing he’d get it. Going past the house, guitar in hand, handbag with the pink gun over her shoulder.

  Sticky reached in behind the passenger side and grabbed the twenty-watt Alamo Futura Reverb by the handle, nearly put out his back, giving a grunt, leaving the car door hanging open, leaning to the side as he followed behind her.

  Frankie smelled something like boiled socks wafting through the kitchen’s screen door as she walked by, thinking laundry, but guessing it could be food. Looking back at him, saying, “Home cooking, Stick?”

  Sticky saying it was cabbage soup, way his nanna did it. Made enough for the week, asked if she wanted a taste.

  Frankie saying she was good, told him she just had some seahorse back in town, walking toward the light spilling from the barn, Frankie wishing Joey and Arnie would hurry the fuck up.

  . . . BY THE SKIN OF THE TEETH

  Man, he hated looking at the stack of receipts for the past month, the school notebook he used as a ledger open on the bar top. Johnny would be happy to turn it over to the woman who came in and did the books once a month — numbers not his thing. It didn’t take a bookkeeper to point out he was barely scraping by. Selling Marty Sayles’s pot gave him some breathing room. Johnny planning to hand Zeke half for the back rent, any more and him or Marty might ask questions, like where the money came from.

  The knock at the front door had him looking up. Zeke Chamas standing in front of the closed sign, hand up like a shield to the glass, eyes peering in.

  Speak of the devil.

  Johnny didn’t make a move, thinking what, these guys smell money? Then, taking his time, he stacked up the receipts, closing the ledger. Zeke knocked harder, looking pissed, calling, “Hey, you deaf in there, Falco?” Rattling the door handle.

  Johnny shuffled to the door, seeing the guy’s green muscle car behind him at the curb. Flicking back the lock, Johnny stepped aside.

  “Ain’t got time for your bullshit, Falco.” Zeke pushing his way through, scowling at him.

  “Then maybe try calling first.”

  “Did call you.” Zeke looked like he wanted to do something, saying, “Know why I’m here, right?”

  “You want me to guess?”

  “Hand me the fucking money, asshole.” Snapping his fingers. Zeke stomped his foot, knocking dried mud from his boot. Two-inch riding heels giving him enough lift to make them nearly eye to eye, close to Johnny’s six feet.

  “Like I told you on the phone, I’m getting it.”

  “Yeah, so you got it?” Zeke stomping the other boot.

  “Give you what I got so far. Get it while you sweep up.” Johnny glanced at the floor, then pointed at the push broom leaning against the far wall.

  “You want to try me, Falco, just say the word.” Zeke snapped his fingers, the other hand hooking his belt loop.

  Johnny went behind the bar. Opening the register, he reached in, counted out half what he owed, Zeke watching him put the rest back, shutting the register with a ding.

  “What’s stopping me from taking it all?” Zeke tugged back the jacket, showing the pistol butt, looking serious.

  “Norton,” Johnny said, slapping the money on the bar.

  Zeke looked around, not seeing anybody. “Yeah, he hiding someplace?”

  Reaching the shelf under the register, Johnny put the pistol on the bar, hand on it, the barrel pointing at Zeke. “Norton.”

  Zeke considered his chances of drawing his pistol, saying, “Man’s not gonna like it, I come back light.”

  “Least you’ll be coming back.” Johnny looking serious, finally saying he’d need another week for the rest.

  “Uh uhn, you got one more day.”

  “Then you come back tomorrow, but make it at night.” Johnny keeping his hand on the Norton, saying, “And let’s hope for the best.”

  “Better do more than hope, Falco.” Zeke slowly reached for the bills and tucked them away, then with his eyes on Johnny’s he said, “Let me ask where you were yesterday — say, early.”

  “Where you think?”

  “How about the kid works for you?”

  “Arnie? Have to go ask him.”

  “Yeah, and where do I find him?”

  “Likely be here tomorrow night.”

  Grinning, Zeke said, “You two got a thing? You know, both of you into that fag music?”

  “Not the first thing you got wrong today, huh, Zeke?”


  His grin faded, Zeke looking at the Norton on the bar, then turning for the door, telling Johnny he’d be back tomorrow.

  . . . CROTCH ROCK

  Tucker liked looking at her, but didn’t want her here. The music was always loud as hell, horrible shit to listen to; and now, the bass player lay trussed up in the shed out back. Zeke had called up, saying Frankie could play one last time, but still not saying what he wanted done with Arnie Binz. Tucker needing to focus on the harvest, set to start curing tomorrow, truckloads coming in from the other fields over the next couple of days. Hanging the plants from the clotheslines they’d string from the barn’s rafters.

  The RCMP had upped the regular patrols along the border since they busted that tunnel just a couple miles up the road. Three guys tunneled through the floor of a garage, breaking the concrete and digging their way all the way under Zero Avenue, running their meth across to the U.S. side. Till some nosey neighbor reported suspicious activity and noise one night, jotted down some license plates, all three of the guys with priors, two skipping on their parole. Gave the cops cause to come knocking, bringing along a search warrant. Charged all three with two counts of possession of a controlled substance along with possession of amphetamine precursors and paraphernalia. Nothing new about drug busts down along Zero Avenue, border-jumping practically a sport since back before the Volstead Act.

  “Know this is it, huh? Last time,” Tucker said when she walked into the barn. Coming over and standing a little close to her, a sour smell wafting off him, the same checked shirt he had on last time, a Molson’s bottle in his paw.

  “Miss me already, huh?”

  Behind him stood some kind of rig that looked half constructed, an upright frame made of angle iron welded onto an old boat trailer, a welding cart and a red tool chest taking up the space the band would need. Frankie thinking redneck sculpture.

  “Zeke said it was okay,” she said, guessing Tucker already knew that.