Getting back in, she said, “Not a word, okay?”
Johnny showing his hands.
Turning the key, she worked the clutch, giving it some gas, the night settling in. Frankie looking at him, saying, “Still want that drink?”
“Nothing scares me,” he said. “Just want to know, you got indoor plumbing at your place?”
She was laughing, hitting a pothole, her shocks not up for the task, the chassis bottoming out, the tape getting caught in the player. Popping the cassette, saying, “Hate when that happens.” Eyes on the road, she turned the take-up reel with a fingernail, taking up the tape slack, looping it around the cassette. She reached over and dropped it in the glove box, switched on the dome light, fumbling for the Ramones tape.
“Here let me.” Johnny picking a random tape, pushing it in the player.
“Red Rubber Ball” coming through the speakers.
Not what she expected, Frankie switching off the dome light, looking at him, saying, “Know it?”
“The Diodes, you kidding me?” Telling her he met them back east when they started out, just a few instruments in some shitty basement dive at OCA, along with a bathtub full of ice and beer. Caught them again at a place called the Crash ’n’ Burn. Good times in Toronto.
Frankie saying it was one of her favorites.
Stealing a glance at her, Johnny said yeah, “Tired of Waking Up Tired” was one of his. Telling her about the time he caught them at the Colonial, playing downstairs, drowning out Long John Baldry playing upstairs. The band refusing to turn it down, leading to the bouncers pulling the plug, leading to a riot spilling out onto Yonge Street. Johnny ended up in a paddy wagon with everybody else, all of them released the next morning. Saw the band again at Larry’s Hideaway, nobody arrested that night. Said he’d been trying to get them to come out west.
She loved the stories. Johnny telling her about catching the Last Pogo at the Horseshoe, put on by the Garys, another near-riot: the Scenics, the Secrets, the Mods and more on the bill. Just ahead of him moving out west, hitchhiking his way across Canada. This guy older by a dozen years, into his old-school punk, loved bands like the Dolls, Velvet Underground and the Stooges, but open to the new sound, giving bands a chance at Falco’s, putting up his own money to do it.
After she made the drop at Euphoria’s, she walked back to the car, saw him watching her, Frankie guessing a drink would lead to two, two leading to bed — see where it went from there. It had been a long time coming, something passing between them when he started sliding OVs across the bar, Frankie trying to pay him, the two of them talking, looking at each other, Johnny not making a move on account of the thing she had with Marty. Things looking different now.
. . . KILL FOR A GIG
Frankie was telling Johnny how it felt getting up on that stage, the butterflies in her stomach, just nothing like it. “Beats anything . . . you ask me.” She was thinking except sex, looking at him, blue eyes kinda like the guy who sold her the car.
Johnny nodded, saying he got that.
The two of them on either end of Rita’s leather sofa, Frankie having looked in the fridge for OJ, finding none, pouring straight vodka, offering him ice.
Frankie telling him about finding some old 78s in Rita’s cellar, back when she lived in the house in New West, before her uncle passed. Frankie teaching herself to play rockabilly, sitting on her bed every night and every weekend, getting it down while her girlfriends were out partying. Fingerpicking, learning slide, getting that lightning fretwork, adapting it to the punk sound.
Having Johnny over had her setting aside worries about Arnie, still no word from him.
Johnny asking about her set list.
Frankie running it down, knowing she’d have to stretch a couple out, play some twice. Not enough for two full sets. They’d try a couple of original tunes they put together.
Johnny telling her about the posters being printed up, this guy Gregg who worked for his uncle’s construction company, in the print shop. Gregg sneaking in after hours and running them for the local bands, did it real cheap, too. Calling his sideline Second Job Press. Johnny hired some kid after school, the kid running around tacking and gluing them all over the Eastside, at two cents a piece.
Frankie saying she was sorry about the Dishrags having to cancel.
“Don’t look so sorry to me,” he said, nudging her.
“Just a little.” Smiling, telling him about the show at the Japanese Hall, the Dishrags opening for the Furies, back when they were starting out, saying, “Chicks were like fifteen then, but the sound was tight, you know?” Saw them again at the Lotus Garden, got to know Jade Blade a bit, sat in with them at the Laundromat, again at the SUB Ballroom, that one with Female Hands. On the bill at the Windmill on Granville.
“Heard about that one.” Johnny saying he knew the owner of the Windmill, asking if she got paid, not something the guy was known for.
“Yeah, well, Stain kinda took care of it.” Going to the Windmill, banging on the door with his fist, demanding extra from the guy for his trouble, coming back with her cash.
Grinning, Johnny knowing the big man’s nature, thanking her again for the Waves filling in, Frankie saying she should be thanking him.
“Not exactly the Mab.”
“Not yet, maybe,” she said, “but you keep on booking bands like Middle Finger . . .”
“Guys doing their yabba dabba dos.”
“The one they were playing . . .”
“Yeah, when you clocked the chick in the can.”
Frankie making a face.
“People still talking about it,” Johnny said, leaning close.
“You clean it up?”
“Naw, had Arnie do it. Back to normal, the can looking like it always does.”
“Not gonna let me live it down, huh?”
“Uh uhn. Likely pack the place just on that, the crowd coming to check you out.”
“But not Marty or the blonde.”
“Naw, wouldn’t count on them too much.” His hand going to the back of her neck, touching her hair. Setting his drink on the table.
Letting him do it, Frankie told him about adding a punk version of “Gloria,” that oldie by Them, Van Morrison singing the hell out of it. The Waves version not as nice and easy.
Johnny asking if she ever did anything nice and easy.
“Wouldn’t work with my me-versus-them attitude.” She smiled, leaning a little closer, saying, “I mean, why go Anne Murray, you know, when you can go Patti Smith, right?”
“Like ‘Snowbird’ versus ‘Pissing in a River.’”
“You got it.”
He kissed her then, Frankie kissing back, the two of them on her aunt’s sofa. Talking about touring down the coast, playing the Mab, Washington Hall and the Barn, all of that could wait. Frankie reaching for the lamp behind the sofa and pulling the cord.
•
After, the two of them were on the sofa, her head on his chest, Johnny with his shirt off, asking about the Waves’ EP, Frankie telling him about getting demos out to Perryscope, hoping to sell copies through Quintessence. She sat up, tying the shirt, pouring a couple more shots, telling him about this promoter down in Long Beach, young guy named Swinson, friend of a friend. Met him backstage at the Dead Kennedys show at the Bird, place in Seattle. Partying with the warm-up band called the Blackouts.
Johnny watched her unfold some tinfoil, breaking off a piece and spearing it on a safety pin, Johnny fishing for his lighter, putting flame under it. Waiting till the hash glowed, he blew it out and leaned over her cupped hands, drawing the smoke off the pin. Hadn’t toked up like that since that time in Ocho Rios, smoking spliffs the size of Cuban cigars, damned things wrapped in newspaper, this Jamaican guy named Emmett driving him around in a van, twenty bucks a day, the two of them drinking Red Stripe, Emmett showing Johnny how to vacation. High
the whole week he was down there, could hardly remember the red-eye flight coming home. At the time he was saying never again.
“Hash’s pretty good, right?” Telling him she copped it off Monk. Reaching her guitar from its stand, she played one she’d been working on, calling it “No Fun City,” the guitar unplugged. Then she strummed the chords to an Iggy song, Johnny joining in on the words he could remember, the line about just being out of school.
A little more hash, a little more vodka, Frankie saying why not come down the coast with them.
“Know I can’t sing.”
“Can’t play bass either, but that didn’t stop you.”
“Ouch.” Johnny saying he had the club, Frankie saying she didn’t have all the money yet, but wasn’t letting that stop her.
“Got this idea, a way to make the money . . .” he said, wanting to tell her about robbing Marty Sayles.
Hearing the elevator from down the hall, she told him to hang on, took his hand and led him to her room. Wasn’t sure when Rita’s shift ended tonight, didn’t want her walking in and finding them half naked on her sofa.
Closing her bedroom door, she switched on the bedside lamp, Johnny taking in her room. Frankie dropped his shirt and her bra, untied the loop of her own shirt and dropped it, saying, “So, what’s this idea?”
“It can wait.” Looking at her, Johnny pulled her to the bed, forgetting about robbing Marty Sayles.
. . . DOWN THE BARREL
The rows between the stalks seemed to narrow in the dark. Arnie walked ahead, a shovel in his hands, the handle getting caught on a stalk. He pulled it loose and turned his head enough to see Sticky behind him, pointing the pistol, Arnie saying, “Don’t need to do this, man.”
Shoving the barrel at his back, Sticky told him to shut up and walk, shining the flashlight ahead of Arnie. Screwing up his courage. Tired of hearing the guy pleading. Told him to be glad he didn’t have Tuck’s socks balled in his mouth now. Forcing Arnie to walk between the rows, fifty yards into the corn. Sticky switched the pistol to his other hand, psyching himself to make this real, wiping his wet palm on his jeans.
Making it to the end of the row, Arnie stopped at the open field, nearly the same spot where they caught him. Sticky told him to start digging, pointing to a spot, told him how wide and how deep.
“Come on, Sticky . . .” Arnie still hurting from the beating, stabbing pain in his side, Arnie sure he had a concussion, a knot on the back of his head, dried blood crusted in his hair. Hardly had any water all day, and nothing to eat.
“Told you to stop fucking whining. Time for that’s done. Now dig.” Pointing with the pistol, Sticky told him again to do it, didn’t matter how much it hurt.
Shaking his head, Arnie tossed the shovel down, saying, “No way, not digging my own grave.”
“Fuck, I got to do it, I put this barrel to your knee, blow off the knee cap so you don’t run. Gonna feel like nothing you racked up so far. Now do it.”
“Going to shoot me anyway.” Arnie crying, watching Sticky wiping his hands on his pants.
“Two ways to do this — the quick, then there’s wishing it was.” A voice inside telling Sticky there was only one way he was leaving this field as Lenny Lowe, burying Sticky in the hole right along with Arnie Binz. Pointing the Colt, he gritted his teeth, hissing, “Dig.”
Bending for the shovel, Arnie stuck the blade in the ground, felt like somebody was spearing at his ribs. Shoving his foot down, he started to dig, driving the shovel into the soft earth, working through the hurt and tossing the earth, telling himself he had to do something, wait for his chance. He wasn’t just going to let it happen.
Sticky kept the pistol on him, considered just chasing him off — his choice, Tucker had said. Arnie would be too scared to say a word about it, tell people he got mugged or something. In a week they’d have the pot cured and gone, and it wouldn’t matter either way. Sticky switched off the flashlight, enough moonlight to keep watch.
Arnie stopped to catch his breath, swiping a sleeve at the tears, saying, “A bag of pot, it’s not something you get killed for, man.”
“You fucked with the wrong guys, all there is. Now shut up and dig.”
Sticky watched him, wanting this over. Seeing himself going back and facing Tucker, the fucker laughing, saying he knew he didn’t have the stones, mocking him for taking the easy way out, letting Arnie go. Telling him to call Zeke and explain it. Switching hands on the pistol, wiping at his jeans again. Thinking he could use a whiskey. Told Arnie to keep going.
Arnie put his foot on the shovel, struck an old root or something, having to chip the blade around to work it free. He kept chopping the blade at it, having to stop again, saying, “Look, man, what am I gonna do, run to the cops and say I was ripping off your pot? I’m already on probation.”
Sticky ignored him.
Striking at the root, Arnie worked till the sweat rolled from under his arms, his hands shaking. He stepped from the hole, saying, “Fuck it.”
“Blow off your knee, swear I’ll do it.”
“Look, wait, we fill the hole in, then you fire a round in the air, and I’m gone. You go back and tell them it’s done. Not like they’re gonna dig it up and check.”
“You don’t know shit about it.”
“Know one thing, you do it you got to live with yourself. Gonna wake up screaming.”
Sticky clamped his teeth, hissing like he was letting off steam. Both hands on the grip, aiming at Arnie’s knee, making him believe it.
Picking up the shovel again, Arnie stepped back in the hole and jabbed at the root, working it loose, feeling it come free. Scooping it onto the blade, he bent his knees and looked up past Sticky, saw his chance, saying, “Figures it’d take two of you.”
Now or never.
Sticky turned his head, and Arnie flung the root hard at him, coming out of the hole, winding the handle of the shovel. Forgetting the pain.
Getting struck by the root, Sticky fired a wild shot. Knocked into the stalks, he kept to his feet. Arnie swatted with the shovel, knocking away the pistol. Sticky throwing up his arms, warding off the blows. Arnie swinging and hitting, laying a beating on him.
Sticky fell, everything spinning. A blow across his back put him flat. Rolling out of the way, he tried to get up.
Raising the shovel, Arnie swung like he was splitting wood, knocking him down again.
Feeling the pistol under him, his hand grabbed for it, Sticky twisting as Arnie swung. Firing up. The bullet went in below the collar bone, going out Arnie’s back. He spun, losing the shovel, tottering to keep on his feet.
Sticky pushed himself up, the ringing in his head, the blood running past his eye. Lifting the pistol, he didn’t think about it now.
Arnie lurched at him, and Sticky pulled the trigger.
Arnie flopped backwards.
Dropping to his knees, Sticky tried to breathe, feeling the blood trickling down his face. Right then, he wanted to go back to the barn and shoot Tucker, too.
He tried, but couldn’t get himself to stand, sitting there three feet from Arnie splayed out. When he could stand, he threw up. He tucked his pistol in his belt, standing over the body, finding the flashlight, switching it on. Arnie’s shirt was soaked, blood staining the ground, his eyes like a doll’s. Sticky shone the light at the shallow grave. Then he heard movement coming through the cornstalks.
•
Started running through the corn when he heard the second shot, figured Sticky fucked it up, Tucker shielded his eyes against the flashlight beam. Sticky telling him to turn that thing off.
“What the fuck . . .” Tucker looked down at Arnie’s body.
“It got done.”
Didn’t think he had the stones. Tucker stepped to the hole.
“Thing is, you gonna do it, Sticky, you make the other guy dig the hole first, then shoot him so
he falls right in. Now you got to dig and drag him to it.”
“Name’s Lenny Lowe.” Sticky bent for the shovel and tossed it at Tucker’s feet, saying, “You dig it.”
“You in no condition, huh, Sticky?” Tucker looked at the blood on his face, the look in his eyes, saying, “You with the gun, him with the shovel, nearly got the better of you.”
“Told you, it’s Lenny now.” Sticky stood, ready this time.
Served him right for leaving the shotgun behind, Tucker stared at him a moment, then reached for the shovel.
Sticky put a hand on a cornstalk, Tucker putting his back into it, tossing dirt from the hole.
Should dig it deep enough for two. Tucker planning to call a guy he knew in Abbotsford who ran a chop shop. Have to get Arnie’s Pinto off the tractor trail and make it disappear.
Sticky squatted down, fighting the spins.
“Guy decked you pretty good, huh? You with the gun.”
“What the fuck you bring, Tuck?” Sticky kept his eyes on him, thinking if Tucker stepped out of the hole, he’d shoot him. Nothing hard about it.
Tucker saw it in his eyes and kept digging, there’d be another time. When it was deep enough, Tucker dragged Arnie by the ankles, flopping him into the hole.
Shovelful at a time, he filled it in. Tucker stamped his feet across the top, kicking some loose soil, making it look natural. Not another word between them, Tucker guiding Sticky by the arm, helping him between the rows, back to the house. Sticky kept a hand on the pistol butt, knowing Tucker wouldn’t let it pass. He planned to wedge a chair under his doorknob tonight, and every night after. He’d clean and oil the nickel-plate, nobody needing to tell him to keep it close and loaded from here on.
. . . LEFT OF CENTER
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