“So, what’s this idea, you were starting to say . . .” she said.
Johnny propped up the pillow and leaned back, saying, “Going to rob Marty Sayles.”
She just looked at him.
“You and me.”
She sat up. “Come on.” The blanket dropped down. “What, like play Bonnie and Clyde? Know how that ended, right?”
“Not going to be like that.”
“Like, just walk up and say stick ’em up, asshole? Biggest dealer on the Eastside. Guy who keeps Zeke Chamas on a leash, and that guy just dying to shoot somebody.”
“The way we do it, they don’t know it’s being done.”
“Stop saying we.”
“Then I do it alone.”
“Who’s watching too much Five-0 now?”
“The man’s got pot fields all over the Lower Mainland. With just the two morons down at the farm keeping watch.”
“Ones with the guns.”
“They won’t know it’s being done.”
Laying her head back on the cushion, she looked at him. Could be the hash and vodka talking, Johnny taking an idea for a walk, Frankie saying, “Okay, so let’s hear the rest of this plan.”
“They’re set to harvest, have to do it all at one time, curing it in the barn. We put eyes on the place and wait till it’s cured, then pick the right time. Go in at night and drag bags of it through the corn out back, have a truck waiting on the townline.”
Folding her arms behind her head, she played back the way he just walked into the barn with Joey Thunder, Arnie’s bass in his hand, sure of himself. “That what you were doing, coming down to the barn, playing bass and planning a rip-off?”
“Yeah, that and a chance to play with the Waves.”
“Man, it sounds . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Could be a kick.”
“More like desperate,” she said. “And what about Arnie, you get him mixed up in this?”
“No.”
She reached for the bottle, took off the cap and took a sip, passing it to him. “Okay, so, robbing Marty, I get that . . . the guy’s an asshole who’s got it coming; and Zeke, well, that’s another story, but still . . . there’s just you and me.”
“Sounding more Anne Murray. ‘Snowbird’ instead of ‘Pissing in a River.’”
She play-slapped his arm, the two of them lying there, Johnny setting the bottle on his stomach.
“Full of surprises, I’ll give you that.” Resting her head on his chest, thinking they needed coffee, not vodka. Things would look different, Johnny seeing clear in the morning.
“You want me to go, case your aunt comes home?”
“No, stay.” Frankie saying her aunt was cool. She’d just come home and crash after her shift at New2Me, a night of moving furniture around.
“People bidding on used stuff, huh?” Johnny trying to picture it, old furniture with stains and mold.
“Place has an auction every couple of weeks, one of those guys talking a mile a minute. Throwing around words like vintage and one-of-a-kind. Rest of the time they tag up what didn’t sell at auction. Rita sets the floor, making ugly look good. They hang a sign out front: open to the public, and you wouldn’t believe it. Chairs, tables, rugs, old paintings, knick-knacks, anything.” Pointing around the room, Frankie said, “Where most of this stuff’s from.”
“Yeah, well, this looks nice.” He glanced at the chair, the dresser, gilt-framed mirror over top, Johnny seeing the two of them in the reflection, thinking of the crap he’d been dragging through his own life, always wanting to leave it behind.
“Really want to talk about what my aunt does?”
“Guess we covered it.” Johnny set the bottle on the nightstand next to him, hand reaching across her for the lamp, asking if she wanted it on or off.
“Surprise me.”
He kissed her, tasting vodka, Frankie’s arms going around the back of his neck, and they were back into it. The two of them under the blanket. Taking it slow the third time around.
. . . HAIR OF THE DOG
He woke first, light spilling between the partly drawn curtains, sounds of somebody out in the kitchen, the clink of dishes being washed, guessing Aunt Rita was home. Johnny hoping for the aroma of coffee.
Frankie opened her eyes and smiled at him, giving him a kiss, happy he was there. Stretching her arms over her head, the blanket falling away. “Pretty incredible, right?”
“Yeah.” Looking at her.
“Meant last night.”
“That too.”
“Going to tell me it gets better with age, something like that?”
“Had to go there, huh?” Rolling on his side, he reached for the vodka, uncapped it and decided it was a bad idea. Bunching his pillow, he propped himself up. “You want?”
Frankie shook her head, hearing Rita in the kitchen, saying, “You ever try it with yogurt?”
“Vodka, you kidding?”
“Breakfast of champions.”
“Don’t even like it with fruit on the bottom.”
“How about eggs, toast, something like that?”
“You got coffee, and I’m good to go.” Johnny not sure if he was ready to meet the aunt, guessing she might be close to his age.
•
Rita had put on a pot of coffee and gone for a shower, Johnny hearing the spray from down the hall. Frankie on the kitchen side of the counter, putting in two slices and popping down the toaster. Sipping his coffee black, he swiveled on the stool. The hangover fog wasn’t too bad, the coffee taking care of it. A stack of underground magazines, papers and fanzines on the counter: Georgia Straight, Melody Maker, Iconocast, Flipside and Creem. Some student paper called Ubyssey. Johnny leafed through an old issue of Surfin’ Bird, skimming an article about the Chromosomes’ break-up, a hot band who’d never recorded a note, the drummer jailed on drug charges. He told her about catching them back east, too, playing some private party, the guitar player diving in the pool, his electric guitar still plugged in. Somebody quick enough to yank the cord.
“Not the craziest thing I’ve heard,” she said, looking at him.
“You mean the thing with Marty?”
“Really going to do it, what you said?” Frankie keeping her voice low.
“Been building it in my mind, yeah.”
“Was hoping it was the booze talking.” Standing across from him, buttering the toast, putting two more slices into the toaster, leaning her head to the doorway so she could hear the shower down the hall.
Johnny watching her, saying, “Got to find a spot on the other side of Zero Avenue, past that marsh. Put eyes on the farm. Check out the coming and going. Way I see it, they’ll have crews bringing loads of it to the barn.”
“And me?”
“Just make the runs for now, do like Zeke says. Keep a low profile.”
She picked up the phone and dialed Arnie’s number, frowned when his recording came on, and hung up. The toast popped up and she scraped on more butter, set the slices on a plate.
“Arnie?”
“Yeah.” Then she said, “Can’t believe he’s gonna miss the gig.” Trying to lighten the mood, she told about Buck Cherry, the Modernettes’ bass player quitting, Buck wanting to set a cardboard cutout of Sid Vicious on stage, Buck usually high enough to do it.
Grinning, Johnny trying not to show his own worry, Arnie sometimes showing up late for work at the club but never missing a whole night. Johnny had left Stain the keys last night, let him and Monk run things. The last night for Middle Finger, the band taking their sound down the coast.
Frankie took a bite of toast, thinking she’d give it till noon, then call up this guy called Wimpy, ask him to sit in.
The knock at the apartment door had her jumping. A sharp rap. The two of them looking at each other, Frankie looking at the clock on the st
ove, hoping it was Arnie. Setting down the plate, she went to the door, didn’t want whoever it was knocking like that again. Putting an eye to the peephole, she turned to Johnny, keeping her voice low, saying, “Shit, it’s Zeke.”
. . . BURNS LIKE A BITCH
Waiting, pretty sure he heard voices inside. Set to knock again, Zeke heard the lock turn, the door pulled back.
Johnny Falco standing there. Eight o’clock in the morning. Zeke looking surprised, putting it together, his mouth going into a smile, hiding he was pissed off about it, saying, “You two, huh?”
“What do you want, Zeke?”
“Funny, didn’t see your ride outside. The thing the color of fruit.”
“They call it Omaha orange, Zeke. Funny, you saying something about another man’s ride. Driving around all jacked up in the back.”
“Call that a real man’s ride.”
“You got flowers, a message, something you want me to pass along?”
“Lot to say for a guy still owes the rent. Which I want, and I mean today. Now, you gonna step aside? Or you want, I can do it for you.”
Frankie came to the door, bread knife in her hand, tugging Johnny’s sleeve, getting between them, saying, “What’s up, Zeke?”
“What’s this?” Zeke looking at the knife, butter on it, putting up his hands.
“Making my toast go cold. Ask you again, what’s up?”
“Called, but just got your machine. Didn’t figure you’d have company.”
“That’s my business, right?”
“Told you things are changing. So how about you ask me in, offer me a cup and I tell you what I want?”
Tugging Johnny out of the way, she let Zeke in, closing the door.
Going to the island, Zeke sat in Johnny’s chair, pushing his mug aside. “Milk and three sugars.” Zeke glanced around the place, taking it in, saying it looked real nice, then looking at Johnny, saying, “Something funny?”
“Naw, drink it any way you want,” Johnny said, catching the bulge under Zeke’s jacket.
Taking a piece of toast, Zeke bit into it, asking if she had jam. Frankie setting the knife down, getting out the Smucker’s jar, pouring and sliding a mug his way, getting the sugar bowl. Opening the fridge for a carton of milk, sniffing it, she shrugged and put it in front of him.
Stirring a spoon around the mug, Zeke took his time, saying, “So, you two, huh? Ain’t that nice.” Pouring, he watched the milk curdling in his cup. Taking a taste, spooning in more sugar.
Frankie wondering what Johnny would do if he knew Zeke had slapped her at Mitchell’s garage.
“Need you today,” Zeke said, ignoring Johnny next to him, Johnny looking like he wanted to tip him off the stool.
“Yeah, about that, Zeke, this new way of doing things, don’t think it’s going to work for me. Have to pass.”
“How you mean pass?”
“Means I quit.”
Johnny looked at her, wondering how that was keeping a low profile.
“Think you just walk out, just like that?” Zeke said, spreading jam on his toast.
“You dope dealers getting two weeks’ notice these days, Zeke?” Johnny said.
“Say another word . . .” Zeke turned on the stool, looking at him, the jacket pulled back enough to show the pistol butt.
“Sorry if it leaves you short,” Frankie said. “You need somebody, maybe go ask Marty’s bimbo, the one down on her knees.”
“Yeah, you sure you want me saying that to Marty?”
“Say what you want.”
Zeke looked from her to him, pointing a finger at Johnny, saying, “Not a fucking word out —”
Grabbing the finger, Johnny bent it back, the hand Zeke needed to draw with, giving it a twist. Johnny stood him up, got his arm up behind his back, pushing the arm like a lever, steering him for the door. Zeke cursing, trying to resist.
“What the heck’s going on?” Rita came from the bathroom at the end of the hall, slinging the sash of her housecoat, towel around her head, puffy slippers on her feet, pink gun in her hand.
Johnny got the door and shoved Zeke out into the hall, shutting it, throwing the lock, saying to Rita, “Fellow was just leaving.”
“He deliver more flowers?” She smiled at Johnny, guessing who he was, dropping the mace gun in a pocket.
Johnny said his name, then “Guess you’d be Rita.”
“Yeah, the one who pays the bills, one who needs her sleep.” Rita reaching past him, sliding on the chain. Hearing the elevator door ping open, then close down the hall. Turning, she looked at her niece, then back at Johnny, guessing the girl got herself a new rehearsal space.
“Sorry, Rita,” Frankie said, “Guy just showed up like that . . . told him I was done.”
“Well, that’s something, the first smart thing I’ve heard.” Nobody needing to tell her Johnny had spent the night, not sure how she felt about it, going past him and sitting on the stool Zeke had sat in, shoving his mug away. “Any coffee left?”
“I’ll make more,” Frankie said, going to the kitchen side, scraping more butter on toast, setting it on the plate, pouring out Zeke’s mug, tossing out his toast, putting the plate in the sink, setting about making another pot.
“Like how you handled that,” Rita said to Johnny, taking a slice of toast. “That guy sure had it coming.”
He sat next to her, helped himself to a slice.
“Ought to see the animals I got to deal with, place I work,” Rita said.
“That what the pink gun’s for?”
“Guys generally don’t like a woman telling them what to do.”
“So you pull it on them?” Johnny smiled, liking her.
“I do what I have to.”
Frankie asked if Rita wanted something else, getting her a mug, waiting for the coffee to drip.
Rita said yeah, the usual, and Frankie reached the tub of yogurt, then the bottle of vodka from the counter, setting both in front of her, getting her aunt a bowl and spoon.
Johnny watched her spooning Danone and pouring vodka over it, raised a brow, sipped his coffee.
“Most important meal of the day,” Rita said, looking at the near-empty bottle, saying to Johnny, “She tell you about me, huh?”
“Yeah, a little, and about the place you work, how you make ugly stuff look good.”
Rita smiled, nodding at his coffee, saying, “Top you up?”
“Wouldn’t mind a splash, thanks.” Johnny held out his mug, let her pour in a shot, saying, “Was thinking about doing my place if I stick around, you know, redecorate a bit. I do, I could use some help with it. Not really sure what I want.”
“A lot of that going around,” Rita said, looking at Frankie. Finishing the yogurt, she sipped her coffee, taking the mug and heading down the hall, saying it was nice to meet him, telling Frankie she had to be at work by two.
Frankie said they’d keep it down, looking at Johnny, hearing her aunt’s door close, saying, “You hear her come in this morning?”
“Think so, yeah.” Johnny saying, “I like her.”
“Yeah, she makes a good impression.”
Johnny drinking his coffee, thinking he’d keep the Norton with him from here on, start looking over his shoulder.
. . . BLOWBACK
“Man’s got to go,” Zeke said, standing at Marty’s door. Nice big place up at the top of the Properties with a hell of a view, could see the Lions Gate below and all the way out to Mount Baker on a clear day. The laurels at the street hid the long driveway and three-car garage off to the side of the house. Nothing like this on the Downtown Eastside, where Zeke lived.
“Johnny Falco over at Frankie’s, huh?” Marty said, standing, holding the door, smiling and sniffling.
“Yeah, looked like he’d been there all night. Just showed up at the barn, too.” Zeke bendin
g for Marty’s paper, handing it to him, guessing by the glassy eyes the boss was high again. Zeke wiping his feet on the mat like he was expecting to come in.
“What do you mean he just showed up?”
“Heard it from Sticky, said Falco came and sat in with her band, Frankie’s.”
“And where the fuck were you?” Marty making no move to let him in, Zeke just standing on the welcome mat, just like when he played chauffeur, driving the man around, sitting behind the wheel of the Toronado, waiting, playing with the fucking radio knobs.
“Was taking care of things in town, like you wanted, dealing with Suzy and getting business lined up with Murphy.”
“Taking care means taking care. Got to have your eyes everywhere. Know what’s going on.”
“Yeah, I know, I’m on it.”
“And this fucker Falco, he still owe me rent?”
“Taking care of that, too. Already got half. Leaning on him for the rest.”
“So lean harder.”
“Have the rest of it today.”
“You ask where he got it, coming up with it all of a sudden?”
Zeke saying, “Club’s been picking up, I guess.” Then seeing the blonde move behind Marty, couldn’t think of her name.
“And this guy you caught in the corn?”
“Took care of it. Guy won’t be talking.” Didn’t tell him it was Frankie del Rey’s bass player.
“Far as the broad goes . . .”
“Frankie?”
“Yeah, she’s done. I want her out.”
“Already taken care of, fired her ass this morning.”
“At least that.” Marty stuck his paper under his arm and swung the door shut.
Zeke standing there feeling dumb, facing the closed door, hearing Marty talking to the blonde inside. Turning, he aimed to drop back down to Zero Avenue, make sure the harvest was running smooth. Tucker and Sticky having a way of fucking things up. This had to go right. No way he was going back to driving Marty around, picking up his fucking cleaning and delivering flowers to jilted chicks, taking the man’s shit.
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