Zero Avenue

by Dietrich Kalteis

  Scrabbling closer for a better view, marsh water over the tops of his shoes, he wanted to get a look into the barn, guessing the delivery van had dropped part of the harvest. Had to happen before the first frost. And it sure was getting cold enough for it, Johnny trying to keep his teeth from rattling, his body shaking.

  A cop car on patrol rolled along Zero, passing the farm and turning north at the intersection. A short time later, Sticky went back to the house, came out with what looked like a six-pack, going back to the barn.

  When the side door of the barn opened, Tucker wheeled out his catapult, the yard partly obscured by the cedars at the front of the property. Johnny angled closer still, water up to his ankles, the muck grabbing at his soles, making a sucking sound when he stepped. Keeping low, not wanting the locals on the U.S. side to report anybody looking suspicious. Johnny not wanting to explain to state troopers he was just a bird-watcher with wet feet.

  Staying low, Johnny watched them fire the catapult, followed the path with the glasses, catching the flash of orange, not sure what it was, looked like a head. Hearing it splash down with a hollow thud, maybe twenty, thirty yards off, he was thinking of Arnie.

  Training the glasses, he lost sight of it, fighting the sick feeling. Turning the glasses back on the barn, he saw Zeke with the telescope up to his eye. Not sure if he’d been spotted, Johnny got as low as he could, not much cover where he was. Down on all fours with his pants and shirt getting soaked. Chancing a look, Johnny trained the field glasses and watched Tucker wheeling the catapult back inside. A few minutes later, the low grumble of Zeke’s headers rolled across the marsh. Then the barn doors closed.

  Knee-deep in the marsh, Johnny went searching around, dreading what he’d find. Shoes squelching as he stepped. Thigh-deep in the marsh water when he saw it: the fleshy carcass and spilled seeds and pulp like entrails. Nothing but a pumpkin.

  Jesus Christ.

  Turning from the thigh-deep water, he hung around long enough to catch a pickup with a cab roll down the townline and pull into the drive. Sticky coming and opening the gate again, the pickup pulling up to the barn. Definitely unloading the harvest.

  Johnny turned the Scout around and drove out of there, knowing they’d be hanging all the weed in the next day or so.

  Turning the heater and blower on high, he rolled down the side windows to keep the windshield from fogging up, shaking in the wet clothes, driving back to the Peace Arch, telling the guard at the crossing he got a bit excited about the snow geese and dabbling ducks, had nothing but wet feet to declare, telling the man he’d be coming back tomorrow, hoping for some trumpeter swans. The border guard suggesting thicker socks and a hot thermos. Johnny saying, “Yeah, for sure.”

  . . . THIRD BASS

  Setting the two-fours on the bar top, Johnny watched Frankie pushing the sweep broom, pitching in on account of Arnie not showing up for work. She was hoping Johnny wouldn’t fire him if that’s all it was. She’d been too nervous to sit around her place. Waves of Nausea playing Falco’s Nest tonight.

  Reaching under the bar, he pulled up a stack of the handbills, setting them down, saying, “You see these?”

  Frankie taking a look, leaning the broom against the bar. “Awesome.” Picking up a handful:

  Waves of Nausea

  this weekend at Falco’s Nest

  Special guest, Wimpy

  Only two bucks to get in.

  Half buck cheaper than the Buddha.

  That got him a hug.

  “Going up all over town,” he said.

  Frankie went behind the bar, kissing him.

  Tearing open the top of a case, he put cans on ice, telling her about the kid, Jason, he hired from Strathcona Elementary. Soon as school let out, the kid papered the town, fast with the tape and glue-pot of flour and water, Jason pasting and tacking posters on hoardings, lamp posts, mail boxes, all over the Downtown Eastside, passing some out as handbills. Johnny paying him a couple bucks an hour.

  She told him Wimpy was like a god on bass, his band without a gig tonight.

  Johnny nodded, knowing him, the guy who brought crowd-surfing to town, like Vancouver’s answer to Iggy Pop, a true wild man on a stage.

  Frankie saying he’d come a long way from the days of the Bloated Cows. Still worried about Arnie, telling Johnny about the call from Shithead, her aunt jotting the message.

  Bending for the dustpan, she swept up the trash and bagged it, went on talking about this west coast tour, asking if he’d heard about the Mab.

  “You kidding? Right down in North Beach, kinda sleazy joint with strip clubs all around it. Filipino restaurant by day, hell of a place at night.”

  “Right.” She said it was a dream to play a place like that. A chance to meet Jello and the Avengers, and the Flesh Eaters, and the Slashers. “It doesn’t work out, maybe I can swing round a pole, peel down past my undies.” Frankie thinking again about Marty saying she was five years past L.A., Zeke calling her “pasty ass.” Still pissed off about it.

  Johnny saying he’d like to see that, putting more cans on ice.

  “Yeah?” Frankie smiling, saying it could happen. “Maybe give you a private show sometime.”

  “How about tonight.” Johnny saying he’d bring the vodka. Then saying, “Things’re looking up for you, that’s for sure.” Saying she deserved it.

  Frankie dumped the pan in the bag, getting emotional and changing the subject saying, “So, what’s up with robbing Marty?”

  “Had eyes on the farm today,” he said, telling her Zeke showed up, Tucker showing off his rig, told her about the pumpkin, thought they were firing it at him, not saying he thought it was a head.

  “Like being attacked by Fred and Barney.” Frankie laughing, trying to picture it. The idiots doing it in broad daylight.

  Johnny telling her about the van and pickup pulling up, saying for sure they were harvesting, drying it in the barn. Had to be why Zeke was down there, playing the man in charge.

  “So, you’re hanging around, waiting for them to shoot the stuff over?”

  “Can’t see Marty letting them do it for real,” he said.

  Frankie saying one of Murphy’s guys got nailed crossing last week, a couple pounds of bhang in his backpack. “Top of that, the cops busted that tunnel . . .” Frankie shrugged, could see Marty going for it.

  “Doesn’t matter, long as we get to it first.”

  “You thought more about how to get to it?”

  He didn’t have it all down yet. Coming at the barn from the cornfield out back seemed the best way. He’d need more than his Scout to haul it away. For sure, they had to do it at night. He’d be back across the marsh tomorrow, freezing his ass off, keeping his eyes on the place and picking his time.

  “Think Arnie did something crazy, like went down there on his own, tried ripping them off?”

  Johnny saying he didn’t know.

  “Just got a bad feeling, that’s all,” she said.

  Johnny played it back, Arnie sweeping up when Monk drew him the map. Knowing Arnie overheard them talking, could have gone down on his own. And got caught. Not the first time he thought it, Johnny pushing it out of his mind for now, saying, “Sorry I started up about it. Let’s just stick to tonight.”

  “Yeah.” Frankie walked the trash out back, tossing it in the bin. Johnny watching her come back, getting an empty feeling, this girl with the chops, as good as Poison Ivy. Soon she’d be on the road, “No Fun City” becoming a hit, and the thing between them could end as fast as it started.

  She picked a poster off the bar, smiling, then going around the bar, slipping her arms around the back of his neck, saying, “Do this for all the bands?”

  “Yeah, I do, but still, there’s perks for the ones I sleep with.”

  “Yeah, you sleep with the Wimp?” She tugged his shirt free, working at his buttons.

>   “Guy’s good, no doubt, but not my type.”

  “Good to know,” Frankie peeled off his shirt, starting on his belt buckle.

  “Hey, whoa up . . . this a public place.”

  “Door’s locked, right?”

  “True.” Hard to argue, he walked her backwards behind the bar, thinking they had about an hour before Stain and Monk would roll up. Asking if she wanted a drink.

  Frankie hiking herself up on the bar, next to the cash register, pulling him close, saying, “Ask me after.”

  . . . HANDS SHAKING, KNEES WEAK

  Pulling beer tabs, Johnny set the cans on the bar. Hands reaching across for them, Johnny sticking the dollars in the till, it dinging every time he did. Falco’s Nest was filling up fast. Punks lining at the door, Stain collecting two bucks a head.

  Strapping on the Flying V, Frankie blew into the mic, Joey tapping his snare behind his drum kit, the stage lights on. A good crowd building in front of the stage, Frankie talking to people, feeling the heat of the lights. Looking through the glare, waiting for Wimpy to show. Her Philips recorder set up by the stage lights, the mic taped in place, a fresh C90 tape ready to record the gig.

  Scanning around, Johnny guessed the room was hitting capacity: the fire marshal maxing Falco’s at a hundred people. Some of those waiting to get in started filling up the alley around the Harley and Johnny’s Scout, merging with the crowd out front.

  The Buddha likely hit its capacity early, standing room only, the club stuffed like a sardine can. The K-Tels were on tonight, a band Frankie had followed since back in the days when they were the Shmorgs, hearing the company of the same name had their bloodsucking lawyers demanding the K-Tels change their name, not wanting any confusion between a Veg-O-Matic and a west coast punk band. Anybody who couldn’t get into the Buddha was wandering down here, Falco’s catching the overflow. “I Hate Music” heard from up the block. Both venues sure to raise some more noise complaints and heat on the night.

  •

  Couldn’t wait for Wimpy anymore, Frankie waved to the writer for the Snot Rag, then kicked off the set, plucking a lick from the old Bill Justis tune “Raunchy,” feedback screeching through the speaker. Frankie giving them a medley, throwing in the run from “Rumble,” punking up some Duane Eddy, then some “Miserlou” at the end. A hell of a solo.

  Hands went in the air, some clapping, some waving beer cans, people starting to pogo. Joey Thunder adding a beat, the crowd getting into it. Frankie leaned to the mic, saying, “Hey, we’re just getting wet here, right?”

  A roar from the crowd. Johnny selling beer as fast as he could pull the tabs, suds all over the bar. Dollars stuffed the register.

  When Wimpy stumbled through the door, Monk plowed a path for him through the crowd, practically having to lift the man’s drunken ass onto the stage. The Wimp picking up Arnie’s taped-up bass, yelling for the crowd to fuck off, the crowd giving it back, splashing him in beer. Wimpy loving the suds. Frankie rattling off another lick, the three of them getting into “Paint It Black.” Putting some edge into it. Followed it with “Firing Squad,” one of Wimpy’s, Frankie helping him out on vocals.

  The music thumped outside, Zeke Chamas pushing his way to Falco’s door. People lined the sidewalk, drinking and toking, talking and laughing, passing joints and bottles. Stain caught Zeke cutting into the line and blocked his way, aware he was packing. Had to be here for the rent. Stain telling him, “No fucking way.”

  “Know who I am, right?” Zeke said, putting his hand in a pocket, reaching for the cover charge.

  Stain caught his wrist, thumped a finger against his chest, told him they were full, told him to come back tomorrow. Zeke opening his mouth to speak, not getting the message. Grabbing him by the arm, Stain spun him around, scooped him by the nuts, closed his fist and put Zeke up on point. His free hand went under Zeke’s jacket and pulled the shiny Colt. Sticking it in his own belt, Stain backed him through the line, calling out, “Coming through.”

  The line of people parted. Stain walked him out past the line before letting go. Zeke tottered, staying on his feet. The ache in his crotch was unbelievable. Had to force himself to breathe.

  Checking up and down the block, Stain yanked the clip and shoved the pistol back in Zeke’s pocket, saying to him, “Next time you come down here packing, you get gun-fucked.” Didn’t matter what the club prez said about not mixing it up with Marty Sayles’s crew. Turning, he went back through the door. The crowd parting around Stain like it was swallowing him.

  Inside, Waves of Nausea rocked the house, rolling into Menace’s “Screwed Up,” Wimpy singing. Frankie churning the power chords, Joey Thunder sweating under the lights, pounding the beat. Fans packed around the makeshift stage, pogoing and yelling and loving it, arms in the air. “Woke Up Screaming” was next, Frankie soloing her way into “Refugee,” Wimpy spiraling off the stage, doing some crowd-surfing, getting passed from hand to hand.

  Couldn’t believe how fast he was going through cases of 50 and Ex, cans this time, no more bottles in here, Johnny sick of the broken glass, plus cans were lighter, and after that scene in the john . . .

  Tossing the cardboard down by his feet, he stomped the cases flat. Getting Monk to watch the till, he made his way back to the storeroom for more beer, down to a couple dozen cases. Serving up room-temperature beer, no chance for them to get cold, but it didn’t matter to the punks reaching across the bar. Two bucks a beer, Johnny was pulling off zip tabs as fast as he could. Man, he could have used Arnie tonight. Of course, Arnie should have been on the stage, Johnny wishing he was seeing him up there.

  . . . FLESH MACHINE

  Picking himself off the sidewalk, Zeke breathed through the ache in his crotch. Sure he was going to heave his guts. Betting his nuts would be blue for a week. The big dumb fuck had tossed his pistol down with a round left in the chamber. Zeke righted himself, some buck-toothed teen laughing at him, boot-black hair in spikes, ripped-up vest with no shirt and a bike chain swinging round his neck.

  Catching the chain, Zeke gave it a twist, cutting his air and changing his attitude, asking if it was funny now, showing the nickel-plate to his buddies moving in. Letting go of the chain, Zeke went through the guy’s pockets, finding a Baggie.

  Zeke saying, “Dexies?”

  The kid saying yeah, rubbing at his neck, Zeke guessing they were five mil, guessing they came from one of Marty’s own street dealers. Clapping a few in his mouth, Zeke scattered the rest on the sidewalk, saying they were on the house.

  Pressing his way through, shoving people aside, no way he was leaving without Marty’s back rent. No way he was going back to driving Marty around in that fucking Toronado.

  •

  Wimpy was back on the stage, walking the bass lines for “Fever.”

  The crowd yelling for it. Jumping, beer splashing like rain. Frankie wailing about fever all night, her mouth to the mic.

  Making his way to the room in back, Johnny stacked a few more cases, Ex and 50, relocking the door. Taking a break, Stain got Monk to cover at the door, nobody getting in until he got back from the can, his pockets stuffed with bills. Left pocket was for the club, right pocket was his. Stain keeping it fair.

  Monk told the crowd at the door to fucking wait, leaned on the bar, keeping an eye on the till and the door at the same time, his big arms folded, waiting for Stain and Johnny to get back. Some drunk chick hanging on his sleeve, bleached hair crew-cut, hands working at his belt, clumsy and drunk, but getting his attention. Monk not known to miss an opportunity, he tugged her behind the bar, warning the people at the door, “Nobody fuckin’ move.”

  Heads nodding.

  Zeke Chamas shoved his way in and made his way past the bar. Eyes searching for Johnny Falco, spotting the other biker making out with some chick behind the bar, keeping an eye out for the one who roughed him up outside. Guessing Johnny was getting beer from the back, pushing his
way through.

  •

  Balancing his beer can on the ceramic top, Stain stood at the urinal, a job that took both hands. Unzipping, he faced the graffitied wall.

  Man, the smell. Stain thinking Johnny really needed to get himself a hazmat team in here. Enough was enough.

  Zipping up, he took his can, hit the flusher and turned for the door, the band ripping up “Fever.” Stain loving the way Frankie’s band was doing it. Pulling the door, he stepped out and spotted Zeke Chamas moving through the crowd. The guy he just kicked out. Shoving bodies aside, Stain came up from behind him, done talking.

  . . . FEVER

  Locking the back room, Johnny carried the stacked cases, squeezing his way through, missed Stain dragging Zeke into the can. He made it to the bar and set the cases down, loving the way Frankie was ripping into the old Peggy Lee number. Monk was behind the bar, wrapped around some chick with a bleached crew cut.

  Johnny started ripping into the cases of beer. Hands waving dollar bills across the bar, the mob thirsty. Johnny seeing the door was unmanned, punks jammed into the doorway, heeding Monk’s warning, catching the show from there.

  Johnny snapped off tabs, slapped an Ex in Monk’s hand, the guy wearing fingerless gloves with a fat ring on every digit. Johnny asking what happened to Stain, Monk saying he went for a slash, be back any minute.

  Trading cans for cash, Johnny kept looking to Frankie on the stage. The girl in her element. Gyrating, hair flying, singing into the mic.

  Frankie was wet with sweat. Joey Thunder crashing out a solo, doing his Keith Moon madman chops, rolling them into “Lust for Life.” Never played it before, something Wimpy wanted to try. An easy progression in A. Frankie hammering power chords and wailing the lyrics she knew, faking the rest.