Zero Avenue

by Dietrich Kalteis

  Marty shaking her arm, told her to chill.

  “You want to talk,” Frankie said, “how about you tell me what happened to Arnie?”

  “Who’s Arnie?”

  “Think your guys caught him in the corn, helping himself to your weed.”

  “Yeah, right, heard about that, huh?” Marty sniffing, running a finger under his nose, seeing a smear of blood, saying, “You know how it works, somebody messes with me, I mess back.”

  “It was Zeke, right?”

  “That guy . . . yeah, well, Zeke being Zeke, maybe he called me up, told me about the beating he laid on the guy. Arnie, think that was the name. Caught him ripping me off. My boys down there showing some initiative, taking care of business.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Got to spell it out?”

  “Where is he, Marty?” Frankie putting her hands in her pockets.

  “Why don’t you go talk to them?” Marty not saying anymore about it.

  Johnny was up on his feet, Frankie holding up a hand, meaning for him to back off.

  “You want your job, maybe we work things. Just looking for a yes or no.”

  Sally yelling, “No!”

  Marty shaking her, saying to Frankie, “Same as before. Only this time, nobody’s in between.”

  “You promised me.” Sally pouted. Too high for reason, she flapped her arm free, rushing at Frankie, putting up her hands, the stick-on fingernails like claws.

  Hand coming from a pocket, Frankie had the pink gun out and maced her, a stream like a dog pissing.

  Sally shrieked, hands going to her eyes, staggering off the sidewalk, stumbling into the street. A Plymouth honked and swerved. Yelling her eyes were on fire, Sally lurched left, then right, out to the dividing line, cars honking from both directions. A homeless man went out to her, calling her sister, leading her to the opposite sidewalk, sitting her at the curb out front of Falco’s.

  “Still some left,” Frankie said, pointing the pink gun at Marty.

  Marty looked at her, then turned back to the Toronado.

  “Want to know what you did to Arnie,” Frankie yelled.

  “For that, you need a shovel.”

  “What did you do, Marty?”

  “Same as I always do. Took care of fucking business.” Opening the door, he swung into the seat, looking across at Sally on the curb, slamming the door, yelling, “Fuck.” Then pulled into the lane and screeched off.

  Frankie watched the Toronado pull away, looked at Johnny holding and moving his jaw. She dropped the pink gun in her pocket. The two of them looking across the street at Sally, sitting at the curb, the fight out of her, the homeless guy sitting next to her and consoling her.

  “You’re something, you know it,” Johnny said.

  “You think that was something . . .” Frankie reached her bag off the hood, the mic practically hanging out. She pulled up the Philips recorder, the one she’d used at dozens of gigs, pressing the button, turning it off, saying, “Hope I got enough.” Hitting rewind, playing it back, the voices clear enough.

  “The hell you want to do with that?”

  “Drop it off.” She pulled out the card that Spitzer gave her, showed it to him.

  “Could blowback, they start looking into Marty’s business.”

  “Yeah, not going to hang around to find out. Say you and me head down the coast?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Frankie said, looking over at the blonde. “Think they got all that pot in the barn yet?”

  “I thought you said . . .”

  Taking her bag, she went to get back in, looking across at the blonde, saying, “Maybe I changed my mind.”

  . . . ZERO AVENUE

  Walking a couple of miles of Zero Avenue, Johnny hoped they timed it right. They had stopped at the cop station on Main, Frankie dropping off the cassette, left it for Detective Spitzer, told the sarge at the desk it was tied in with an investigation. The two of them hoping it was as good as a confession, Marty Sayles admitting he had a part in having Arnie killed.

  Stopping off at her aunt’s place, Frankie packed a bag, took her guitar and amp, left a note on the counter. The two of them driving to his place, leaving the Karmann Ghia in his parking spot, Johnny grabbing a few things, the two of them driving off in the Scout.

  Dropping Johnny off a few miles east of the Peace Arch, the idea was he’d walk as Frankie drove across the border, making her way along the back roads on the U.S. side, following the map Johnny drew. Her Flying V and amp on the back seat between their bags.

  •

  A row of suburban houses stood along Zero Avenue, all looking the same, built back at a time when folks had their milk delivered, the small door at the side, the delivery man leaving glass pints and quarts. The suburb part gave way to older farmhouses, trees and fields, cows lowing. Zero Avenue running straight as a ruler. Washington State across the ditch, nothing but the odd marker and brambles separating two countries. Johnny thinking of the tunnel the cops busted, had to be right along here. Some farmer reporting suspicious behavior to the Mounties.

  The sun looked more like the moon, showing pale and small through the fog, Johnny feeling the morning damp, passing the field where Frankie stopped to pee, smiling about it now. About a mile to go. Johnny thinking about that night, showing up at the barn, Arnie’s bass in his hand, sitting in. Wishing he had taken Arnie along when he robbed the pot field, sure Arnie had gone back on his own. Likely got caught and then killed.

  Guilt hung heavy. Johnny wanting to set things right, telling himself he was doing this for Arnie. For Stain, too, the big man dying in the can like that, Zeke Chamas found halfway out the window, his body draped, looked like he died trying to climb out into the alley, blood dripping down the tiles, half-filling the sink, ruined his fucking boots.

  Monk was likely on the run now. A Canada-wide warrant for his arrest. Whatever was left of the Hellrazors helping him to disappear. Johnny hoping he made it.

  The rusty gate was just ahead, the fog getting thicker, the old farmhouse coming into view past the cedar hedge, Johnny smelling wood smoke, seeing it rise from the chimney. Taking the .22 Norton from his jacket, he checked the rounds, dropped it back in the pocket. Adding a little surprise, he hoped it was enough. Looking across the marsh where he’d hid two days back, the fog shrouding it now, hoping she’d be waiting for him.

  Turning up the drive, he swung a leg over the gate, the wood creaking, his eyes on the front window. The barn doors hanging open. Murphy’s white van sat out front, the kind delivery guys drove.

  Shit.

  Murphy was standing by the barn door talking to Tucker, first to see Johnny coming.

  Tucker looked and saw him, too, his twelve gauge leaning by the door. Tucker grinning.

  . . . SNITCHED

  Detective Spitzer showed up at Marty Sayles’s door with two uniforms, the squad car in the driveway. Marty opened the door, looking surprised in his robe and slippers, sniffling, white powder around his nose. A red-haired woman behind him, Marty telling her to go put on some clothes and fix some coffee.

  Showing his shield, saying who he was, Spitzer told Marty he wouldn’t have time for that, wanted Marty to come down for questioning, told him they had coffee down at the station.

  “Make it sound like I should call my lawyer.”

  “That part’s up to you.” Spitzer told him he had two minutes to get changed. The two uniforms looking serious, like Marty might jump.

  “I got rights, pal,” Marty said, “Think it’s my first time, getting razzed by cops?”

  Pointing at his nose, Spitzer said, “Might want to get a tissue.”

  Down at Main, Marty sat in the metal chair, hands on the table, sniffling and not talking.

  Spitzer sat across from him, waiting, saying, “You hear about Zeke Chamas?”

&nb
sp; “Not till my lawyer shows.” Marty said.

  “The guy working for you like for about a year, playing chauffeur when your license got lifted?”

  Marty folded his arms, waiting, Marty not saying anything.

  “How about Frankie del Rey, that one ring a bell?”

  Marty sniffed.

  Spitzer had taken the cassette Frankie dropped off to the Crown attorney, who took it to a judge. The tape had PUMPS gig handwritten on the label, scratched out in ink. Marty’s voice clear enough. Spitzer waiting to hear, expecting he’d be detaining Marty Sayles past the twenty-four hours, the man not making bail.

  When Marty’s lawyer showed, he put on the two-hundred-buck-an-hour bluster, telling Marty to say nothing, promising he’d have him out in no time, these cops with nothing.

  Spitzer smiled at Marty and his suit, this part of the job made it all worthwhile. On top of the tape Frankie del Rey dropped off, he had a sworn statement.

  Almost like he read Spitzer’s thoughts, Marty said, “That lyin’ bitch Frankie accuse me of something?” Marty calling him pig.

  Now Spitzer said nothing. Giving him and the suit a smile. The statement had come from Sally Cook. Marty’s blonde had come filing a complaint against Frankie del Rey, claimed she’d been maced. With his pad and pencil, Spitzer asked Sally Cook some questions. Turned out she was more pissed at Marty than she was at Frankie, Marty leaving her at the curb on Hastings and just driving away. Sally spilled what she knew about his operation, how she overheard Zeke Chamas and Marty talking about this guy Arnie getting capped in a cornfield.

  Marty was calling Spitzer a cocksucker when the uniform came in and whispered in Spitzer’s ear. Spitzer grinned at Marty, and if it wasn’t for his suit sitting next to him, he would have asked the uniform to take Marty around back to the special elevator, the one Frankie had talked about, where guys like Marty got off looking worse than when they got on.

  His lawyer looked worried now, trying to settle his client, keeping him in his chair, Marty barking that he had rights.

  Spitzer saying yeah, but wondering if he really understood them.

  . . . CROSSFIRE

  “Want to know what happened to Arnie,” Johnny said, walking up the drive.

  Murphy moved to the back of his van, closing the doors, leaving the mailbag by Tucker’s feet.

  “You got to be high coming here,” Tucker said, looking down the driveway. No car out there, nobody else around, this guy dumb enough to come alone, and on foot.

  Sticky stepped from the side door of the house, walking up behind Johnny, the pistol in his belt. Murphy going to the driver’s door, didn’t like being in the middle of something shaping into a shootout with him in the crossfire. Johnny guessing the van was loaded with the pot from the harvest, all cured and ready to go. Johnny coming a day late.

  “Ask you again, about Arnie Binz,” Johnny said.

  Tucker shook his head, took a step to his left. The shotgun leaning by the barn door.

  Sticky flanked Johnny, his Colt tucked in his belt. Twenty feet away before he stopped. This guy with nowhere to go.

  Murphy saying he was out of there, opening his door, giving a sympathetic look to Johnny, saying, “Can let myself out.” Closing the door, he started the van and rolled down the drive, not looking at Johnny again.

  “Arnie, huh, guy who works for you?” Tucker said.

  Johnny turned enough to keep both men in sight. Taking Sticky for more of a talker than a shooter, Johnny would go for Tucker first if he had to, the big man taking another step, the shotgun nearly in reach.

  “I’ll tell you, but understand,” Tucker said, “it’s not something that leaves this place.”

  “So tell me.” Johnny put his hands in his pockets, making it casual.

  “Was Sticky took care of Arnie.” Hand reaching the shotgun barrel, lifting it. “Gonna put you in the same hole. Two of you together.”

  Sticky licked his lips, his mouth gone dry, taking a stance, trying to put on a show, his palms wet.

  Johnny saying to Sticky, “You still got time . . .”

  “Not me running out of it.”

  Johnny shrugged, looking back to Tucker.

  Tucker held the barrel low, finger on the front trigger, saying, “That all you want, huh, ask about this guy Arnie?”

  “Was hoping to grab some more weed while I was here, but looks like I missed my chance.”

  “Was you, huh, yeah, figured that,” Tucker said.

  “Had my eyes on the place the past couple days,” Johnny said, nodding out toward the marsh, still all in fog. “Saw you were drying. Guess you rushed it. That or I misjudged it a bit.”

  “Could’ve gone longer, true, but Marty’s been getting edgy, especially since that fuck Zeke got himself killed. Shit like that draws attention,” Tucker said, watching Murphy hurrying to open the gate and driving off.

  “Yeah well, guess I’ll take the cash then.” Johnny guessing it was in the mail bag by Tucker’s feet.

  Tucker laughed, saying, “Waste this fuck, Sticky.”

  “Ought to know the cops been called,” Johnny said.

  “Yeah, got a phone in your shoe?” Tucker said. “Like on Get Smart?”

  “Was Frankie made the call,” Johnny glancing across the marsh, saying, “Gas station in Blaine. Over there waiting for me now.”

  “That right?” Tucker looking out at the fog, saying maybe he’d go see her sometime.

  “Girl caught Marty on tape this morning, your boss all coked up, admitting about Arnie getting killed, giving his say-so and naming you two bozos as doing it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Dropped the tape off on the way over here, detective she got chummy with last night, took her statement after your boy Zeke got himself killed. Trouble is, the bullshit got my club shut down, and being that he worked for Marty, way I see it, you fellas owe me.”

  Tucker saying, “You pull, Sticky, I back you up.”

  “Told you, it’s Lenny Lowe,” Sticky said.

  The sound of a car engine racing up the gravel road, Johnny smiling.

  Tucker jerked up the double-barrel, Johnny firing the Norton through his pocket, the bullet pinging into the door above Tucker’s head. Johnny diving as Tucker got off a wild round, Johnny feeling the sting graze his shoulder.

  Sticky drew his pistol on Johnny, an easy shot, looking at Tucker, saying, “How the fuck you miss with a shotgun?”

  “Let me try again.” Tucker fired the second barrel, hit Sticky full in the chest, knocking him back, putting him flat on the ground.

  Sticky’s pistol falling from his fingers.

  Snatching the mailbag, Tucker ran into the barn, fumbling the box of shells off the tool trolley.

  The sirens getting louder.

  Sticky moved a leg, gagging on his own blood. Johnny scrambled up and ran up past the open doors and threw himself against the barn boards. The next blast of the twelve gauge had tore up chunks of board, leaving fragments hanging.

  Dropping to all fours, Johnny heard distant sirens coming fast. Ignoring the burn in his shoulder.

  The first VPD car pulled up to the gate, both doors swinging open. Cops yelling, drawing their weapons, aiming across their doors at the far side of the barn. Another cop car swerving in behind the first. Spitzer getting out of the passenger side, pretty sure he spotted Johnny.

  Ducking low, Johnny ran along the east side of the barn, chancing a look through the opposite door. Tucker was on the far side, working the catapult’s ratchet, loading the mail bag onto the sling, grabbing the shotgun, firing a volley at Johnny, then another one at the cops. Hitting the rig’s trigger, he let it fly. Then, dropping the shotgun, he ran around back of the barn. The cops behind the squad car returning fire.

  Johnny ran around the other side, in time to see Tucker plunge into the co
rn.

  The cops were moving past the farmhouse, two with sidearms drawn, one with a pump shotgun, all watching the mailbag fly out over the cedars, entering U.S. airspace.

  Spitzer stooped, checking Sticky’s vitals, the guy splayed out like he was making snow angels. Two of the cops circled the barn, the one with the riot gun ran through the open doors. A fourth cop jerked open the farmhouse’s screen door and went about securing the house.

  More sirens on the way.

  Johnny ran into the corn, hearing Tucker running ahead of him, crashing between the stalks. Running past where the pot had been, all the plants gone now. Tucker cutting east across the fallow field. Catching his breath, Johnny ducked low, going right, hearing the cops coming behind him. Sirens everywhere.

  Staying down as two of the cops rushed past him between the rows, Johnny crept forward, seeing Tucker running for the townline road, the cops giving chase, yelling for Tucker to stop. Spitzer came searching for Johnny, coming along the rows. Johnny’s hand finding the root Arnie had chopped, he threw it across the rows. Spitzer going in the direction of the sound, Johnny stepping over some soft ground, no time to think about it. Moving low along the edge of the fallow field, going in the opposite direction, working his way west along field. When he’d gone a couple hundred yards, he made his way along a fence line, cut down to Zero Avenue, getting in the ditch. Another cruiser sped past, its howler and lights going, two cops inside, neither seeing him.

  Murphy’s van was farther up the road, stopped on the shoulder, a pair of cruisers with flashing lights blocking the road. Johnny walked across, Spitzer somewhere behind him, shouting for him to stop. He half-turned and looked at him, Spitzer pointing his pistol at him.

  Looking at him a moment, Johnny hopped in the opposite ditch, pressing his way through the brambles, getting clawed as he went through, the marshy water cold on his feet, the fog shrouding him, lending him cover. Half expecting a bullet, he was on the U.S. side before he turned and waved goodbye, Spitzer somewhere behind him. His shoes squelched as he stepped. He sank to one knee, tugging the leg free. He couldn’t see the grove through the fog, but he kept moving to where he thought it was, where Frankie waited. He took the Norton and flung it as far as he could, hearing it splash down. Looking back again, there was no sign of Spitzer or the sound of anybody coming behind him.