Zero Avenue Read online

  Frankie chased the song down with some “Jailhouse Rock.”

  Didn’t sound any worse than the time she sat in with Rude Norton, a drunken fuck band, Dimwit and Wimpy Roy changing instruments, jamming out TV tunes, calling it “Tits on the Beach.” Band members changing instruments, creating their own warm-up act, calling themselves a fuck band. Warming up the crowd for the Pointed Sticks that time, the gig at the Quadra, the leather crowd loving it. Frankie getting to know Nick Jones after the show, telling her how he got started with a band called Greased Pig, doing mostly Bowie covers. Second time she played in a fuck band, it was D.O.A. doing it, calling themselves Victorian Pork, her on guitar, Joey Shithead sitting behind the drum kit, guys from the Viletones and the Ugly getting on stage, taking turns on the instruments. Everybody too drunk to care.

  Tucker tossed the empty tin at the Swanson tray, folded his arms and watched Johnny Falco playing bass like shit, the guy glancing around the way cops did. Sitting in for the guy they had trussed up out in the shed. Arnie Binz had been out in the shed since early morning, waiting for Zeke to figure things out.

  Tucker not liking the way the day had gone. Frankie had taken an interest in the catapult, Tucker thinking she was seeing him in a new light, then Johnny Falco showed up.

  Frankie played one of her own, Joey Thunder backing the vocals, “I’m a runaway,” getting that raw sound.

  Eight thirty on the nose, Tucker signaled it was time to wrap up. Saying again the farmers went to bed soon as the sun sank. Telling Sticky to fetch the pink bag, filled with dexies.

  Slipping the Thunderbird in its case, Johnny said to Tucker, “So, what did you think, my man?”

  “Think you’re no Geddy Lee.”

  “Yeah, that guy can play. Funny, figured you more the Kenny Rogers type.”

  “Something else you got wrong.” Tucker tipped back his beer, going out the side door, killing the generator.

  Johnny went to the cooler, looked at Sticky, saying, “May I?”

  Sticky just turned and walked back to the house, didn’t want to push the dollies heaped with gear back out to the wagon. Johnny helped himself to a Golden, went to the amp and pulled the cord, zipping up the bass.

  Packing his kit on the dollies, using the bungee cords, Joey was happy to get out of there tonight, not liking the way Johnny Falco was swatting at the hive, standing there drinking their beer.

  Johnny offered the bottle to Frankie, saying, “Wasn’t so bad, huh?” Looking at the catapult.

  “Heard worse,” she said, but not sure when. Sipping some beer and handing him the bottle.

  “Yeah, well, Gibsons practically play themselves.” Taking another sip, he looked at Tucker coming back in.

  Casing her guitar, Frankie wound a cord, Joey wheeling the dolly out to his Country Squire.

  Tucker stepped over, grabbing Johnny’s beer and tossing it over at the Swanson tray, saying that was it, closing time, then to Frankie, “Like how you did ‘Jailhouse Rock.’” Handing her his own beer.

  “Thanks, Tuck. Didn’t know you were into it.” Forcing down a sip, handing it back.

  “Lot you don’t know. But the King, can’t go far wrong there. Am I right?”

  “Yeah, true.”

  Sticky came back holding a second tin tray, warmed in the old Radarange, the label on the tray warning about putting it in the microwave. The pink bag in his other hand, bringing it to Frankie. Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific down the side.

  Tucker told him to go refill the cooler.

  “I’m eating,” Sticky said, forking Swanson into his mouth, shaking his head and going to the wall.

  Tucker turned to her, saying, “Hang around if you want. Got lots more beer.”

  “Got to make the run for Zeke, remember?” Looking at Johnny, saying, “You want a lift back?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Shouldering the bass, Johnny picked up the amp, walked by Tucker, thanking him for his hostility.

  Tucker snagged his sleeve, stopping him, saying, “You don’t come back, understand?”

  “Came down to do me a favor,” Frankie said.

  “Think you heard me.” Tucker let go of the sleeve.

  Johnny walked out, Frankie picking up the pink bag and grabbing the amp.

  Feeling the urge to pee, telling herself it would have to wait. No way she was going in that house, the can probably looked worse than the one at Falco’s. Helping Joey Thunder load up the wagon, she was happy to get in the car and get out of there.

  . . . THE SWEET SPOT

  Hauling the catapult to the center of the straw floor, Tucker set down the trailer tongue. Needed to get some spot welding done, add on the braces, get it right. Tomorrow he’d test for distance, send Sticky out to mark the spots, Tucker wanting to fire bricks as far as that grove of trees. A spot Murphy’s guys could use as a nighttime pickup point. “Jailhouse Rock” stuck in his head, the way Frankie sang it.

  The girl had taken an interest. Seemed it was real, maybe there could be something there. This chick who used to go with Marty Sayles, good enough for the boss.

  Going to the house, Sticky came back and dropped more beer in the Igloo cooler, the ice all melted now. Looking at Tucker, watching him set the arc lamp in position, swatting at flies buzzing around his head.

  “What about what Zeke said?”

  “Fetch me one,” Tucker said, without looking at him, positioning the light over the frame.

  “Something wrong with your feet?” Sticky done with being the lackey.

  Fast for a big man, Tucker was across the floor, bouncing Sticky off the barn boards. Sticky windmilling his arms, tripping on an empty bottle, down he went, landing on the Swanson tray and Dinty Moore tin. Tucker went to swing his boot, Sticky’s hand on the pistol caused him to stop.

  “Gonna draw on me now, Sticky?”

  “Not going off on me like that. No more.” Sticky’s hand stayed on the grip, telling himself he’d do it, getting his feet under him and slowly rising.

  “Stop pissing me off, and you stop getting hit.” Tucker backing off.

  “I mean it, Tuck, no more.” Brushing straw and bits of food from his pants and shirt, Sticky straightened his cap. Guessing if he ever drew, he’d have to pull the trigger. No turning back. Sure he could do it, just not something he wanted to explain to Zeke Chamas. The way Zeke had laid that beating on Arnie Binz with the blackjack, the sound of it hitting flesh, doing it like he enjoyed it. Arnie Binz hog-tied out in the shed all day, waiting.

  “Just ’cause you say it, doesn’t mean it’s so.” Tucker looked at him, betting he didn’t have the stones. Getting his own beer, he turned back to his toolbox, shoving box wrenches around the top tray, finding a file, saying, “That fuck walking in here, strapping on the other guy’s guitar . . . and that asshole Zeke, calling up and telling you to get it done. Not saying what the hell he meant, pussy footing around.”

  “Didn’t ask me, said for us to decide.”

  “Ask me, the two of them were in on it.”

  “Who?”

  “Falco and the one in the shed,” Tucker said. “Why he came here, looking for his buddy.”

  “Crossed my mind, too.” Sticky swept his foot at the tray, tin and spilled food, sweeping it to the corner. Had to get a trash bag from the house, didn’t want to attract the rats.

  “Truly fucked is what it is,” Tucker said, looking at the catapult. “Letting them in here, sound of their shit music carrying for miles, and with all we got going on . . .” The way Tucker saw it, Marty was into the blow too much, and Zeke was like a mad dog off its leash.

  “So, what are we gonna do?”

  Tucker looked at him.

  Sticky not liking the look, had enough of getting hit. Telling himself he’d pull this time, the Colt with seven rounds. Started carrying it for show, kept it under his jacket going into places
like Oil Can Harry’s, back before it closed, saved him from a couple of beatings. Could have used it that time at Orestes, place with the belly dancers. Sticky getting roughed up by the bouncer for putting his hand on one of the girls wiggling her butt, Sticky giving her a fat tip, thought the two of them had an understanding, turned out he was wrong. Another time, two assholes tried to roll him in the john of the Commodore, followed him in, Sticky letting them see the Colt, both of them backing off. Sticky pretty sure if he had to take it farther, he could do it, pull on a man and shoot. Wanted people to understand that about him.

  Tucker swept his boot at the straw, getting it away from the torch, telling Sticky to get some dummy loads ready for the morning.

  “Like what?”

  “Rocks, something weighs the same as a couple of keys, more or less. Got to get the velocity and distance right. Gonna be doing it for real.”

  Sticky just looked at him, this guy firing up his welding torch, straw all over the dirt floor. Likely to burn the place to the ground.

  Tucker looked at him, setting a brace in place, saying, “Just gonna stand there sucking on beer, leave all the work to me?”

  “How about the guy in the shed? We putting off dealing with him?”

  “You took the call, go ahead and deal with it.”

  Sticky thinking about what to do.

  Tucker setting braces back in place, thinking about Zeke Chamas coming here with his little club, doing his cute golf swings. Beating the man more than he needed to. Putting on a show, careful about getting mud on his boots, leaving his mess and walking off.

  Going back out the other door, Tucker fired up the generator again. Sticky was gone when he came back in. Tucker thinking he could go out back and put the fear of God into Arnie Binz, then turn him loose, take a chance he wouldn’t go to the cops. Or he could keep him locked in the cellar of the farmhouse till they cured the weed and got it all out of here. Tucker played back the way Johnny Falco just showed up, the way he was looking around, checking out the catapult, helping himself to a beer. Likely looking for signs of Arnie Binz.

  Tucker tightened the band, using the box wrench. Firing up the torch, he pulled on the welding beanie, slipped on the goggles and turned the torch valves. Donning the gloves, he held a brace to the frame and tack welded it in place, then put one on the opposite side. When he finished up, he turned off the torch and flipped up the visor. Grabbing another Molson from the cooler, he watched Sticky come back, setting down an armload of pumpkins.

  “Fuck, I told you rocks,” Tucker said.

  “You know it’s dark, right, man? These were growing near the road, easy to spot. Got about the right weight.”

  “Yeah, but the size is wrong. And how about the color?”

  “Making them easy to see, you know, where they land.”

  “Easy to see’s the point. Somebody over there sees flying pumpkins, won’t take much to put it together, what we’re doing.” Tucker went to the cooler, taking another bottle from the ice water, tossing it to Sticky.

  Reaching the opener dangling from the wall, Sticky popped off the cap.

  “I been running it through my mind,” Tucker said, nodding to the shed. “Gonna let you handle it.”

  “What?”

  “You take care of Binz. Put the fear of God in the man. That or put a bullet in him, your choice. Way you been carrying that pistol like a hard-on, I can see you’re itching to do it.”

  “Saying we shoot the guy?”

  Tucker just looked at him and shrugged.

  “This is you just trying to pass the buck.”

  “Not me that needs the bragging rights.” Tucker pushed the torch stand over to the wall.

  Sticky watched him do it.

  “Nobody talks shit to me. Won’t to you either, not after something like that. Guy goes back after you walk him out and made him dig a hole, him feeling sure he’s about to get shot. Scare the shit right out of the man.”

  “So, dig a hole, like a grave.”

  “Yeah, right, only make him do the digging, get him believing it.”

  “Shoot him or no?”

  “Well, that part’s up to you. You don’t, then you just got to make it real, like I’m saying. Do it right, and you probably don’t need to shoot him. You want, put one past his ear. Up to you how you do it.”

  Sticky rolled it around. Just walk the guy out. Jab the pistol at his back. Make him dig the hole, get him believing he’s going down there, his life flashing by. Fire a round past his ear. Tell him to take off and don’t look back.

  “Ground’s soft out there, past the corn, right?” Tucker said.

  “Guess so.”

  “He gets done digging, steps out the hole, you get him to turn around, just walk away while he’s expecting it. Time he figures it out, he’s just happy to be alive.”

  “Still could change his mind, open his mouth to the cops.”

  “Okay, so you shoot him.”

  “Yeah, but somebody could hear.”

  “Locals know better than to say jack shit, right?” Tucker looking at him. “But, the point is, the shooting part’s optional. Like I’m telling you, you scare him enough, make it real, then you don’t need to.”

  “Yeah.” Sticky seeing it. Just walk him out in the field, untie his hands and make him dig as best he could, being all beat up. Just have to make him believe it. Never get easier than that. Could spin a story like that any way he wanted, get all kinds of respect, guys buying him drinks, hook up with women he didn’t have to pay for. People calling him Lenny Lowe, nobody calling him Sticky anymore.

  “Course, if you’re worried about him talking, and worried about the sound,” Tucker said, “then you press the barrel into him, right here,” Tucker pointing at his own belly, “and shoot. It muffles the sound.”

  “Now you’re saying shoot him.”

  “Like I said, Sticky, leaving it up to you.” Tucker having fun playing him, turning back to his rig. Tucker thinking of Zeke Chamas — wouldn’t mind shooting that fuck himself. Then there was Johnny Falco. Him, too.

  . . . CATCH THE WIND

  “Okay, so he fires this thing,” Johnny calling it Tucker’s chucker, saying, “but how’s he know where it’s going?” Looking at her behind the wheel.

  Flipping on the FM, Frankie shrugged, driving her Ghia back along Zero Avenue, letting the radio play till they got past the washboard part of the road. CFMI transmitting pop tunes off the top of Mount Seymour. Only other signal out here was scratchy news from CKO, that or country.

  Guitar cases and amps in back, another pink bag filled with dexies, Frankie going to drop it off at Euphoria’s, just off Commercial. Joey Thunder driving just ahead, the wood-grain wrapping the Country Squire. Roof racks on top. Frankie eating his dust, backing off, feeling that shimmy start from the front end.

  “Like I told you, girl, I figured the hell out of that puppy,” Frankie mimicking Tucker, saying, “Ain’t that so, Sticky?”

  Johnny laughing. “Sticky, that guy . . .”

  “Yeah, they walk among us.” Eyes on the road, she popped in the live tape she made of the Furies, knowing he liked them. The band kicking off with “What Do You Want Me to Be.”

  A car came the opposite way, its high beams flashing at them, raising more dust as it rolled past. A cop car, looked like an LTD, patrolling the border. She could barely make out Joey’s taillights now, way up ahead.

  “Guy thinks he can nail the same spot every time, doesn’t matter about wind or rain.” Johnny checking out her cassettes in the glove box, most of them bootleg recordings, saying, “Marty know about it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Picture him flinging Marty’s pot into orbit, see it landing in that swamp,” Johnny said.

  “It’s not such a bad idea,” she said, “he gets his distance right, does it at night.”


  “Come on. Got to do better than the rock he fired over the hedge, nearly took out Joey’s wagon.”

  The two of them laughing about it, Frankie saying that was Tucker just showing off.

  Then they were talking about the gig tomorrow night, Frankie jazzed about it, but worried about Arnie going off the radar, not showing up at rehearsal. Johnny assuring her he’d show up, just the guy’s nature, seeing she was worried. Changing the subject, saying again he wished he’d been around to catch the Furies.

  Frankie telling him about the show at PUMPS, then getting invited to the Matsqui bash where she recorded the tape, shortly before the band split up. The Lewd and the Skulls on the same bill. Told him how the bikers finally ran off the Lewd for not playing long enough, the Skulls scared into replaying their set list for like two days. The bands getting paid in booze and coke, all they could handle. Up on the stage, getting drunk and rude, pissing on the crowd and passing out on the stage. Still, there was more chaos offstage than anything the bands could dream up onstage. A hell of a party.

  “So, how about that drink?”

  “Alright, but at my place, and first, I got to pull over,” she said, slowing and easing the wheel, feeling the tires grip the soft shoulder.

  “Was thinking more my place.” Johnny looking out the rear window, making sure they weren’t being pulled over by the patrol cop.

  “Sorry, got to pee.” She pushed in the clutch, put the stick in first and shut it off. Joey’s taillights were gone now. “No way I was going back there, Tucker looking set to go off on you.” She flipped down the visor, took a couple of tissues from a Kleenex pack, smiled at him and stepped out. The grass standing tall and wet with dew past the ditch, Frankie nearly losing her footing, slipping down the ditch.

  Walking through the grass till she was out of his sight line, she tugged down her jeans and crouched. The ground soft under her sneakers, crickets chirping all around, wet grass tickling her. Could hear the Furies doing “Sister Ray.” Johnny with his arm hanging out the window, tapping his hand on the door panel.