Zero Avenue Read online

  A good buzz from the black hash she copped off Stain, Frankie walked in the door of the haircut joint on Guildford. The slogan in Chop Suzy’s window promised you come in a train wreck, you go out a goddess. Looking like Farrah Fawcett or Dorothy Hamill. A poster of Jane Fonda in a two-piece, straddling a chair, curls from Coming Home blowing, looking happy to be alive. A poster in the other window of Stefanie Powers, looking hot on the set of Hart to Hart. A decal by the cash read we do brides.

  She’d been thinking of having hers lopped shorter, give it some spikes with Dippity-do. Could work. Breezing in, Frankie said hey to the girls cutting hair, three of the chairs with customers. Going to the office in back, making the pickup from Suzy. Suzy good with the snips, putting on the French accent, making small talk. The woman who claimed she studied under Vidal. Not so good with her choice of business partners though. Marty Sayles stepping in and bailing her out two years ago, saving her from ruin, the woman in debt all the way to her black roots. Marty injecting enough cash to clear the stack of overdue notices off her desk, give the place a pulse and put in the fifth chair. Suzy able to hire a couple of decent cutters, turning the place around. Booked solid weeks in advance now. Doing alright for a strip mall in Surrey. Across from a Dollar Store. Running regular ads in the Sun. Marty owning one-third, using Suzy’s as a drop, laundering his cash through the books.

  Chitchat she’d picked up from the girls with the snips: Marty had a thing for Suzy, going back to the days before the drugs and the bimbos on their knees. The man still came creeping now and then when he wasn’t too high, but always after hours.

  Frankie walked back out to the parking lot, acting like she had all day, the pink sports bag with Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific printed on the side, swinging from her shoulder, looked like Barbie designed it. Dexies packed inside shampoo bottles. Dropping it on the passenger seat of her Karmann Ghia, enough pills to get her three to five in Corrections, she popped in the lighter and dropped another piece of hash on it, toking as she drove out of there, popping a cassette in the player, “Cretin Hop” rattling the speakers. Frankie singing along.

  Watching her speed now, she took the 152 up to the highway, slowing on the ramp. High enough to take off the edge, she was starting to hate these guys. Zeke and Marty in equal measure. No idea why Zeke had her running sport bags across town, Marty only had her making runs across the Peace Arch, timed it right, paying a border guard named Palmer to look the other way. Frankie making the drops to Murphy in Birch Bay, his trailer at the back of some RV park. A barbecue and a couple of lawn chairs out front.

  It didn’t matter. A few more runs and she’d have enough to cut the EP. Hoping her heap held out, the Karmann Ghia shaking like it was suffering, tires with worn treads, three of them whitewalls, the fourth one in back not matching.

  Walking onto the used car lot last March, Frankie checked out the cars and got sucked in by the fresh coat of Zambezi green. The salesman’s blue eyes clinched the deal, the guy named Norm pointed out the low mileage, pitched her on butt-welded panels, the air-cooled flat four with the dual Solex carbs. May as well have been talking Greek. Frankie signed where he pointed and drove it home. Norm throwing in a set of floor mats. All the car she could afford.

  Rita was the first to kick the tires, pointing out the Bondo, the lower part of the rear fender looking like it had been smeared on with a putty knife. A hole where the aerial used to be. Wiper blade held on with a shoelace. Frankie hadn’t seen any of that past the blue eyes and green paint, made like none of it bothered her, saying the scars added character. Top of that it came with the aftermarket Craig tape player, the kind that slid out on a bracket, Pioneer speakers, too.

  Joey Ramone was pouring through the speakers now, singing about his momma being on pills and the baby having the chills. Side A ended, and Frankie dug in the glove box, swapping tapes. Siggy Magic’s “Tooth Decay” playing, Frankie pulling off at Grandview, passing some orange four-by-four, the guy looking over, dark shades and a knit beanie. Heading back to town, she was making this drop at Euphoria’s Top Floor, another place Marty had a stake in, over on Commercial. Zeke told her to trade the pink bag for a bag of cash, then bring it to him, waiting at Mitchell’s garage, down off Boundary at Marine.

  So Zeke was running the show, Marty Sayles insulating himself. Tooting too much coke and losing focus. Marty setting up a tanning salon on Robson. Drug money buying a bunch of tanning beds with high-tech lamps invented by some German. Twenty bulbs pumping out a hundred watts, mimicking the sun’s own rays. Marty having them shipped across the Atlantic, calling the new place Endless Summer. The bronze mirage package promising a tan all year, save customers a trip to the Mexican sun, what with the UV rays and all them cucarachas down there. His Down South option offered spray-on sun. Forty bucks a month and Marty’s girls airbrushed on a tan, darkening the natural pigments without any sun or lamps. Told Frankie all about it over their first dinner, Marty showing her who he was, Frankie smiling, trying to look interested.

  Had to give him credit though, the guy knew how to turn a buck, just smelled an opportunity. But as far as women went, Marty didn’t have a fucking clue.

  The shimmy started again from the front end, Frankie rolling along Grandview, letting up on the pedal until the shimmy went away. Maybe she’d get it looked at over at Mitchell’s. Bobby the mechanic, a guy she met at the WISE Hall, told her he could fix her up with a set of Goodyears at cost. Frankie saying she’d think about it, never returning his calls, guessing she’d be paying retail now.

  Good thing Rita had the spare room, the condo on Victoria, let Frankie stay as long as she wanted, her aunt pretty cool for someone in her forties. Frankie always insisting on kicking in something for the bills. Rita never taking it. It sure beat living in some roach dive, Frankie thinking of the dilapidated place over on Gore where D.O.A. used to crash. Chuck Biscuits telling her about the time he woke and a silverfish crawled from his ear, the tickling feeling freaked him out.

  Back when he was huffing cooking spray, Arnie Binz had crashed for a week inside a giant cardboard carton, the kind used for shipping a freezer. Told her it wasn’t so bad, the cardboard thick enough to block most of the rain, just his sneakers getting wet — room for Arnie and his Thunderbird bass. Worked fine till the garbage truck rolled down the lane, making its regular pick-up. Arnie waking in time to grab his bass and roll out, the trash man ramming his forks through the cardboard. Man and Gibson spared. Arnie went on to sleep in his gypsy cab for a time, not like he could afford a room at the Cobalt or the Roosevelt. Finally succumbing to employment, landing a job at a 7-Eleven, getting promptly canned, then lucking into the part-time hours at Falco’s, Johnny paying minimum wage but treating him alright. Arnie making the best of it, showing up for his shift most of the time. Got himself the flop on the third floor and had been living there ever since. Straightening himself out.

  Switching to the outside lane now, passing cars, Frankie tapped her hands on top of the wheel. Frankie lending harmonies to “Passive and Blue,” glancing at the rearview as she rolled along.

  That’s when she saw it, the lyrics catching in her throat. The same orange four-by-four a few cars back. Pretty sure it had been there all the way across Grandview, staying a couple of cars back. Gave her a bad feeling. The driver, with shades and a knit beanie, had the Serpico look. Frankie’s heart hammered. Sure it was a narc, seeing herself facing three to five. He pulled around the cars between them, started waving to her.

  Shit.

  Stepping on the gas, forgetting the shimmy, Frankie ran an amber light going to red, trying to shake him.

  . . . PROBABLE CAUSE

  Thought she lost him, then there he was again — Serpico — three cars back, putting on his signal, waving at her. Frankie too high for this.

  Switching lanes again, she swung the Ghia up Nanaimo, sped up and got onto Broadway, weaving in and out of traffic, nearly creamed a VW bug. Somebody ho
nking. No way she was getting pulled over with the pink bag full of pills, end up thrown into Lakeside Correctional. No music career in a place like that.

  Eyes on the mirror, she wheeled another turn and pulled into a Shell on the corner, stopped by the pump and cranked down the window. Looking at the station’s plate glass, she checked the distorted reflections of the cars going by. Not sure what to do, ready to chuck the bag, run if she had to. Could abandon her car, call it in stolen. Grabbing her handbag and the pink bag, she stepped to the island, a bag hanging from each shoulder, standing by the trash disposal. Ready to shove the pink bag in the trash, say what fucking bag. Taking the nozzle, smelling gas fumes.

  “I got it.” The attendant came from behind, made her jump, pointing to the full-serve sign.

  Frankie looked at him, saying, “What?”

  “This one’s full serve, Miss.”

  Frankie taking a second, understanding what he meant, saying, “Yeah, sorry, got my mind on, you know . . . things.”

  “Sure, how much you want?”

  “What?”

  “Gas, Miss, how much?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . like ten bucks, I guess.” Giving up the nozzle, eyes glancing at the road. She asked for the rest room key, thinking she could flush the pills if she had to. The attendant telling her it was hanging from a hook inside.

  “Leaded or unleaded?” he called after her.

  “What?”

  “This one’s extra unleaded.” Pointing to the blue pump she’d pulled up to.

  “Uh . . . yeah, whatever you think’s best.”

  “How about the oil, check that, too?”

  “That’d be great. How about a phone, you got one of those?”

  Pointing around the side, the guy thinking people were getting stranger by the day, watching this girl with the two bags go inside for the key, still looking when she came back out.

  She went to the can, locked the door, shoved the pink bag in the trash can, splashed cold water on her face. Pulling paper towel from the dispenser, she dried herself and balled it on top of the pink bag. Fishing a dime from the bottom of her handbag, she went out and picked up the receiver, dropped in the coin, heard the clink, then the tone, then dialed and waited, saying, “Zeke, yeah, think we got a problem.”

  “Yeah, what now?”

  “Think I got a tail.”

  “A what? What d’ya mean, you think? Fuck, where are you?”

  “Ah . . . on Nanaimo . . . no, Commercial. Stopped for gas. Shell, I think. Maybe Esso.”

  “Okay, take it easy, shit . . . so, what about this tail.”

  “I don’t know, a van or one of those . . .” Frankie waving her hands, saying, “Guy with shades on, waving at me, wanting me to pull over. Was behind me since . . . like forever.”

  “Okay, where’s he now?”

  “Don’t know, might’ve lost him. I’m around the side of the pumps, dumped the bag in the can. No way I’m —”

  “Hey, hey, you’re on a phone.”

  “Right.”

  “And no way you’re not dumping nothing.”

  “Hey, I’m not getting —”

  “Said not on the phone. ’Sides, you want to try explain it to Marty . . . after all the shit you been pulling . . .” Zeke letting it sink in.

  Frankie thinking which would be worse, getting busted or facing Marty. Watching a lady come around the side, her Charlie’s Angels hair bouncing, going to the washroom door and rattling the knob, looking at her by the phone, the washroom key tag in her hand, calling to her, “You done, Miss?”

  “Just a second?”

  Zeke saying, “What’s going on?”

  “Some lady, asking me for the key to the can.”

  “So, give it to her.”

  “The stuff’s in there, the bag, I stuffed it in the trash can. Not sure what to do.”

  “Fuckin’ go get it. Jesus.”

  Frankie left the phone dangling, going to the door, using the key, telling the woman something was repeating. “Be just a sec.” Going in, the door shutting behind her, taking the bag from the trash, going out, holding the key up for Charlie’s Angel, telling her to have a nice day, going back to the phone.

  “Here’s what you do,” Zeke said, “One, you calm the hell down, get the bag and stick it in the trunk. Two, you roll down Commercial, go past that Italian joint, place you were supposed to have dinner, you got me?”

  “Think so, yeah.”

  Zeke giving her some left and right directions, then said, “You stop past the school. Know where I mean?”

  “Think so.”

  “You park and wait till I get there.”

  “I don’t know, Zeke . . .”

  “Don’t need to know. Why I’m telling you. And Frankie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You better have that bag.” Zeke saying he was on his way, then hanging up.

  The attendant dropped the squeegee in the bucket of blue, watching her come around the side, saying, “The oil’s a bit low, but still okay, but your tires . . .” He pointed, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, I know.” Handing him her Shell card, she said something about living dangerously, then fished her keys from her pocket, dropped both bags inside on the far seat, shooting a nervous look around. Waiting for the guy to go swipe her card and come back, handing her the card, pointing a greasy finger at the imprinter, showing her where to sign, telling her to press hard.

  Taking her copy, she got in and tossed her card and receipt in her bag. Charlie’s Angel coming out of the can, looking at her, her Mercedes coupe at the far pump, the attendant pumping in the extra unleaded. Sticking in her key, Frankie started her car, worked the shift and rolled back onto Commercial. Sticking in another cassette, she turned it up.

  Damned Damned Damned.

  Hoping the music would ease her nerves.

  Passing the Italian joint, Paesano’s, the place Marty wanted to take her to dinner, night she clocked the blonde. Everything slow-cooked and homemade, mozzarella and olives shipped from the old country. Espresso done right. Cannoli to die for.

  Bopping to “Fan Club” now, she licked somebody else’s tongue around her mouth, her nerves still shot. Frankie thinking she could use a chunk of bhang. Her eyes on the rearview, keeping watch for the four-by-four, Serpico with the shades and beanie.

  Past Pender, she stomped the brakes, some kid in a ball cap on backwards darted from behind a parked Buick, dashing across the lane, a paper bag in his hand. She yelled at him, sounding like somebody’s mother, the kid flipping her the bird, Frankie flipping it back.

  Making a right, she ground the shifter, getting caught behind a delivery van, a big square box with a rusty bumper, coming to a stop. Her engine stalled in the lane, Frankie checking the rearview, no sign of Serpico.

  The delivery van’s four-ways flashed on, and the driver climbed out, coming around the back, waving her around, giving her some courtesy.

  Turning the key, she rolled past the big box and took the next left. Pretty sure that’s what Zeke told her. Cars were parked on either side of the tree-lined road, she felt like she was driving down a funnel.

  Had to be an idiot, doing this, still running Marty’s dope across town. Catching him with his pants down should have ended it, the guy saying she was five years past L.A., Zeke telling her to get her pasty ass down here.

  She turned on Venables, to McLean. Williams to Cotton, then Charles. Nobody in the rearview as she rolled past the back of the schoolyard. Young kids playing at recess, boys bouncing basketballs, the shrill of schoolgirls, teachers standing like prison guards. Turning her head back to the road, she hit the brakes.

  Serpico in the orange ride was practically blocking the road, hanging his arm out his window, waving to her like it was her move.

  Fuck.

  No
way to hide the bag. Nowhere to go.

  Serpico stepped out, left his door hanging open. Lighting a smoke, he walked up. Nearly halfway to her window before she recognized Johnny Falco. Never seen him outside the club in daylight, or with the shades and the beanie.

  “Jesus Christ, Johnny.” Hand to her chest.

  Taking off the shades, he gave her a smile, hooked them on the neck of his jersey, saying, “You trying to duck me?”

  “Scared me half to death.”

  Said he spotted her on the road while he was making his beer run, so he followed her, wanted to ask about playing Falco’s this weekend. She wasn’t really taking in what he was saying. Trying to lighten things, he said he figured she was just a shitty driver, running lights and being erratic, didn’t know she was trying to evade him. He said he lost her back before the Shell. Johnny picking up a pack of smokes at the 7-Eleven, seeing her again when she made the turn off Commercial, Johnny hanging the next right, circling the block, hoping to catch her coming down the next street. Pointing to the Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific bag, he nodded and put it together, clapping his forehead, the booze and coke from last night making him slow, saying, “Thought you were done with Marty Sayles and all that. Oh, man, I’m real sorry.”

  “Fuck, that took years off, Johnny,” Frankie said, her heart still pounding, saying, “So, you chased me down, just wanted to say howdy, that it?”

  “Well, you put it like that . . .” he said, guessing it wasn’t the best time to ask.

  . . . JANIE JONES

  “Nearly wet myself.” Her heartbeat slowing, Frankie forcing a smile.

  “Not what I was going for,” he said, leaning on her window, offering her a smoke, saying, “Really figured me for a cop, huh? Pulling you over, asking for license and registration.”

  “Some guy follows me, with the shades, looking like that, yeah, a cop.”

  Taking a smoke from his pack, Rothman’s not her usual brand. She let him light her up, cupping her hand over his, this guy with maybe a dozen years on her twenty-four, looking pleased with himself.