Ride the Lightning

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “He’s the rat?” Miro said, eyes on Vince, lowering his gun.

  “No, just a fuck-up,” Stax said. “Asked him to do a job and wasn’t happy with the way he did it.” He went and tossed the nail driver back on the bench, let that sink in before saying, “Think you’re right, Artie’s the rat.” Then turning for the door, he said, “Come on, Ike, let’s go,” thinking he’d start leaving Ike at home, nice yard to run around in, get Pinkie and Loop to check in on him from time to time, make sure he had water. At the door, he said, “I’ll send someone by to clean up the mess.” He looked back at Miro, the guy standing with his cowboy gun in his shaking hand. One thing was sure, Miro would play it his way from here on.

  why jinx it?

  Before PJ came along, Karl had been out of his element, the new town, the new job. Living like a hermit, munching down the daily special at the local in-and-out, spending nights staring at the same flies buzzing around his ceiling light. Missing the old life, hunting down the bad guys.

  Elmo’s Bohemia was a subterranean club on Broadway. PJ told him she used to hang there after class, back when it was called the Green Lantern, script lettering on a black awning with coach lights flanking the door. The bar was English, the draft was German, and the Buffalo wings were out of this world.

  Swiveling his stool, he guessed by the sensible shoes, the young women next to the small stage worked in the medical complex across the street. Laughing like bleating sheep, the three of them were out on the town getting their kicks, ordering drinks with names like panty dropper and buttery nipple. The exec types at the next table sat on either side of a pitcher, putting off the ride home to wives and kids, maybe thinking they had a shot with the women in the sensible shoes.

  The doorman was a midget the college crowd dubbed Bit, the guy who looked the other way and called cabs when someone had had too much. Leaning against the entrance at the bottom of the stairs with his pudgy arms folded. Two things were certain at Elmo’s: the Buffalo wings couldn’t be beat, and nobody messed with Bit, the college boys seeing to it.

  Coming down the stairs was the night’s entertainment, leather pants and hair gleaming, Billy P. Nunn clapped Bit on the shoulder. The same Billy P. that worked the day pit at the Express Lube on No. 3 Road in Richmond. Dubbed Skytrain Elvis by fellow passengers, he came uptown on the Canada Line, doing a pretty good Elvis knockoff twice a week.

  Taking the stage with his Martin, no Scotty Moore helping him with his take on the black leather sit-down show, Billy P. went through his sound check, adjusting the lights and foot pedals. Flipping switches, blowing into his mic, he dropped lines on the women with the sensible shoes, giving them a good look at what Karl bet was a bunched pair of Pantherellas down his leather pants. The business types signaled for their tab.

  Karl nursed a beer, thinking of paying Miro a visit, how he was going to handle it, running different scenarios through his mind.

  PJ showed up a Thirsty Beaver later, Billy P. saying something Karl couldn’t hear. PJ smiled and saw Karl at the bar, Karl’s heart going like fists inside an oil drum. Man, she was fine, dressed in a red tummy top and tight Diesels, a string tie around her neck, her hair past her shoulders, making it work. He met her halfway across the dance floor with a hug.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, kissing him.

  “Oompa Loompa again?”

  She touched her hair, saying, “Hair’s fine. Couldn’t decide between dressing casual or hot.”

  “Glad you went for hot.” He led her to his spot at the bar.

  She said he had all the right words, calling him cowboy. “And I wore this for you.” Sitting on a stool, she held out the string tie with a half-moon on the clasp, leaning close to his ear, saying, “It’s as close to cowgirl as I get.” Talking over Billy P. Nunn as he opened with “That’s Alright Mama.”

  “Put on the Dale Evans for me, huh?” He waved the waitress over.

  PJ threw in, “What I’ve got on underneath would make old Dale blush.”

  Asking the waitress if they had Beaujolais Cru, he ordered her a glass, PJ adding an Elmo’s veggie pizza, telling him it was to die for.

  When the waitress left, he slid his hand around her waist, a finger inside the waistband, going for a peek, guessing lace.

  “Stay curious, cowboy.” She squirmed away, saying, “Just not too many of these tonight, okay?” She had plans for him, picking up his glass and drinking some of his Thirsty Beaver, Billy P. doing justice to the tune, the women with the shoes bopping and clapping along.

  When the set ended with “Baby, What You Want Me to Do,” and they could talk without shouting, Karl asked if she had any word from Dara. PJ rolled her eyes, saying Dara was willing to come back, but the kid was laying her own cards down, wanting PJ to apologize to Cam for putting him through hell.

  “Let me guess . . .”

  “I told her when fish fly, and she hung up. You believe it?”

  Over the Elmo’s veggie pizza, Karl put the business with Miro on the back burner, listening to her talk about the last guy Dara got mixed up with, thinking it couldn’t get much worse than the Popsicle groper.

  “The one that took the prize went by Rudolph Ernesto Vegas until he chopped it down to Rudy Vegas,” she told him.

  “Sounds like he fell out of an Elmore Leonard.”

  “Thought it made him sound cool. Anyway, he followed Dara around, showing up at her classes, coming to the house at all hours—went from shadow to stalker like that.” She snapped her fingers. “’Specially after I caught him peeking in my window.”

  “Come on.”

  “I was reading on my bed, in my nightie.”

  “On the second floor?”

  “Climbed right up my maple like an ape.”

  “No way.”

  “Dara didn’t believe me either until he followed her into a school john and confessed he was smitten, saying he couldn’t be without her, going to one knee right there in the wet spot.”

  “The guy said smitten?”

  “She swears it.”

  “What did she do?”

  “What could she do stuffed in a cubicle, too afraid to say no? Better question’s what did I do.”

  “Okay, what did you do?”

  “I had him smitten alright—with a restraining order. First week at Federman Wetzel, I go to Walt asking for a favor. Walt told me it wasn’t exactly personal injury, and I said not yet. Then I asked how his wife was, my way of reminding him about the Xerox machine scene.”

  “He put the moves on you?”

  “Right. Anyway, Walt starts with the jobs-aren’t-easy-to-find routine. I asked what he wanted to bet wives were even harder to find. Did the trick. Off he went to the chambers of a golfing buddy, and because Rudy had priors and had done probation, Walt got the order. Any closer than a hundred feet, and Rudy was in breach, fetching him a year in Ferndale. No questions asked. Just wish I could have served it on him.”

  “So much for old Rudy,” Karl said.

  “’Fraid it only stirred the pot. I started getting hang-up calls every night, then knicky-knicky-nine-doors at four in the morning, then my recycle bin flew through the kitchen window.”

  “Tell me you called the cops.”

  “Dara begged me not to, and I held off till he tried to push her off the Seabus.”

  “So you called the cops?”

  “No, I stabbed him.”

  Karl just looked at her.

  “Just a little. I mean, he took off before the cops showed up at the quay, came by that night and stuck his shoe in my door, yelling and pushing his way in, ready to go off on me for turning Dara against him.”

  “How did you stab him just a little?”

  “Happened so fast, who knows. He slapped me, and I guess I grabbed a ballpoint on the hall table and whammo. Rudy’s staring at the Bic sticking in his arm wh
ile I dialed 9-1-1.”

  Karl sipped some Thirsty Beaver, regarding her, getting a new appreciation.

  She took his hand. “You don’t have to worry. You’re nice, I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Karl scooped peanuts from a dish, popping them into his mouth. “You a little wild when you were a kid?”

  “Craziest thing I ever did was with this guy Todd.”

  “You went out with a guy named Todd?”

  “Todd Hartwell back at Rockridge Secondary. Word at school was Toddie was a hottie, had the James Dean thing going on, parents were loaded, a mansion in Altamont. His dad was chairman of something or other, sat in the back of a Rolls. Todd got me round the bases and up to my room faster than you, and he was only what, sixteen.”

  “Where I come from, we’re raised to be gents.” Karl offered the dish of nuts.

  She shook her head, said, “Anyway, there I was, cherry fifteen with dark thoughts in my pink room.”

  “Nicely put, but too much information there, kiddo.” He scooped more nuts.

  “Me and Todd put on a hell of a show for my Barbies.” She watched him flick a nut in the air and catch it in his mouth.

  “And we got a word for making out with fifteen-year-olds.” Karl tried again and missed, watching Billy P. get up from the women’s table, taking to the stage for his second set, getting ready for some “Lawdy Miss Clawdy.”

  PJ leaned in, saying, “We were the same age, so it doesn’t count. Anyway, Todd had me down to my sensible undies, not like the ones I’m wearing for you, cowboy.” She liked the way his brow went up. “We were going to town when my dad stormed in.”

  “Busted, huh?”

  “Sick as a dog from work, Dad takes the stairs two at a time, barely makes it to the throne, Todd going like a crab under my bed, scared as hell. Me, I tossed on my kimono and tended to über-puking Dad. Poor guy was tossing chunks of Frontenac salmon with hollandaise left and right.”

  Karl pushed the dish of nuts away, PJ saying, “Oh, you should have seen him.”

  Karl motioned for another round, PJ saying it was Pepto for Dad and a cold shower for Todd. The freckles around her nose showed in the stagelight. “Dad would have shot Todd, sick or not.”

  “Your dad a cop?”

  “No, but he kept a .22 in a drawer, loaded with hollow points. Took it to the Park’N Go when he worked late. Used to tell me about this eight-foot statue of George Vancouver pointing at him all day, telling me old George had his back.”

  Karl remembered seeing the statue over by city hall.

  “My dad was good to me, read me The Chronicles of Narnia, took me to Playland and the zoo in Stanley Park when we had one. Always saw him as a hero, but in the end he was just a real face-in-the-crowd kind of guy, hair thinning, going salt and pepper around the ears. Can’t remember when he wasn’t wearing that Park’N Go jacket, the one with the crest. Eighteen years of punching tickets and lifting the barrier. Crosswords and a transistor radio for company.”

  Billy P. did a blow-test into the mic, getting set. The women were up on their feet, clapping their hands, ready to move to Billy P.’s sound. Billy P. making them wait for it.

  “Dad only missed one day in all that time,” PJ said.

  “The day he got sick?”

  “Same day he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared, how do you mean?”

  “When he stopped being sick, he said he was going back to the Park’N Go, had nobody to spell him. That was it, never saw him again. Wasn’t a great last image of him, but it’s all I’ve got.”

  Karl looked at her, reading the hurt.

  “Mom and I waited up; Mom crying, thinking it was another woman, some trash from the Bay perfume counter. That was up until midnight, then she got scared, thinking foul play, somebody robbing him for the cash in the till. She called the cops, and we sat up most of the night. Not a word from him.

  A detective came around with his notepad after the mandatory twenty-four hours and asked a lot of questions. Another one came the day after with pretty much the same questions. Nothing happened till Mom called up and got hold of a supervisor at the Park’N Go, and after doing some checking, you know what he told her?”

  Karl shook his head, holding her hand.

  “Nobody with my dad’s name was or had ever been on the payroll.”

  That stopped Karl in mid-sip.

  “Said there was no such lot.”

  “No shit.”

  “The City assumed the lot belonged to the Squamish and vice versa. Microfiche and records were checked. Far as anyone knew, it was just a vacant lot.”

  “Your dad was running a scam?”

  “The signage, the barrier, the booth, right down to the jacket with the fur collar and crest.”

  “For eighteen years?”

  “You believe that? Eight bucks a car, fifty spots on the lot. Stab those numbers in your calculator, see if it makes you whistle.”

  Karl did the mental arithmetic, coming up with over two million bucks.

  “He took care of the mortgage and the house bills, gave my mom enough for groceries, paid for dance lessons, whatever we needed—living the lie. When he left, that was it. We ended up in a bachelor in Richmond, Mom waitressing nights at the Parrot’s Perch.”

  Karl finished his beer. “But he was your dad, I mean, not to ever call or want to see you, make sure you were okay.”

  “Get this, Revenue Canada came with their hands out, making us prove we never benefited from Dad’s ill-gotten gains. Even forced Mom to hire a lawyer.”

  “Bunch of brown-shoed assholes.” Karl brushed oil and salt from his fingers and took her hand again. “You ever look him up, your dad?”

  “Used to think about it. I wanted to face him, tell him what he did, mostly for my mom. It made her old, sitting in that same chair looking out like he was coming back. Me, I think about him from time to time, but I was more pissed than anything, probably still am. When I picture palms swaying over surf, him with what’s left of his hair all silver now, probably with some tanned tart in a two-piece, the two of them clinking coconut shell drinks with little umbrellas stuck in them, well, I hope he chokes.”

  “And the parking lot?”

  “Turned out it belonged to the city. Had slipped through the cracks all that time. A clerical foul-up, they called it. In the end, consultants were called in, proposals were heard, and a group of Swiss investors bought it to put up one of those taco places—ended up paying a pile more than it would have fetched eighteen years before, so everybody was happy, everybody but me and my mom.

  He pictured the statue of George Vancouver pointing at a Taco Bell.

  The waitress swooped in, setting down fresh drinks, saying something neither of them understood, then left, the music filling the room. PJ asked if he wanted to dance.

  He made a face, scooped the last of the nuts in the dish, saying, “I save that for the bedroom.”

  “All you do is snap your fingers, move your feet.” She pulled him up off his stool. “You can do that, can’t you?”

  the bee’s knees

  The smug bastard sat there with his pop-eyes and teeth going this way and that. Wally wanted to snatch the menthol from Miro’s grinning mouth and stick it in his eye. The guy was nothing without Stax around.

  Miro loved hearing it, how Wally lost the satchel with the Leica and Handycam along with his shoe, calling Bruna so she could see the hotshot kid now. To Mitch, he said, “And this guy lost the Glock I sold him not a week ago,” telling him he better tie a string around the new gun, the Walther like the German police used. “You know, a string like on dum-dum mittens.” The oil he smoked before they showed up made the whole thing funnier, got him away from thinking of what happened to Vince. Choking back laughter, he said, “Hey, there’s a bright side, Mitch. The Walther’s the one you wanted in the first pl
ace.”

  Wally flipped a quarter, catching it on his wrist, hating this guy, wishing his partner would drop one in the chamber and blow a hole through those laughing teeth. “You didn’t say shit about Artie having a dog the size of a fucking horse, Merle.”

  “Didn’t know. But hey, you ever hear of casing the place first?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Bruna smiled from the doorway.

  “Hey, you guys are the experts, right?” That got Miro laughing harder, thinking he couldn’t feel his toes, seeing them wiggle like they belonged on somebody else’s feet. Wiping at the tears, he guessed he made his point, saying, “Okay, let’s get serious.” He waved Bruna away from the door, then slid Mitch a box of hollow points, telling him it was four hundred cash, same as before. He was thinking he needed another way into that safe.

  “How about the five hundred?” Mitch said.

  “What five . . . You didn’t even find the safe.”

  “Either way you said,” Mitch said. “Means I take the piece plus you owe us a hundred.”

  Miro stamped his butt in the ashtray, looking from Mitch to Wally, loving how dumb these guys were, guessing how many fingerprints they left all over Artie’s, along with a dolly, a shoe, a satchel and a gun. “Alright, forget it, let’s move on, next chapter.” Miro got up and took a baggie from behind some magazines on the shelf, tossing it to Wally, saying that should put them square.

  Wally checked out the bag of buds. Miro told him he was lucky to get it, fucking up the way they did.

  “So what about this thing on Bowen?” Mitch said. “We still on?”

  “Hell yeah, we’re on.”

  “We?”

  Miro stayed on his feet, trying to get circulation back. “No way I’m sending you two alone again.”

  “So, you two coming with?”

  “Just me.”

  Wally thought about it, guessing Miro by himself wasn’t a problem. “Sure hope you’re right about the weed being there.” Wally thinking he’d empty a clip into him if it wasn’t.