Halfway through saying “Get a room,” Frankie recognized him, turning it into “Jesus, Marty?”
Hearing his name, Marty Sayles focused his eyes, his hands on the girl’s head like he was holding himself steady. The blonde craned her neck, her lipstick smeared, eyes of someone on opioids.
There it was, her way out. Frankie put her free hand on her hip, acting pissed, saying, “What happened to having dinner?”
Marty pushed the head away, fumbling at his pants, saying that was later.
“How about take a fucking number.” The blonde made the mistake of getting up, putting her hands on her own hips.
Frankie threw the bottle and missed. An explosion of beer and glass against the tiles. Setting the blonde off, shrieking and rushing at Frankie, her fingers up like claws.
Growing up on the Eastside, Frankie knew how to scrap, put some hip into it and threw a fist. Caught the blonde on the beak, but didn’t stop her. The claws coming again. Hit her again and snatched a fistful of blonde, twisting her head around. Getting her shoe up, Frankie sent her sprawling to the wet floor, the blonde smacking her head on the scummy toilet, the girl sagging down, legs flopping on the floor.
Stuffing his shirt in his pants, dress shoes slipping on beer suds, Marty caught himself against the wall, yelling, “What the fuck, Frankie!” High on coke and the poppers he took off some pusher Zeke beat up, Marty pulled himself together, wondering where the fuck was Zeke. The blonde was useless to him now, lying flopped across the toilet, her hair in the bowl, streaks of blood showing like dark roots. “Look what the fuck you did.”
“You know what, Marty, pretty much lost my appetite,” she said. “And this you and me thing, it ain’t working out.” Stepping to the toilet, Frankie raised her Converse and pressed the lever, flushing, the blonde hair swirling, getting sucked down the bowl.
Turning for the door, she said, “She comes around, tell her to get her head examined while they’re stitching it up.”
“What you and me thing?” Marty called as she walked out the door. Too high for this. Using the toe of his dress shoe, Marty eased the blonde’s head from the toilet to the wet floor. Still putting together what just happened, he tried to recall the girl’s name. Sally or something. Wondering again where the fuck Zeke was.
The band was kicking it, covering one by the Hot Nasties, the bass player screaming and spitting into the mic about Barney Rubble being his double.
The rest of the band backing the vocals with their yabba dabba dos.
The crowd loving it.
Shaken, but relieved the thing with Marty was over, Frankie was thinking in Georgia Straight headlines: Drug Kingpin Fellated in Filthiest Can This Side of CBGB. Angling past the people crowding the bar, she caught Johnny’s eye.
“Something wrong, no TP?” Snapping off beer caps, Johnny caught her mood, practically shouting to be heard.
“Your toilets, Johnny . . .” Frankie leaned across the bar, putting a hand on his, saying, “enough to make Mr. Clean hurl.” She walked for the door.
Yabba dabba fucking do.
A group of boppers pushed their way in, their arms around Jughead, drummer for the Modernettes, holding up his drunken ass. Stain collecting the cover, telling Jug he better learn to hold his fucking liquor.
Jug saying the lickers were doing just fine, reaching in a pocket, tossing up a bunch of bills, enough for everybody’s cover, saying, “Hey ya, Frankie.”
•
Stepping into the rain, she went around the lineup out front, like a party in the street, didn’t matter it was raining. Miss Lovely, the Eastside’s preaching ex-hooker stood talking to some young chick with braces on her teeth. Sixty years old and wobbling on her heels, Miss Lovely wore fishnets that bunched at her ankles. Reaching in a pocket, Frankie pressed the buck she didn’t pay Johnny for the beer into the old woman’s hand, Lovely thanking her.
From behind the wheel of the Toronado, Zeke Chamas watched Frankie. She looked pissed, walking and yelling at some geezer who was yanking open her car door. The geezer looked up from the Ghia, starting toward her past the mural van. The Doberman jumped against the passenger window, teeth smacking the glass, freaking out Frankie and the geezer, Frankie yelling at it, inches from the glass. Zeke watching and laughing.
The crowd outside Johnny’s egged her on, hoping for a fight: punk chick versus attack dog.
Coming out the door, Stain told everybody to shut the fuck up. Last thing Falco’s needed was the cops pulling up again — the boys in blue dying to close this place down, the Main Street station only about a block away. Stain told the geezer to keep moving, then threw a look Zeke’s way, the Toronado at the curb, the two of them eyeing each other, nothing friendly about it.
. . . GIMME DANGER
One thing for sure, Marty Sayles wasn’t hanging around, didn’t matter he owned the place. A guy known to police. A couple days and he’d get his license back. Leaving the girl, Sally, lying on Falco’s tiles, Marty went past the bar, smacking down his fist, telling Johnny he better clean up in there, saying again he wanted that overdue rent. Didn’t give a shit how he got it. And walked out.
Shoving his way to the street, Marty walked to his car, the swagger of a guy who owned this place and three more rat traps just like it. Marty betting the blocks between the Carnegie Library and Victory Square were ripe to gentrify, sitting this close to downtown. The writing was on the wall, with places like the Pacific Centre popping up. People starting to look at Vancouver as more than an outpost, migrating from back east, Asians moving in.
Zeke sat behind the wheel, stupid pop music playing on the radio — Toni Tennille singing about doing it to her one more time. Rain dripping on his head, Marty got set to drop a ton of shit on Zeke Chamas, the guy supposed to be watching his back. He’d been thinking he needed to insulate himself from the business side of things, and Zeke Chamas was just the guy to put in charge. Get him to make his collections and see that packages got dropped off on time. Liked the way the guy handled himself at Lubik’s this morning. The two of them had walked in, the cafe packed with kids ordering the ninety-nine-cent breakfast before the place stopped serving it at eleven thirty. Zeke Chamas slipped the blackjack up his sleeve, cupping his hand to keep it there. One of the guys they came to see — name of Digger — was sitting at a table at the back, a decade older than anybody else in the place, glancing up as Marty and Zeke walked up.
“You know me?” Marty Sayles had said to the guy. Word on the street was two dealers had drifted in from Port Moody, selling dime bags to the eighth-graders skipping from Strathcona Elementary. Been doing it about a week now.
Lifting an eyebrow, Digger said, “You boys from the school, huh?”
Zeke saying, “Yeah, school of hard knocks.”
Digger grinning at him.
The waitress swung by and set a plate of eggs and toast in front of Digger, asking Marty if they needed menus.
“Won’t be staying,” Marty told her, waiting till she left, then looked back at Digger.
“Mind passing the ketchup?” Digger pointed to the next table.
Looking, Marty said to Zeke, “Fella wants his ketchup.”
Reaching past the kids at the next table, Zeke asked if they minded, taking the bottle and setting it by the guy’s plate.
“Thanks. Now, you gonna tell me what’s on your mind, fellas, before my eggs go cold?” Digger uncapped the bottle, turned it upside down and tapped the bottom, blobbing some on his plate, then picking up his fork.
Marty looked to Zeke, saying, “Don’t want his eggs going cold.”
Zeke let the blackjack slip down his sleeve, catching the leather strap, swinging it up and cuffing Digger on the chin. Nearly knocked him from his chair. Did it so fast, nobody in the place noticed.
Catching an arm, Zeke lifted Digger up, strong for his size. Blood leaking from between Digger’s teeth look
ed like the ketchup off his plate. Zeke steered him for the back door. Marty snagged the gym bag off the extra chair, the waitress coming back with the coffee pot, seeing the untouched plate, Zeke helping the customer out the back, the girl asking Marty if he was alright.
“Not so sure these eggs are fresh, hon,” Marty said, taking out his wallet, laying down a couple of bucks, saying they ought to be checking for that kind of thing, then he followed Zeke out the back door. The girl looked puzzled, lifted the plate, gave it a sniff. Pocketing the bills, she went to the next table, offering refills. Teens all lost in chatter, nobody paying attention.
Out back, Zeke went to work with the blackjack, enjoyed hitting the guy. One to the back of the head, then a blow to the back of a knee, sending Digger stumbling around.
Pulling his switchblade, Digger flicked it open, steadying himself on the wall, putting his back to the bricks. Timing it, he lunged with the knife.
Feinting left, ducking the blade, Zeke knocked it away. Then he kept swinging, good with the club, showing Marty what he could do, cracking a few ribs, ringing Digger’s bell a couple more times, putting him down, giving him a few short chops for good measure.
Marty saying that was enough.
Reaching inside the guy’s jacket, Zeke took out his wallet, helping himself to a couple hundred in cash, then tossed the wallet down.
Marty unzipped the gym bag: dime bags of pot, poppers and bennies in pill containers. Standing over Digger, he said, “You come back, my friend here’ll make it permanent, understand me?” Taking the grunt as a yes, Marty took the bag and walked from the alley, saying, “Enjoy your eggs.”
Zeke dropped the blackjack back in his pocket, following behind Marty, feeling better about things after having to drive Marty around town in his Toronado the past few months.
Now Marty got back in the car, figuring he’d give Zeke some shit about watching his back, sharpen him up, then remind him he was in line to run things once Marty got his license back. Marty wanting to step back from the day-to-day business, thinking if the cops ever cracked down, Zeke Chamas would be his insulation, the guy who’d take the fall.
. . . THE BACK RENT
Handing Monk the keys to his Scout, Johnny took Sally’s legs, torn pantyhose and spiky red pumps, helped get the blonde out the back way. Monk taking her weight and loading her onto the passenger seat, the blonde in need of some stitches, blood mixing with the dye job. Johnny felt bad, but didn’t need the cops busting in and rousting everybody for ID, closing him down for the night — again. The cops itching to make it permanent.
Monk asked what went down in the can, walking around the two Harleys parked next to Johnny’s ride.
Johnny said he wasn’t sure; guessing by the way Frankie walked out, she’d got in a fight. He hoped she was done with Marty Sayles. There had been a spark between her and Johnny since he first caught the Waves at 343 Railway, a hangout for artists, over by the Japanese Hall. Frankie and the band walking in with a case of beer that time, her guitar case over her shoulder. The artists reached for the beer, and the band got to play. Getting some exposure, but no pay. Frankie cranked away on that Flying V. Johnny seeing the girl had something, asking her to grab a coffee after, the two of them talking into the night.
Didn’t need Hilly Kristal to tell him this girl had talent, the real deal. Johnny thinking about her now, not much of it having to do with playing guitar. Johnny saying to Monk that guy Marty was a jerk.
“Yeah, but not one you fuck with. Heard him and Zeke caught some pusher coming in from Port Moody today. Marty and Zeke dragged him out back of Lubik’s, spoiling his ninety-nine-cent breakfast.” Monk reached the driver’s door handle, saying, “You still owe him rent?”
“Three months counting this one,” Johnny said. In spite of the crowds, Falco’s Nest was barely scraping by.
“You need some cash . . .” Monk said. “Might have a way.”
“Don’t want to borrow any more.” Johnny looking at the girl bleeding on his seat.
“Not that. Word is Marty’s growing his own. His guys patching weed in cornfields. Got over a dozen farms, maybe more, between here and Abbotsford. The way I hear it, his guys take out a couple rows of corn, stick in their own crop. The corn grows up around it and hides it.”
“Farmers let him do it?”
“Don’t think he’s asking.”
Arnie Binz stepped from the back door into the alley, in the shadows, a bag of trash in his hand. The unconscious girl in Johnny’s Scout. Monk telling Johnny about this farm down by the border, Marty Sayles owning the place through some shell company, using the barn for curing, whatever else he had going. A couple of his boys keeping watch, an armed presence to the locals. Monk saying, “Letting the rubes know what happens if somebody calls the cops, you know, messes in his business.”
“How about we do this later?” Johnny said, looking in at the blonde.
Monk not in a hurry, saying, “You hit a field and your back rent’s history.” He thumped a fist on the roof, seeing Arnie in the shadows, saying to Johnny, “You interested, we’ll talk later.”
“Don’t think so, but thanks.” Johnny anxious, looking at the blonde.
“Yeah, well, you change your mind, I can line you up with this guy I know, buy all you can grab. For two bills, I draw you the map.” Monk pulled open the door. “Be like money in the bank.” He started to get in, hesitated, saying, “Do it myself, but word come down from on high, ‘Hellrazors don’t mess in Marty Sayles’s business. Don’t fuck with him, he don’t fuck with us.’” Getting in, he turned the key, Monk backing Johnny’s orange Scout, leaving him to think about it.
“Could get us a better stage,” Arnie Binz said, stepping from under the bulb by the back door, putting the lid on the can, watching Monk drive off.
Us.
“Supposed to be watching the bar,” Johnny said, turning for the back door.
“Taking my break, plus Stain’s got an eye on it.”
“Since when you get breaks?” Johnny walked to the door, looking at him, this guy going union.
“Got to drain the vein now and again, you know?”
“Out here?”
“Yeah, you seen your toilets, man?” Arnie smiling.
“Come out and listen in on men talking.”
Arnie shrugged, saying, “How about you and me?”
“You and me what?”
“I know the field, one Monk’s talking about, fact I’m the one told him about it. Surprised he’s cutting me out. But, you and me, the two of us, go and do a little reaping. Save you the two bills. We just split what we grab.”
Johnny pulled open the door, Middle Finger ending their set. “Thought you had to leak,” he said. Then told Arnie to clean the blood off his car seat when Monk got back, letting the door shut, leaving Arnie in the alley.
. . . KILLER WEED
Still thinking about it when he closed up. Some quick cash could mean changing out the plywood and crates he’d pulled from the alley, the makeshift stage starting to rot. Could use a better PA, too. The used JBLs from the Stone Age. That and catching up on the rent, getting Marty Sayles off his back. Marty saying he didn’t give a shit how Johnny got the money, long as he got it.
Down to eighty bucks in the till from the beer sales after he paid Middle Finger for the night, guys from the other side of the Rockies. The singer was a guy named Art, slammed his head into Johnny’s plaster during the encore. Striking a joist left Art dazed and bleeding, the crowd loving it, shouting for more, like it was part of the act. Second head in need of stitches tonight.
The band loaded up their van, Johnny guessing they were sleeping in there with the dog. He handed Art a beer, Art holding ice wrapped in a T-shirt to his skull, Johnny telling him about the Plaza, a place where the band could crash, lots of room and a fireplace mantle made from an old Pontiac grille. Thanking him, Art said t
hey were running on fumes, in need of some gas before they drove anywhere. Johnny telling him about an all-night Esso a few blocks along Hastings. Then they talked about the tour, four of them sharing motel rooms when they got paid, getting spit at in some dive in a place called Sioux Lookout. Refused service at a roadside joint in Portage la Someplace. Yokels at some club called Ruby’s in Moose Jaw ran them off, couldn’t get enough of “Bud the Spud.” The locals not ready for anything like punk.
One more night here and the band was hauling ass down the coast: opening for the Lewd in Seattle, lined up a community hall gig in Tacoma, on to Portland for two nights with the Wipers, then a night with the Angry Samoans in L.A., turning the van around after some fun in Tijuana. Back here in a month for a gig booked at PUMPS. The kind of tour Frankie del Rey had talked about, the girl dying to take Waves of Nausea on the road.
Monk and Stain had cleared everyone out, Art heading to the van, in need of some sleep, Arnie working the push broom. Stain set the gate on the bar, just shy of a hundred bucks, saying, “Weekend’ll be better.” Knowing it wouldn’t be, tapping his fist on the stack.
“Yeah.” Johnny offered Monk a twenty for taking the chick to emergency, Monk waving it off, sold enough hash on the night, said he didn’t need it. Stain making enough charging the drunks three bucks to get out. Handing Johnny some tinfoil with a couple lines, Stain saying he looked like he could use it.
“About that map . . .” Johnny said to Monk, counting off a few more bills, setting them down, half of what the big man wanted. “Said you got a buyer, huh?”
Looking at the shortfall, Monk sighed, said yeah, then took it. Johnny popped three beers, sliding two across the bar, sitting on the stool, realizing it was the first time he’d sat all night. Arnie worked the broom, shaking his head to a tune he was humming, making like he wasn’t listening in. Johnny telling him to go sweep over by the stage.
Zero Avenue Page 2
