Zero Avenue

by Dietrich Kalteis

  . . . LIVE FAST, DIE YOUNG

  Hard to forget the feel of getting shot with rock salt, stings like a bitch. That time in the Comox Valley on Vancouver Island, some backcountry pot-growing operation in the woods. Johnny hearing about it from some stripper at the Cecil. Got that tip for free. Taking the ferry over, he drove north from Nanaimo, found the rutted access road nobody had used in like a decade. Beat the hell out of the Scout’s suspension finding the spot, all ruts and rocks. Then rolling up on about two hundred plants scattered in a clearing. Getting out, Johnny started bagging it up. Leaving the bags as he filled them, snipping off mostly tops.

  Hearing someone coming through the trees, Johnny grabbed a couple of bags, getting chased by a pair of laid-off loggers and their mastiff, the fuckers yelling and cursing, half of it in German. Johnny swatting a sack at the snarling dog, the thing baring teeth like spikes, grabbing hold and tearing the bag wide open, the pot flying out. The blast from a twelve gauge and Johnny felt the rock salt, dropping the other bag and jumping in his Scout. Grabbing his Norton from under the seat, he cranked the window and returned fire, tramping the pedal and slinging gravel off his tires. The logger with the shotgun firing again, spitting curses, making his point with Sifto. Johnny not wanting to relive the experience, knowing Marty Sayles would have extra eyes down here this close to harvest, the reason he kept the pistol in his pocket. Walking the ditch now, he climbed the fence rail, swiping his way through the corn, the tassels over his head. Forgetting his hangover, he walked in about a hundred feet, a rooster crowing somewhere.

  “Hope you got this one right, Falco.” Parting the corn stalks, wet with dew, he stepped between the rows, careful where he set his feet on the loamy soil.

  The way Monk had explained it, Marty Sayles’s guys started these guerilla grows after the spring thaw, taking out double rows of foot-high corn and planting in their juvenile pot, doing it at night, keeping it well back from any roads, taking advantage of any irrigation systems in place. Letting the local farmers know they were doing it, going right to their doors and explaining the chance of a barn fire in case the law was called, or if the plants were sprayed with Roundup, shit like that.

  Marty’s guys coming back at harvest time, the plants reaching five or six feet tall and bushy as Christmas trees. Crashing their pickups through the corn at night, picking under the headlight beams and hauling it out. Monk telling him Marty’s fields dotted all along the Fraser Valley. Over a dozen farms. Farmers turning a blind eye, nobody saying a word.

  Johnny wishing he had maps for all of them, guessing Monk and Stain would be doing this themselves, except the Hellrazors couldn’t afford any trouble with Marty Sayles. Not after half the charter had been run off or hospitalized after the all-night bash at the clubhouse, raided by local dads looking for their teenaged daughters. Johnny overhearing Stain and Monk talking about patching over, both of them shaking their heads, embarrassed about it.

  Wading through the leaves slapping dew at his denim now, Johnny looked at the corn tassels turning brown, cobs swelling and ready to pick. Shivering from the morning damp, he parted more leaves and moved through the stalks, the rows three feet apart.

  Then there it was. Pot plants, fat and bushy, the larger leaves a nice yellowy brown, the stigmas starting to wither, buds just losing that rich green color. Ready to pick.

  Flapping open a bag, Johnny set to work with the pruners, cutting the tops and upper branches, working from plant to plant, leaving a filled bag and stuffing the next one. Taking care of the back rent, thinking about the bands he could hire next month, how he could stuff his back room with cases of beer.

  Rustling to his right had him ducking. Listening. Touching the pistol in his pocket, he stayed in a crouch. Definitely something pushing through the corn ahead of him. Johnny’s heart thumping. The cornstalks felt like walls closing in around him.

  Waiting. Feeling that rock-salt burn again. Ready to run the hell out of there, but he forced himself to stay like that, five minutes feeling like an hour. Finally telling himself it was a deer or the breeze pushing the tassels. Whatever it was, it was gone.

  Tucking away the pistol, he flapped out another bag and snipped more tops, shoving them in. Filling a dozen bags, he grabbed two at a time and made his way back to the fence, going back for the rest and lining them all up. Checking for anybody on the road, he tossed them in the back of the van, plush carpeting on the floor, inside panels and ceiling padded with Naugahyde. A brass plaque screwed into the shag declared it the shagging wagon.

  Making a three-point turn on the gravel, he got the hell out of there, driving back the way he came. More than enough in back for some breathing room. And getting out of there without being spotted meant he’d go right on breathing.

  Johnny grinning at the guy in the rearview, saying, “I told you,” switching on the radio. Blondie doing “Denis.”

  Doo be do.

  Johnny feeling on top of things, getting out from under the back rent, thinking of Frankie del Rey again as he got back on the Number One, heading toward to the city, careful to keep it to the speed limit. Johnny still trying to get used to the highway signs in kilometers, the old van’s speedometer set in miles.

  . . . SAY IT WITH FLOWERS

  “The hell you expect?” Zeke Chamas said.

  Frankie del Rey stood there grinning at him.

  Hair like a flokati rug, looking ill without all the heavy eye make-up. The girl not wearing a bra as far as he could tell. The Sex Pistols T-shirt, a men’s extra large, fitting her like a dress. Her legs pale, her toenails painted black.

  Never got what Marty saw in this chick. Zeke betting she had fur under her armpits, thinking Marty was losing his grip to the booze and the marching powder. Marty doing more and more lines all the time, snorting it up, riding around in back while Zeke played the chauffeur.

  After the beating Zeke put on the guy at Lubik’s, Marty helped himself to some of the poppers from the guy’s bag. Told Zeke it made sex something else. Marty telling Zeke to drive him to Falco’s club last night, the man riding in back, high as a kite. Seeing about the back rent and collecting from some chick dealer, meeting her there. Didn’t say it was a blow job he was collecting. Said he was taking Frankie for some Italian, then back to his place for some French, whatever that meant. Frankie spoiled it by walking in on Marty and the chick and knocking the chick out. Zeke losing respect for the man, thinking about quitting, but then Marty said when he got his license back, he was taking himself off the front line and putting Zeke in charge, seeing what he could do.

  Marty called up this morning, Zeke thinking this was it, but instead, Marty sent him to some florist’s, then to Frankie’s place with a fistful of flowers. This chick holding some kind of hoodoo over the man.

  “He’s letting things slide,” Zeke said. “Not making a thing about what you pulled.”

  “What I pulled . . . you mean the thing with Marty and the blonde, one with his cock in her mouth.” Frankie liked how Zeke flushed and looked away.

  “Is what it is,” he said, hating this. Wanting to backhand her into place.

  “So he’s saying it with flowers, huh?”

  Holding them out like he was choking the bouquet, roses, a dozen in red.

  “Asked me to do it as a favor, so I’m fucking doing it.” Zeke shaking the flowers. “Here.”

  “Just doing what you’re told, huh, Zeke?” Frankie taking them, enjoying this guy, letting the door rest on her hip.

  He wanted to belt her, knock her on her ass. Looking to the elevator, Zeke rolled his tongue inside his cheek, pulled himself together, tried again, saying, “Got a card. Ought to read it.”

  “Yeah, you write it?” She looked at it. A printed verse, somebody signing Marty’s name. Roses wrapped in tissue and tied with raffia, a nice gold seal. Didn’t come from Safeway — at least that.

  “I were you, I’d stop busting my b
alls, you understand me?”

  Sniffing the bouquet, Frankie wondered how this guy got into the building without her buzzing him in, saying, “Yeah, sure, Zeke, the thought that counts, right?” Frankie guessed his momma dropped him on his head, more than just the one time.

  Man, he wanted to hit her. Zeke saying, “I were you, I’d call him up, try and make amends.”

  “Do like I’m told, huh? Doesn’t matter the guy’s an asshole?”

  “You can think it, just don’t say it,” Zeke said, starting to turn for the elevator now. “And when you’re thinking it, smile like hell, and tell yourself you don’t mean it.”

  “You mean kiss his ass, huh?”

  “Take it any way you want. And, oh, he gets his license back, gonna be driving himself around.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, he’s putting me in charge.”

  “No shit? Good for you.”

  “Meaning you answer to me.” He let that sink in, then said, “Best get them in water.” Turning for the elevator. “I got shit to do.”

  “Dropping more flowers?”

  Waving a finger, Zeke shook his head, but smiling now.

  Putting her nose to the blooms again, she said, “Tell him thanks.”

  “Tell him yourself.” Zeke pressed the button, the elevator pinged, the door opened and he stepped in.

  Hearing the elevator going down, she closed the door and slid on the chain.

  Rita calling from down the hall, “He gone, hon?”

  “Yeah.”

  Stepping from the bathroom, Rita rubbed her hair with a towel, looking at the flowers but not saying anything, coming into the kitchen. Frankie smelling the Agree shampoo, Rita stopping the greasies. She laid the bouquet on the counter.

  “Roses, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about breakfast?” Rita said.

  “Just yogurt, no vodka.” Frankie wishing she had some of that bhang left, saying, “We got anything like a vase?”

  . . . THE REBEL KIND

  Johnny sat on the stool, his arms on the bar, the closed sign hanging on the front door. Taking the .22, he pulled the clip. Hadn’t fired it since that time in the Comox Valley, not sure he could do it, point it at a man and shoot. Just like that. Replacing the clip, he put it under the bar, snapped a cap and swallowed some beer, his thumb scraping the label. Looking at Murphy’s number written on the slip of paper: Monk saying the guy would take the weed off his hands, not caring where it came from.

  It was Frankie he wanted to call, more about a date than a gig. Looking up when Arnie’s key scraped the lock. Arnie coming through the door, old T-shirt with slopped paint and torn-up jeans, his bass slung over a shoulder, amp in hand, asking, “Need me today?”

  Johnny saying, “Tonight, and we open at eight.” Arnie was always late.

  Waving a hand, walking by the bar, Arnie reminded him it was his night off. He had a practice tonight and was just locking his gear in back till later if that was alright.

  “Something wrong with your place?”

  “You kidding? Some fucker jimmied my shit lock. Took my stash of cash, looking around for drugs. Super said he’d get around to fixing it.”

  Johnny said just till tonight, he needed the room for beer, watching Arnie breeze out the door, leaving it unlocked.

  Tapping the Rothman’s pack, he pulled out a smoke, fishing for his lighter. He reached for the phone, making the call to Murphy. The phone rang as his hand touched the receiver, Zeke Chamas on the other end, saying, “You got something for me?”

  “Who’s this?” Johnny drew on the cigarette, waiting, knowing who it was.

  Zeke saying his name.

  “The driver?”

  “Now I’m the guy collecting.” Zeke jumping the gun, wanting to show Marty some initiative.

  Johnny waited.

  “Look, play all the fag music you want,” Zeke said, “but the rent’s the rent. Want what you owe.”

  “Like I told Marty —”

  “That’s not going to fly with me, you haven’t got it, then you’re out the door.”

  “Like I told him, I’m scraping it up.” Johnny blew a smoke ring. “Might have half later.” Give Johnny time to connect with Murphy, then make a beer run, fill the back of the Scout with two-fours, cans this time after what happened the other night.

  “I got to come to you, I’m tacking on two points,” Zeke told him.

  “We open at eight.” Johnny hung up. Smiling. Might be fun watching Zeke walk in with Stain at the door.

  Across the street, the old rummy who came in last night steadied himself against a shopping cart filled with empties and plastic bags, staggering to the wall of the used book shop, undoing his pants and urinating on the bricks, spraying left and right like he was painting. Middle of the day, cars driving back and forth. Down here, nobody paid much attention.

  Johnny glad he wasn’t that guy, the phone ringing again, Johnny guessing Zeke thought of a smooth comeback. Lifting the receiver, Johnny found himself talking to Jade Blade, the girl telling him her drummer just came down with a nasty bug, the Dishrags having to cancel the weekend, telling him sorry, hoping to do it another time. Leaving him without a band.

  Hanging up, he looked back out the front, the old guy shoving his cart, his piss staining the wall. Johnny sighing, dialing Murphy’s number.

  . . . SWITCHBACK

  A pocked face and a discount haircut, Murphy floated in the cord jacket, his polo shirt tucked over a middle going soft. The two of them in the alley, back of Johnny’s Omaha-orange Scout, bags of weed stuffed in back, on the rear bench, on the passenger seat and floor. Murphy’s Econoline blocked the mouth of the alley, its four-ways flashing, making it look like a delivery, keeping their business private.

  “Asking two-fifty a bag.” The price Monk had told him. Johnny watching Murphy lift the tarp, checking inside one of the Glad bags, taking a handful of flower top, checking for mold, giving it a sniff.

  “Ought to hear the shit I ask for,” Murphy said. “I can go eighty a bag.”

  “You kidding me?”

  Murphy saying the only reason they were even talking, one of his guys got busted crossing the border last week, half mile from the farm on Zero Avenue, middle of the night. The Mounties working a sting with Washington state troopers, catching his guy with a rucksack of bricks and bhang. Only good thing that came out of it, his guy was stand-up and wasn’t talking to the cops, taking the heat, staring at a couple years.

  “How about two even?” Johnny said.

  “No can do, man. Eighty’s doing you a favor.”

  “Some favor. Come on, it’s quality, most of it flower tops.”

  “You got somebody else, call ’em up. Me, I can pretty much guess the source. So I got some exposure here.”

  “Sounds like a bunch of shit.”

  “You want the eighty or not?”

  “Make it a hundred then, and it’s yours.” Johnny thinking, like, what choice did he have?

  Murphy making a show out of it, saying yeah, he’d take it.

  Counting out the bills, Murphy slapped twelve hundred in his hand, saying, “How about a hand?” Murphy slid open the van’s side door, went around back of the Scout, tugging a bag in each fist, tossing them in the van. Johnny grabbing a bag, wanting it done.

  When he climbed behind the wheel, Murphy rolled down the window, saying, “You get any more, maybe I can do better.” Flicking off his four-ways, Murphy put her in reverse, then turned onto Hastings and was gone.

  It was enough for the back-rent and next month’s, a beer run or two, and it would allow him to book a few acts. He was back to thinking about Zeke Chamas coming to pick up the rent, Stain making him pay the cover, both ways. Got him smiling, walking in the back door, remembering he was stuck without a band for the weekend. Went
and tried Frankie’s number, getting her machine, her aunt’s voice telling him to leave a message. He’d try again after the beer run.

  He’d been scraping by on illegal beer sales since he opened the club eight months back. Had finally got together the cash for the liquor license, made enough to pay Stain to watch the door, giving a heads-up anytime the cops showed up, everybody underage knowing to hide their beer, the volume getting turned down. The deposit on the place, the bar and the awning out front had taken most of his savings. Johnny had been turned down by every bank in town, his dream of turning Falco’s Nest into a west-coast CBGB getting kicked at every turn.

  The building was a rat trap like most of them down here, but the location was good, Falco’s catching the runoff from the Smilin’ Buddha up the block. He’d gone up to meet Lachman when he first opened, asked the man how he did it, putting punk on the Vancouver map, shaking that No Fun City image and making a buck at the same time. Lachman sat at his chessboard and pointed to his wife behind the bar, said it was all her. He and Johnny hitting it off. Still went up to see Lachman now and then, play a little chess. Have a beer with Igor, the Yugoslavian doorman. Johnny asking about the time Lachman kicked out Hendrix. Lachman rolling his eyes, moving his rook, still trying to live that one down.

  Johnny reached into the cooler now, popped a cap and swallowed some beer, an idea coming to him. Why not rob Marty Sayles again, guessing his crew would harvest the pot from all the fields, cure it all at one time, do it in that barn down on Zero Avenue.

  . . . NO PLAN B

  Zeke had called her up and told her Marty just bumped him up. Frankie asking if it hurt. Getting pissed, Zeke asked if she wanted to keep fucking around or get to work. Frankie said she was sorry, Zeke telling her to get her pasty ass over to Suzy’s, be a bag waiting, then he hung up.

  Pasty ass.

  Zeke wasn’t the chauffeur delivering flowers anymore. Just like that.