Zero Avenue

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “You got one, right?” he asked.

  “One what?

  “A license.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m driving aren’t I?”

  “And a name, you got one of those, ma’am?” Trying to do Jack Webb, getting her to smile.

  “Yeah, you can call me Janie Jones.” Not sure why she was smiling, switching tapes, getting out the D.O.A., saying, “Now what, you going to frisk me?”

  “Been watching Five-0 on the tube, huh, seeing how they do it?”

  “Got better things to do with my prime time.”

  “After that thing in the can, thought you were all done with that.” Johnny pointed at the gym bag.

  “So, you ran me down. You said hello. And, here we are, middle of the road, me with a bag full of pills out front of a schoolyard. Something that’ll double my sentence . . .”

  “Right. Was making my beer run . . .” He looked around, saying, “You want to put her in park?” Johnny pointed to the shoulder, a willow with its branches hanging down.

  “Can’t park on a slope . . . hand brake’s shot. So, how about you just spit it out?”

  Johnny glanced down at her patched rear fender, the bald whitewalls. “Know it’s short notice, but you got plans this weekend?”

  “This you asking me out?”

  “More like I need a band Friday and Saturday.”

  “What happened to the Dishrags?”

  “Cancelled last minute. Leaves me in a bit of a jam, so I was hoping you’d help me out.” Johnny saying it paid a hundred bucks a night.

  Frankie not caring, jumping at the chance. A jumble of thoughts rushing through the hash haze: call up Joey Thunder and Arnie, some friends, sort out what to wear, stick a playlist together.

  “So, what if it was like a date?”

  “Well, I’m busy this weekend.” Frankie beamed.

  Pulling a smoke from his pack, he fished for his lighter and lit up. “So, am I forgiven for scaring the hell out of you?”

  “Oh, shit!” she said.

  “What?”

  “Called Zeke, when I thought you were . . .” Telling him the short strokes about the phone call at the Shell, about Zeke saying he was on the way. “Gonna be here, like any minute.”

  A bell rang in the schoolyard, the kids started lining at the back door, ready to file inside, teachers waving their arms.

  Dragging on the cigarette, Johnny took his time, looking up and down the street. The schoolyard starting to empty.

  “You know Zeke carries a gun, right?”

  “Yeah, some fellows need it.” Johnny tapped the cigarette, ash falling, saying he’d catch her later, putting the shades back on, taking his time walking back to the Scout.

  Frankie watched him go, smiling, this guy part Marlboro Man, part Serpico. Looking in her rearview, then up the street, stamping her butt in the ashtray. Johnny made a three-point turn and drove off. Spinning her story, she waited under the willow for Zeke’s Nova to rumble down the car-lined street.

  . . . SHOOT THE MOON

  The fog settled low over the cornfield. Arnie Binz snapped off branches, grabbing weed by the handful, tossing it in the bag, stripping the lower branches, working fast like that, thinking there had to be at least a hundred plants between the rows of corn, the corn standing over his head. Somebody had been through ahead of him, taking mostly the tops. Arnie knowing it was Johnny. Footprints all over the soft earth. Thought he’d get his share before Marty’s guys realized somebody had been through, picking their weed.

  Moving along the row, Arnie broke off more and tossed handfuls in the sack. Hearing crows squawking nearby. Angling and working along, Arnie kept a sense of direction. Couldn’t chance losing the way back to his Pinto, left it along the ditch, Arnie planning to fill the hatch and backseat of the Cruising Wagon, the one with the bubble windows and rainbow stripes.

  One bag full, Arnie dropped it and worked along the row, stripping and tossing, when he heard it. Rustling, thinking it was the crows, he kept working, then came the voices. Dropping down, he shoved the sack behind the row, moved back and tucked the other one under a plant.

  Two guys talking, coming his way through the corn. Leaving the sacks, Arnie ducked low and angled through the rows, moving away, stopping and waiting, keeping track which way the car was. He’d get back out to the road, take off and come back later for the sacks. Feeling in his pocket for his keys. Not in his pocket. Arnie feeling the panic rise, then remembering he left them in the ignition to keep from losing them.

  The voices were closer, Arnie stayed crouched down, keeping quiet. Could be Tucker and Sticky, the guys who worked the farm, guys he knew from the practice sessions, the two of them always standing around, listening, their eyes on Frankie. Moving between the rows, not wanting to explain what he was doing here. The practice not till tonight.

  Arnie had overheard Monk talking to Johnny, saw him drawing the map. The field Arnie had told Monk about, half hoping Johnny would ask him to help him rip it off. Would have told Johnny where it was for free, Arnie knowing about Johnny’s money troubles, guessing he came and ripped off Marty Sayles to save his club, pay the rent he owed the man.

  Scrambling along the rows, he kept moving away from the voices, away from his car, too. Nearing the end of the corn, Arnie started to angle between the rows, moving back toward the road. He’d get out of there and walk back to the car, make like he was going for a walk in the fog, enjoying some autumn air. If they caught up with him, he’d say Frankie left a message, something about a practice, Arnie getting his a.m. mixed up with his p.m. Blame it on being high on the bhang these guys had been making.

  The corn ended at a fallow field. Arnie able to see the townline from there.

  “This way,” a voice called, somebody crashing through the corn, getting close.

  Moving along the edge of the field, Arnie kept low and threw a look over his shoulder, his foot hooking a dirt clod. Down he went, the wind knocked out of him. He started to push up.

  Sticky, real name Lenny Lowe, stepped from the rows ahead of him, cutting him off. Looking surprised to see him.

  “Scared the shit out me, man,” Arnie said, thinking this guy wasn’t much. Scrawny and unshaven and no gun in his belt. Sticky calling out, “Got him. Over here, Tuck.”

  “Hey, hey, no need for that. Just got myself turned around, man,” Arnie said, walking up to the guy. “You know me.” Swinging a fist, he put Sticky down, the smaller man clutching hold of Arnie’s leg, yelling, “Tucker, get here!”

  Couldn’t walk with Sticky hanging on, Arnie punched down at him, trying to shake him off, Sticky ducked his head, refusing to let go.

  Tucker Balco shoved his way through the stalks, the shotgun up like an oar, the big man swinging the butt.

  An explosion against Arnie’s skull, Arnie spinning into a dark hole.

  Not sure if he blacked out. Aware of the two standing over him. Felt the pain in his head, blood trickling down his face, along his neck. Keeping his eyes closed.

  “Momma teach you to fight like that?” Tucker said to Sticky.

  “Fucking hung on, didn’t I?”

  “How about you just go make the call.”

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  “You’re going to make the call.”

  “Why not you?”

  Arnie heard the slap, opening his eyes, his right eye nearly swollen shut.

  Tucker saying to Sticky, “On your way back, bring some rope.”

  Sticky going off, grumbling, doing like he was told, disappearing into the corn.

  “Looks like you already been through once, huh?” Tucker asked, squatting next to Arnie, seeing he was awake now, standing the butt of the twelve gauge on the ground. “Golden rule, never go back.” He bent and pulled a lace from his Nike.

  “Got it wrong, man,” Arnie said, looki
ng through his one eye. “Was just cutting across, walking around. Know we got a jam tonight, right?”

  The big man leaned the shotgun against a stalk, then flipped Arnie over on his stomach. Dropping a knee against his spine, he tied his hands with the lace. “Who’s with you, Arnie?”

  “Nobody, man.”

  Tucker tightened the lace, cinching it and grabbing some hair and tipping Arnie’s head back, saying, “Guy that’ll be coming, his name’s Zeke. You know him?”

  Arnie tried to nod.

  “Guy driving Marty around, just got kicked up to hardass. Got something to prove.” Tucker taking the lace from his other shoe, tying Arnie’s ankles together. “Don’t know why the fuck Marty keeps the guy around, but, the point is, he’s gonna be asking you the same questions.”

  “Like I told you —”

  Tucker swept his hand, slapping Arnie quiet, a welt that would show opposite the swollen eye. Tucker talking, “Heard he caught some guy at Lubik’s, the guy being where he shouldn’t be. Anyway, my point is, Zeke’s someplace between attack dog and psycho, putting on a show for Marty to see.” Tucker sat him up, saying, “So, you wanna do yourself a favor, talk to me while we’re waiting. Go easier if you do.” Tucker waited, but Arnie just sat looking at him through the one eye, Tucker saying, “Suit yourself.” Pushing him back down.

  . . . GIRL GETS AROUND

  Zeke Chamas was giving her shit, talking like it was her fault some guy had been tailing her. Looking around now, no sign of anybody, just the two of them and the empty schoolyard. His Nova SS pulled up to her bumper. Zeke asking, “So, where’s this guy?”

  “Well, gone now.”

  “Can see you’re buzzed.” Zeke was pissed, getting the two calls back to back, this bitch with the mouth thinking she was being tailed. Then Sticky calling about catching some guy in the corn, turned out to be this bitch’s bass player, ripping off Marty’s field. Zeke told him to put the guy on ice, had to explain what he meant. Said he’d be out as soon as he took care of some business. Told Sticky not to do nothing till he got there.

  Looking around now, he said, “Want to tell me what all that was, calling me from the gas station?” Zeke wondering if she had any part in her bass player ripping off their weed.

  “Told you, some guy was tailing me. Had the look, you know, dark shades and a hat on. Behind me since I got off at Grandview.”

  “You panic, you draw attention. Next, you start making mistakes. The shit you been smoking’s making you stupid. Come on, Frankie, you been doing this how long? Got to learn to chill.”

  Her look said, this from you? Drawing a breath, she said, “Anyway, I got back in the car, and the guy was gone. Maybe I gave him the shake, who knows?” She frowned at him.

  Zeke told her to follow him over to Mitchell’s Garage.

  “Thought I was going to Euphoria’s?”

  “Enough with you doing the thinking, okay?”

  “Fine. Mitchell’s.”

  •

  Following him over to the garage meant she’d be seeing Bobby the mechanic, guessing he was scoring product from Zeke now, doing a little sideline. Maybe she’d get a chance to ask about that deal on tires, thinking again she should have returned one of Bobby’s calls.

  She followed Zeke in his jacked-up ride, dark-green Nova SS with the white stripes down the hood, the guy screeching his fat rubber as he took off. Rod Stewart puking from his Benzi Box, Rod selling out, asking was he sexy. She pictured Zeke hitting the discos on his own time, into Donna Summer singing about bad girls. Dancing with the two-inch heels under his shit-stompers, doing his disco moves to “Le Freak.” Frankie grinning, wishing she had more hash.

  Sticking in a cassette, the recording she’d made off D.O.A.’s self-released Disco Sucks EP. D.O.A. drowning out Rod pounding from Zeke’s subwoofers, the Nova SS with the twin tailpipes and fat slicks sputtering just ahead of her, Zeke with all the windows rolled down, all those decibels pouring out over the neighborhood. Frankie thinking, yeah, fucking guy telling her about not drawing any attention.

  . . . ZEKE HEIL

  Zeke stood and waited on the sidewalk, still wondering what to do with the guy Tucker and Sticky caught in the corn. Frankie del Rey’s bass player, the kid who worked at Falco’s, sweeping the floor. All this shit just too close to home. All of it on his first day on the job.

  Frankie walked from her Karmann Ghia, going to hand him the pink bag out front.

  “You nuts? We do this shit inside. Jesus,” Zeke said. “And next time park the fuck down the block, bring the bag in the back.” Zeke glancing around.

  “Fine.”

  Bobby stepped from the garage in the grease-monkey coveralls, name in cursive on his chest, pulling a rag from his back pocket, wiping at his hands, catching Zeke’s frosty mood, but sticking out his hand, get their business off to a good start.

  Looking at the hand, Zeke angled past him into the garage, Bobby looking at her like what’s with him, saying, “How you doing, Frankie?”

  “Doing alright, Bobby, you?”

  Bobby shrugged, looking at the pink bag she was holding. “Guess it’s business, huh?”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Frankie said, following Bobby in, not sure why she never called him back, the guy not bad looking, filling out the coveralls in a nice way. Saying she hadn’t seen him at the clubs, Bobby saying this place kept him pretty busy.

  Zeke turned to them, saying to Bobby, “Need your office for a bit.”

  “Sure thing.” Bobby didn’t have one, but he pointed left of the service bays, guessing the break room would do.

  Stepping over a pool of oil in the bay, Zeke went into the room, checking out the crappy table, sections of the Sun strewn across it, two metal chairs on either side. A counter with a filthy coffeemaker and an electric kettle. A jar of Sanka with no lid, another of Coffee-mate. Sugar and Sweet’N Low packets in a heap.

  Frankie followed him in, Bobby stepping behind her, going to the table, straightening the paper.

  “The fuck you doing?” Zeke asked him, throwing a thumb, meaning for him to leave.

  First time she noticed Bobby’s teeth were kind of buck, the guy smiling, looking awkward, his arms full of newspaper, saying, “Sure thing.” He hesitated, looking out to the old Vauxhall on the second hoist, his apprentice working the lug wrench, taking the back wheels off. “Ought to help him put on the new drums.”

  “Still doing tires, Bobby?” Frankie said.

  “It’s a garage, right?” Bobby said, glancing at Zeke, remembering the state of her tires. “Got a couple on display out front, Michelin and Goodyear. I were you, I wouldn’t let it go till winter.” His arms full of newspaper, he hooked the door with his foot, Bobby started to close it on his way out.

  “Hey, Bob . . .” Digging his keys from a pocket, Zeke tossed them, the keys bouncing off the name on Bobby’s chest. Bobby juggling the paper and picking up the keys.

  “How about giving my ride some fresh Valvoline,” Zeke said. “Parked right out front. And while you’re at it, rotate the tires.”

  “Sure thing.” Looking at the Nova fob, Bobby shrugged, guessing this was a freebee, putting them in a pocket.

  Zeke snapped his fingers, saying to Frankie, “Now, you give him the bag.” To Bobby, “Dexies, like we talked about. I’ll pick up my money on the way out.”

  Crumpling the paper under an arm, Bobby took the bag and unzipped it, checking inside, thinking of Marlon Brando talking the way he did in that movie, wanting to tell Zeke he should’ve had a consigliere give advice on his choice of gangster wheels; the Nova sticking out like a sore thumb, jacked up in the back with the fat tires, noisy header pipes and intake manifold. Bobby shutting the door.

  “That was going to Euphoria’s,” Frankie said, looking around the room, pretty sure she smelled bologna. A smudged pinup calendar over the Mr. Coffee. Miss August showing her air
brushed titties, fingers laced behind her head, a look that said come and get it boys, the girl looking happy to be violated, a greasy thumbprint across her midriff.

  “How about you let me worry about what’s going where,” Zeke said.

  “Whatever.”

  Out in the garage, the sound of a power tool, Bobby going out and rolling Zeke’s Nova inside the doors, raising her on the second hoist, getting to work, draining her oil and twisting off the filter, yelling who took his puller.

  With Bobby busy, Zeke stepped to the door, putting his back to it, closing it and saying to Frankie, “A couple things we got to get straight here.” Zeke knowing Marty was done with her after the shit she pulled in Falco’s can.

  “Yeah?”

  “From here on, you go through me. So we’re clear, I’m sick of your pissy attitude.”

  “Not the guy delivering flowers anymore, huh, Zeke?”

  The slap sent her back against the coffeemaker, Zeke catching her in the mouth.

  “Jesus Christ.” Frankie putting a hand to her lip, glaring at him, not thinking, taking a swing.

  Zeke catching her hand, made it look easy, not letting go, his grip crushing her fingers in his hand. Grinning, saying, “You had twice the tits and half the mouth, we’d get along fine . . .” Shoving her back against the counter.

  She saw Bobby looking on, standing under the Nova, pretending he didn’t see it, Frankie wishing he’d man up and cut this asshole’s brake lines.

  Reining in the temper, Zeke shook out the hand, silver ring catching the light, giving her a smile, thinking that didn’t take long, saying, “Had that coming for the grief with the flowers.”

  Touching her lip, she leaned back against the counter, the filthy coffee carafe at her back, Frankie wanting to hurl it.

  “Now, we get to business,” Zeke said, knowing Bobby was watching from under the Nova, Zeke setting an example. Frankie looking at him, nothing more to say, feeling the sting of the slap.