Zero Avenue

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “Been having second thoughts about you playing in the barn.” No way after Arnie Binz got caught ripping off their weed just ahead of the harvest. Still wondering if she knew about it. Marty letting a punk band in there, churning enough noise to draw any patrol cops going past the place.

  “It’s fine with Marty. Told me himself it makes things look natural.” Frankie touched her lip.

  “Yeah, see, that was back when Marty was thinking of getting in your pants. Man likes all that dinner-out business, candles on the table shit, putting on a show. Ask the chick back for a drink . . .”

  Frankie looked along the counter, hoping for something sharp, saying, “Heard from Tucker, the locals’ve all been warned off.”

  “See, there you go again, telling me something,” Zeke said, liking this.

  Staring at him, she felt her fingernails digging into her palms. She’d have to call Marty back, try to reason and hope for the best. No reasoning with this guy.

  “Other thing,” Zeke said, “I’m changing the drops.”

  “And what’s that mean?”

  “Means no more running across the border like clockwork. Too easy to get tailed for real. From here on, I call and tell you when and where. Never the same thing twice.”

  “So, what, I’m like on standby?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “You don’t mind, think I’ll call Marty,” she said. “Want to hear it from him.”

  His eyes flared, then he let it go, saying, “Your next run’s tonight. The barn, going to Euphoria’s. Want it there at nine sharp, time they close.”

  “Can’t tonight.”

  “Yeah, you can. Dropping a bag of dexies.”

  “One like you just gave Bobby.”

  “Yeah, just like that.”

  “I do it . . .” Her nails biting into the meat of her palms, “but first, I rehearse.”

  “This one time, but the bag’s at Euphoria’s at nine.” Zeke shrugged, enjoying himself.

  “Fine.”

  Opening the door, Zeke called to Bobby under the chassis, saying he’d be halfway done if he wasn’t watching shit that had nothing to do with him.

  Bobby was smearing oil around the filter’s seal, setting it on and giving it a twist, wiping his hands on the rag. Thinking he’d like to drive his Volvo up behind this son of a bitch sometime, tap his ass end with his bumper, the gas tank hanging down under Zeke’s rear bumper. Do it hard enough and watch his tin can burst into flames. One less asshole to worry about.

  “And make sure it’s the Valvoline,” Zeke called. “None of that crap you smear in your hair.”

  Frankie walked from the room, stepping between the hoists, rolling her eyes so only Bobby could see.

  “You okay?” he said.

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “You want the tires, give me a call,” Bobby said. “Let you have ’em at cost.”

  “Thanks, Bobby.” She touched his arm and walked out to her Karmann Ghia, running her tongue over her swollen lip, thinking she’d like to even the score, find a way to pit one asshole against the other, Zeke versus Marty. Stand back and watch it happen.

  . . . GOING DEEP

  The fog had lifted by the time he showed up. Stepping from his Nova, parked behind Arnie Binz’s Pinto Cruising Wagon at the shoulder of the townline, Zeke was thinking he should have worn his old boots. Flaring his nostrils, he was sure he smelled cow shit from somewhere. Jesus, how could anybody live out here? Driving along the back road, his paint pelted by gravel. No nightclubs, no broads, nothing to do but jerk off and smell cow shit. Hicks driving their pickups and wearing overalls.

  Walking around back, he lifted the hatch. Reaching under the spare, he took out the Beretta, a model 81 with its serials filed off. A .32 auto with the plastic grip, fit in his pocket, with a big clip, a dozen rounds. Zeke liking it for its double-action lockwork, meaning you could fire with the hammer down, just a double pull on the trigger. Bam. Real fast. Set him back a few bucks, but this one was super clean. He didn’t bring it for Arnie Binz, more like an equalizer if things went sideways between him and Tucker. If he used it, it would be just the one time, then he’d toss it off the Ironworkers Bridge. The kind of thing that kept guys like him out of prison.

  He considered the Wilson baseball bat under the battery cables, the Johnny Bench model, but instead took the leather-wrapped blackjack hidden under the carpet by the wheel well, liked the way it handled out back of Lubik’s.

  He walked the ditch to the edge of the corn, mud squishing under his boot soles, the two-inch heels caked in muck before he got to the fence, some getting on the leather tops. Scraping a sole against the post, Zeke saying, “Fuck me.”

  Waiting by the fence, he scraped the other sole on the rail. The one called Sticky was coming through the corn, snapping and swishing, parting the stalks, grunting as he pushed his way through. Zeke had no use for this half-wit Tucker hired to make the hash and watch the fields. Didn’t have much use for Tucker either, nothing but big and sweaty, a guy Marty hired to run things out here. Zeke allowing that Tucker had a few more IQ points over this one coming through the corn, but it wasn’t saying much.

  Sticky slipped and grabbed hold of the fence rail, looking down at whatever tried to trip him. A three-day growth and dew on his face, breathing hard, the ball cap askew on his head, bandana around his neck, the guy smelling like cabbage. Looking at Zeke now, saying, “Hey ya, Zeke, how you doing, man?”

  “Do better if you didn’t keep me waiting.”

  “Sorry, started through the corn soon’s I heard you coming down the road. Was Tuck had me call, you know, get your view of things, the best way to handle the situation.”

  “Yeah, so where’s this situation?”

  Motioning, Sticky turned and led the way, holding cornstalks back like he was holding the door for Zeke.

  Following the half-wit through the corn, Zeke bet he’d get them lost, tempted to just put one in back of his ball cap. Do everybody a favor. At the very least, kick a Frye boot up his scrawny ass. Zeke looking down, more muck caking on the leather.

  “This way.” Sticky pushed through the corn, coming to the edge of the field.

  Tucker stood with his arms folded, looking at them, dropping his smoke and stamping it out, saying, “The fuck took you, professional driver like yourself?”

  Arnie laid on the ground at his feet, with his hands and feet bound. A pair of socks tied end to end, shoved in his mouth like a gag.

  “Think I sit around, waiting for you bozos to call, tell me you got a problem?”

  “Yeah, come down here and show us how it’s done, huh?”

  Arnie craned his neck to look up, hard to see with his right eye nearly swollen shut, trying to keep the panic down in his gut, recognizing Zeke, the psycho who drove Marty Sayles to the club. Trying to make eye contact, Arnie seeing the blackjack in his hand. Knowing he was in for more of a beating. At least that.

  “So, what’s his story?” Zeke said, one hand palming the blackjack, smacking the business end into his other palm, feeling its heft.

  Sticky saying, “Arnie here says he was out for a walk.”

  Arnie pushed his tongue at the socks, trying to roll over, wanting to talk, explain things to Zeke.

  “That right?” Zeke put a boot on Arnie’s back, pushing him down, saying to Tucker, “Get that out of his mouth.” Pointing at the gag with the blackjack. “Disgusting.”

  Tucker gave him a look, this city boy put in charge, the one who did the driving, now coming out here and telling him what to do. Taking his time, he bent and pulled the socks from Arnie’s mouth. Felt like stuffing them in Zeke’s mouth, rip that club out of his hands and shove it up his ass.

  Zeke took a stance like some golf pro, holding the blackjack down low, a nice two-handed grip, saying to Arnie, “Think I seen you around Falco’s, I right?
”

  Arnie nodded, said his name, then, “Yeah, like I told these guys. Got my days mixed up, thought we had rehearsal, see, I’m the bass player, you know me. So I figured —”

  Zeke pulled back with one hand and swung for the ribs, felt the thump, watching Arnie writhe, waiting through his groan, then saying, “Wanna try it again, Arnie, only tell it straight up this time? Only way it’s gonna work, you with me.”

  Arnie nodded through the pain, felt like something was broken in his side, a stabbing when he breathed.

  “So, let’s start with an easy one . . .” Zeke tugged the knees of his pants, knelt down, wedging the blackjack under an arm, saying, “No way you did this alone. That fuck you work for, Falco, he in on it, right?”

  “Just me. Like I said . . .”

  Zeke glanced at Tucker.

  “Somebody cut the tops the last day or so,” Tucker said, “got every plant in this field. Different footprints.”

  “Only field that got hit?” Zeke said.

  “Looks like, yeah,” Tucker said.

  “So, let me tell you about me,” Zeke said to Arnie, getting up, smoothing his pant legs, taking that golf stance again, the two-handed grip, Frye boots proper distance apart, looking at Tucker, telling Sticky to back up a step. Then saying to Arnie, “You ripped off the wrong people, making me drive out here, that’s strike one. Lying to me, that’s two. Now I’m gonna ask one more time. And so you understand, it’s a three-strike game.”

  “Zeke, right? Look, I get high, do it a lot, not something I’m proud of, but sometimes my days get mixed up, you know how it is? Came out here for band practice, thought it was later, you know, so I went for a walk up the road, fresh air, clearing my head. Stepped off the road to take a leak and stumbled on the pot, no mistaking it, so, guess I helped myself to a bit. Didn’t know it was yours, man, honest.”

  Sticky saying there were two full bags stuffed between the rows back there.

  Zeke looked to Tucker, saying, “Gag this fuck back up.” Waiting for him to do it, swatting the club at corn cobs, busting some stalks. Sticky getting out of his way.

  Tucker got up, giving Zeke some room, not liking the show he was putting on.

  Zeke raised the club, Arnie trying to talk through the socks. Zeke swung and went to town, raining blows on him. Arnie screaming and moaning into the socks, twisting on the ground, his one eye wild.

  “That’s it,” Tucker grabbed the blackjack from him and pressed the flat of his hand to Zeke’s chest, easing him back.

  Zeke shook himself, breathing hard, saying, “You never do that again.”

  Tucker flipped the blackjack to him.

  Looking down at Arnie, then back at Tucker, Zeke said, “And put this fuck someplace.” Dropping the blackjack back in his pocket.

  “Someplace like where?” Tucker said, the shotgun leaning on a stalk Zeke hadn’t busted.

  “Figure it out, my man. I got other shit to do.” Zeke started walking along the fallow field, back out to the road. Felt the adrenaline rushing through him. Needed to think this through.

  Arnie was moaning into the gag, blood dripping from his nose.

  “What about his car?” Sticky called.

  “Said figure it out.”

  Tucker wanted to grab the shotgun and blow Zeke off his feet, this guy being careful where he stepped, not wanting muck on his fucking boots. Tucker looked at Sticky, saying, “Put him in the shed.”

  “How am I —”

  Tucker reached the shotgun, saying, “How ’bout you figure it out. And make sure he’s fucking tied tight, then lock the fucking door.” Tucker said he’d take care of the car; there was an old tractor path up the road, nobody using it anymore, keep it out of sight. Going through Arnie’s pockets, not finding the keys, he asked Arnie if they were in the car, Arnie barely nodding. Tucker walked out to the road, Zeke ahead of him, stamping his feet on the gravel road.

  “What we gonna do with him?” Sticky called after him, Tucker just walking away. Then Sticky went through Arnie’s pockets, finding a wallet, but no cash in the fold. “The fuck were you thinking?” Sticky said to him, putting the wallet back and propping him up. “Think you can walk?”

  Arnie just moaned through the pain.

  “Shit.” Sticky not sure how he’d get this guy to the shed at the back of the barn, hearing Zeke drive off. By the time he pulled the shoelace from Arnie’s ankles, he heard Tucker start Arnie’s car. He got Arnie up on his feet, but he was in no shape for walking, Sticky having to retie the ankles, then leaving him on the ground. He hurried through the corn, going for the wheelbarrow tipped over behind the barn, hoping the row between the stalks was wide enough to cart Arnie through.

  . . . KILLER LOOKS

  Rita sat back on the bed, another shift at New2Me coming up, the used furniture and auction house, directing her lazy crew on the loading dock, skating around the owner’s niece playing manager, half her age, didn’t have a clue. Hence the vodka in her hand. Taking a sip, she watched Frankie put on the shirt, a men’s extra large from the Mission Thrift Store, looping and tying the tails, leaving the sleeves hanging. Wiggling into her patched Levi’s, she rolled the cuffs, making one bigger than the other.

  Rita not getting the look, saying, “How come a man’s shirt?”

  “It’s the look.” Frankie shrugged. A fashion statement that said, I don’t give a fuck about fashion.

  “And it hurt you to put on a little makeup?”

  “What do you call this?” Frankie blinked her eyes, heavy on the eyeliner, going for that Egyptian look.

  “Don’t mean putting it all in one place. I mean laying down a proper foundation.”

  “All those layers you put on, no offense, Rita, kind of old school.”

  “Careful, girl.”

  Frankie smiled, saying, “One good sneeze and you got avalanche of the face.”

  Rita sputtering, both of them laughing.

  “You know what I mean, you got a pretty —” Noticing Frankie’s swollen lip, Rita stopped, saying, “That son of a bitch Marty put a hand on you?”

  “It was Zeke.”

  “The driver?”

  “Yeah, bit of a slap. Just letting me know who he is.”

  “An asshole, plain as day.”

  “Language,” Frankie said.

  “Hell with that, ought to press charges.”

  “Against the dope dealers I work for?”

  “You’re making me old, girl. And how about putting on a bra?”

  “What, and hide these?” Frankie smiled, trying to lighten the moment, grabbing her breasts, pressing out her chest.

  That got Rita laughing again, saying, “You should take better care . . .” There she went, sounding like a parent again, waving her off, saying, “Those are going to end at your knees, you keep it up.”

  “Like that Playboy granny,” Frankie said. “You seen her?”

  “Yeah, I have, and the way you jump around, girl, won’t be long, and it won’t surprise me, not a bit.”

  The two of them laughing.

  Rita sorry she got started, saying, “Those perverts at this barn, I mean, why tempt them?”

  “Could wear flannel, and that guy Tucker’d see fishnet. Then there’s Sticky . . .”

  “Least you got your band there, right, Joey and . . .” Snapping her fingers.

  “Arnie, right.” Frankie thinking about him. Left three messages on his machine, letting him know the rehearsal got moved up, letting him know she had to make the run at nine. Not like him not to call back, Arnie forgetting about everything else, but always up for a practice.

  Rita rose and went and freshened her drink, the vodka helping her cope with going to work, asking if Frankie had changed her mind, jiggling her glass.

  “I’m good, thanks.” Taking off the shirt, Frankie went to a drawer and s
lipped on a bra, hadn’t put one on in a while. Put the shirt back on, did up the buttons, leaving the tails out, checking the mirror on back of the door. Wondering how Johnny saw her, this guy a little older, Frankie considering whether that should bother her.

  Rita coming back in, saying. “Much better.” A drink in one hand, a pink toy gun in the other, holding it out to her by the stubby barrel.

  “What’s this?”

  “Protection.”

  “From what?”

  “The creeps. Guys that go around slapping girls. Just aim for the eyes.”

  “You serious?”

  “Pepper spray, burns like crazy.”

  “Could blind a guy, right?”

  “The kind it might blind deserves it, that and a swift kick in the . . .” Rita sat on the edge of the bed, flicked her foot in the air, spilling some of her drink.

  Taking it, the thing made out of cheap plastic, Frankie pictured shooting Zeke. Couldn’t imagine this thing stopping him. Asking her aunt where she got it.

  “Mail-ordered it. Saw it in New Woman or someplace, I don’t know. Had this other thing called a Beaver, full-page ad,” Rita said, “For guys won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Afraid to ask, but: A what?”

  “Beaver. See, the way it works, you insert it, right?”

  “Insert, like a . . . you’re kidding me . . . oh . . .” Frankie made a face.

  “Yeah, joke if you want, but let’s say a creep forces his way, you know . . . the Beaver springs and bites him on the . . .” Rita waving her fingers.

  “Pecker.”

  “Was going to say weasel, but, yeah, right into the meat.”

  “Oh, jeez, oh, but why call it that? Beaver, on account of the teeth?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh . . . ouch.” Frankie making more of a face.

  “Point is, once it bites, it’s got to be surgically removed, won’t let go, see, on account of the bite angle.”

  “Beaver won’t let go.” Frankie covered her mouth, laughing into her hand.