Zero Avenue

by Dietrich Kalteis

  “Zeke, that guy . . .” Tucker saying it like he might spit.

  “What we got here?” Frankie said, standing the guitar case down, looking at the rig, middle of the rehearsal space.

  Sticky came in and set the amp down, going to the cooler by the wall, fishing out a stubbie beer bottle, the opener hanging from a string on the barn wall.

  “You want to play, you work around it,” Tucker told her. Lengths of cut angle iron lying next to the rusted trailer. Tools and beer bottles and a couple of crushed Coke cans lay scattered around. The welding cart and tool bench next to it, a portable radio on top, aerial sticking up and out like a V.

  “How’re we supposed to do that? This thing’s taking all the space.”

  “I look like I give a shit?” Tucker said, sounding irritated. “Is what it is, and you don’t touch nothing.”

  A thump coming from out back. Tucker looking at Sticky, telling him to go take care of that. Sticky taking his beer, hurrying out the side door.

  Frankie saying, “Look, Tuck, it’s cool with Zeke, long as I make a run tonight. That’s the deal.”

  Already heard it. Tucker knew about the run, another curve Zeke threw at him. Zeke calling in the afternoon and wanting another bag of dexies ready to go. Tucker sucked down the rest of his beer. A pot-growing operation with live music, just begging to be raided. Marty had put Tucker in charge of the place, planting the pot and keeping the farmers in line, leaning on them when he had to, making up the bhang, running the place like a distribution center, hiding all kinds of drugs in here, creating hidden compartments and false floors. Now the man was sticking too much powder up his nose, shoving Zeke up the ladder, in charge of the whole operation, the guy who didn’t want to get muck on his boots, ones with the two-inch heels.

  “Marty know about this?” Frankie said, trying a different tack, guessing what the rig was for. “A catapult, right?”

  “None of your business.” Grabbing it by the trailer tongue, he lifted it, biceps flexing, a couple pieces of angle iron dropping off. “Jesus fuck, you see what happens you show up?” Veins in his thick neck looking like they were set to pop. Tucker jerked the rig closer to the side door, giving the band some room.

  “Sorry, Tuck, really.” Frankie looking down the driveway again.

  Setting the trailer to the side, he muttered something she didn’t catch, picking up the angle iron that fell, tossing the pieces by the wall, wheeling the welding cart next to it. Scooping up the goggles, hanging them over a valve. Tossing his empty bottle to the far wall, he went across to the Igloo cooler, cracking another beer, drinking and wiping his mouth, looking like he might spit beer at her.

  “So, it what I think it is?” Frankie pretending to take an interest.

  “Why you want to know?”

  “I don’t know, just curious.”

  Tucker saying it was just an idea he had.

  Frankie saying, “So, you’re gonna shoot shit across, right?”

  “Yeah, well, after that bust, guys with the tunnel . . .”

  “Yeah, heard about that. Just up the road, right?”

  Tucker pointed west, saying, “Why we got Mounties driving back and forth all the time now. ”

  Frankie nodded.

  Tucker saying, “Reason you’re done tonight.” Adding he wanted her to dial the volume down, too.

  Wondering how to play punk with the amps turned down, Frankie heard another thump from somewhere out back. Curious about it.

  Tucker went over to the workbench, burping up beer, switching on the radio, spinning the dial, finding a country signal coming from Bellingham, Ned Miller doing “From a Jack to a King.” Tucker saying to her, nodding at the catapult, “This baby’ll shoot two kilos at a time, maybe three, over as far as the trees.” Tucker pointed to the grove out past the marsh on the U.S. side. The silhouette of the trees maybe three hundred yards off.

  “Yeah?”

  “Pssshuuut.”

  “Kinda like a giant slingshot,” Frankie said, acting impressed, looking at the rig again, then out at the distant trees and nodding.

  Freddy Fender coming on and singing about wasted days and wasted nights.

  “Yeah, I can see it working,” she said, “firing it at night, right?”

  “Course at night.” Surprised she seemed interested, seeing how it meant her job, no more muling dope across the Peace Arch. Marty’s crew able to just shoot it across the border.

  “So, you figured where it’s going, I mean, when you shoot it?” she said. “Get Murphy’s guys to pick up on the other side.”

  “Working all that out.” He went and held the rubber sling, looked like a giant inner tube with a seat like a catcher’s mitt in the middle, saying, “Control it by the tension on the rubber, see?” Pointing to a ratchet with a crank handle on the frame. A hook that the loop fit into. “I get it figured, and she’ll drop in the same spot every time.”

  Frankie checked out the thick rubber, saying, “Think Marty’s going to be impressed.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, for sure.” Looking some more at the contraption, the blackened angle iron around the welds, rusted trailer over flattened tires, Frankie picturing Tucker shooting bricks of pot across the border, landing them in the marsh on the U.S. side. Seeing the RCMP patrolling along, seeing packs of shit propelled across international space. Wondering if the cops had a ten-code for it. This farmhouse at the T intersection, in the middle of nothing. But still, Frankie thinking it wasn’t any dumber than a tunnel.

  “Think it’s funny?” Tucker said, looking at her.

  “No, no. Think it’s cool, really. Not something Zeke’d come up with, that’s for sure.” Frankie getting how the big man felt about him.

  “Zeke, that guy . . .”

  “Yeah. Hear about Marty sending him by my place with flowers?”

  That got him laughing, saying, “This after the thing with the crazy chick in the can, the punk joint?”

  “Jeez, guess everybody knows, huh?” Frankie nodding, thought she heard another thump over the music, coming from out back.

  Tucker smiling, thinking she wasn’t so bad, turning the radio up some more. “Pay to see something like that, you clocking that chick, Marty with his . . .” Tucker forced a laugh, pissed on account of the thumping, Sticky supposed to be taking care of it. Watching Frankie checking out the rig now, looking at the swing arm on a swivel bracket attached to the cross member.

  Glancing down the drive, she was wondering what the fuck was taking those guys, nearly full dark now. A little over an hour and she’d have to split to make the run to Euphoria’s Top Floor.

  “Two bricks at a time, huh?” she asked.

  “Yeah, could be more. Like I said, it needs some more playing.”

  “Well, I’m impressed, Tuck. Think you sure got something here.”

  “Want to see it, I mean while we’re waiting?”

  “What, now?”

  “Yeah, a little demo, you know. Just takes a minute.”

  “Yeah, sure, that’d be cool, thanks.”

  Lifting the trailer by the tongue, he wheeled it out the side door, another piece of angle iron falling off. The deflated tires made it hard to push, Tucker telling her he kept the pressure low on account the wheels kicked back when he fired it. “Got a hell of a thrust.” His eyes wandering down her front.

  “Cool.” Fishing in her bag, she reached her pack of smokes next to the pink gun.

  “Can’t let you smoke in here, know that, right?” Pointing to the straw on the dirt floor.

  “Right, forgot.” She dropped the pack back in her bag, looking back down the driveway, thinking fucking musicians. The last song faded, and Eddie Rabbitt started singing the theme to some Clint Eastwood movie on the tinny radio.

  Tucker set the tongue down outside, the wheels over two marks spray-
painted on the dead ground. Just enough light spilling from the bulbs in the barn. The cedar hedge at the front of the property blocked most of the view.

  Scanning around for a rock or something, he found one and hefted it for size, explaining, “Kinda big, so hard to know where it’s dropping, but . . . why I got to have all that down when I start shooting bricks for real.”

  “Sure.” Nodding, wondering if he really worked this out himself, this guy with the name of a family pet. Could be Sticky had a hand in it. Sticky coming back in the opposite side door now, leaning on the far wall.

  Setting wedges behind the wheels, Tucker took a length of looped rope hanging from the frame, lassoing one end of the swing arm, pulling the seat end down, slipping the loop around the hook under the seat. The other end of the rope was tied to the frame. Cranking the rubber tight, he attached it to the trigger, counted clicks as he ratcheted the handle, saying, “All set.”

  “Want me standing back?”

  “Not gonna bite you.” Tucker laughed, glanced inside at Stick at the far wall, didn’t like the way he was looking, telling him to get him a beer, Sticky just standing there, kept looking at him.

  Frankie saying she’d get it, going to the styro cooler next to Sticky. Tucker setting the rock in the catcher’s mitt. She fished a bottle from the ice, smiling at Sticky, bringing it to Tucker. The guy not offering her one.

  Knocking the cap off on the frame, he said, “Here goes,” and hit the trigger. The arm swung up with a whoosh, the rock propelled into the air, making it over the cedars, dropping out on the road, Frankie watching, hearing the grinding of tires on gravel.

  Somebody yelling, “Jesus Christ.”

  “Bit heavy,” Tucker said, telling Sticky to get out there and see what the fuck was going on.

  Keeping a straight face, Frankie recognized the voice, Sticky hustling down the driveway, hand on his gun. Headlights turned into the driveway, and Joey’s station wagon pulled in, headlights washing the barn.

  Tucker nearly took out her drummer with a rock. Frankie telling him again he had something here, watching Sticky out by the gate, letting Joey Thunder roll up the drive.

  Wheeling the rig back inside, Tucker pushed it off to the side, offered her a sip of his beer, Frankie saying no thanks. Past the glare of headlights, she saw Joey open the rear gate of the wagon, packing half his drum kit on a dolly, rolling it into the barn, steadying it with his hand to keep the bass from rolling off, the rest of the kit still on the roof of the Country Squire. Joey coming in, saying, “Hell of a greeting. What the fuck was that?” The rock big enough it would have caved in the hood of his mom’s Ford wagon.

  Tucker shrugged, Frankie biting her teeth into her lip, saying nothing. Joey looking at the rig, straight out of Popular Mechanics, then at Tucker, saying, “That like a catapult or something, man?”

  “You come to play, right?” Tucker folded his arms, attitude back on full. Charlie Rich singing about closed doors.

  Joey Thunder looked at it, knowing what it was, thinking why not just walk the shit across the border, like at night, the way everybody else did it, only a ditch and a marsh in between.

  Frankie was plugging a cord into the amp, Tucker explaining about wind and velocity to Joey, Frankie patching the cord to her fuzz pedal, then plugging the power cord into the extension cord running into the snake running out to the generator.

  Tucker went out and fired it up.

  “No shortage of surprises tonight,” Joey said to her, going back out for the rest of his kit.

  Frankie switched on the Alamo amp, setting the volume halfway, getting that creamy overdrive, twanging her strings, adjusting the tone, wondering what the fuck was taking Arnie. Turning the peg on her A string, getting it tuned, did the same with the D.

  Tucker coming back in, telling her again to keep it down.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Frankie thinking any lower and the drums would drown her out. Looking to the drive, her heart jumped.

  Jesus!

  Johnny Falco was walking in with Joey, the two of them talking, Sticky pushing the other dolly behind them. Arnie’s Musicmaster amp in Johnny’s hand, the Thunderbird case slung over his shoulder. Frankie looking at Joey, Joey shrugging, saying, “Thought you knew.”

  “What the hell?” Tucker moved past her, arms held out, blocking the doors, saying, “Whoa, whoa.”

  Sticky left the dolly and went over to the cooler, thinking this should be good. Seeing what Tucker would do, Johnny Falco walking in here, the boss of the guy they had tied up in the shed.

  . . . JOHNNY THUNDERBIRD

  Setting down the amp, Johnny swung the gig case off his shoulder, unzipping it and lifting out the Thunderbird, reaching in the side pocket, taking a rag to it, the black body, white pick guard. Acting like he’d done it a hundred times, like he didn’t notice everybody looking.

  “Asked you what the hell?” Tucker said, voice getting loud, getting in Johnny’s face.

  “Here filling in,” Johnny said it like it was obvious.

  “Says who?”

  “I asked him,” Frankie said, covering for him. “Arnie’s a no-show, came down with something, I guess, so I asked Johnny. Hard to play with no bass, right?” Frankie said, adjusting her guitar strap.

  Tucker asking what happened to her regular guy.

  Frankie saying, “Like I said, cold or something. Left him a couple messages, but haven’t heard back. Know how these guys get, sometimes they show, sometimes not. Johnny just doing me a favor, filling in.”

  Tucker backed off, but didn’t like it, the real bass player out back in the shed, tied up, with Tucker’s socks stuffed in his mouth.

  Sticky walked back to the house, his Swanson in the oven, fried chicken with mashed and apple cobbler. He knew who Johnny was, leaving Tucker to sort it out. Could be they’d end up dealing with both him and Arnie Binz before the night was done.

  The phone in the kitchen was ringing when he went through the screen door, Sticky grabbing the oven mitt first, taking his entree from the oven, setting in on the stove, then picking up the ringing phone. Zeke Chamas on the other end, asking what the fuck took him.

  •

  Tucker was still eyeing Johnny, saying, “You even know how to play that?”

  “Yeah, picked up a thing or two at the club. Ought to come down some time, check it out.”

  “Just fags in leather’s what I heard.”

  “Hey, dress any way you want. We don’t judge.”

  Frankie got between them, Johnny plugging the cord into the amp. Not bothered by Tucker, the guy looking like he was about to go off on him. Johnny slinging on the bass, heavier than he thought.

  Tucker going around her, getting himself another beer.

  Frankie stepped close, plugging in his power cord, adjusting the volume, saying, “What the fuck, Johnny?”

  “Like I said, thought I’d sit in.”

  “You play, huh?”

  “Everybody asking me that. Just four strings, right? How hard can it be?” Half the guys playing his club sounded like it was their first time.

  “You hear from Arnie?”

  Johnny said he saw him this morning, nothing since. Johnny went up to his room, checked his message machine, heard she was looking for Arnie, wanting to come out to the barn. Johnny wanting to have a look around, taking Arnie’s bass and amp from his storeroom, leaving him a note.

  Sticky came back from the house, the entree in hand, oven mitt holding the tray, fork in his other hand.

  “Okay, let’s do this,” Frankie said to Joey, enough time to run through a few numbers.

  “How about after?” Johnny said.

  “After what?”

  “Figure we could use a drink.”

  “You mean like you, me and Joey?”

  “Was thinking just the string section.” Johnny smiling at her.
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br />   “Got to make a drop first.”

  “You want, I’ll tag along. Didn’t drive the Scout or I could keep three cars back, follow you again.”

  “And scare the shit out of me some more.”

  Johnny plucked a few notes. Didn’t know a fret from a riff.

  Tucker and Sticky looked on from their usual spots by the wall, Sticky eating from the tray of Swanson, saying something to Tucker. The big man looking pissed at what he was hearing, drinking a beer, his three-day stubble mopping up what didn’t make his mouth. His eyes stayed fixed on Johnny.

  Frankie hated the unease, but she and Joey needed to run through a few tunes ahead of the gig, Johnny Falco faking some bass riffs, looking around the place.

  Tucker saying at half past eight he was cutting the juice. Going to the styro, dipping his hand in for another beer, snapping the cap off on his belt buckle, sucking down a mouthful, keeping ahead of what was foaming from the bottle, saying something to Sticky. Sticky talking back, biting into a piece of chicken, thinking it should’ve gone longer in the oven.

  Tucker slapped the Swanson tray out of his hand, Sticky looking like he might pull his Colt. Then turning, he kicked at the tray and walked out of there, back to the house.

  Joey Thunder looked at Frankie, adjusting the snare, tapping his sticks, Johnny thumping the E string, fretting the third, plucking a G, alternating to open E. To him, it sounded like something.

  Frankie shrugged at Joey — they could have gone with a cardboard cutout of Sid Vicious on bass, something Buck Cherry joked about after the Modernettes’ bass player quit. Back before Mary-Jo came along, the girl playing bass like nobody’s business.

  Rifling the opening lick in E, Frankie took them into “Rumble.” Johnny alternating between the two notes, bopping his head like he was getting into it. They limped through the number, Frankie plugging her mic into her second channel. Joey tapping it out, taking them into “Fever,” Johnny working the same notes, fingertips getting sore from fretting the fat strings.

  Tucker went and got his own dinner, a can of Dinty Moore, didn’t bother heating it, standing back at the wall, thinking about Zeke Chamas’s call, the new boss man wanting them to take care of the guy in the shed, not being specific. Thinking he should call Marty up, hear it from the man, what he wanted done.