Walking down the drive to the Nova, he got in and fired her up, the rumble of the DynoMax pipes. He grabbed the wheel, his finger hurting, Falco grabbing it like that. Backing out, Zeke pictured catching Falco coming out of the club one night, the guy parking that orange shitbox out in the alley. Take him for a ride in the country and put a couple rounds in him and plant him out there with his buddy, nothing but miles of nothing, the guy twisting his finger like that. Doing it to impress Frankie.
. . . SHITHEAD
“Could be you’re on the rebound,” Rita said, dressed casual in jeans and a sweatshirt, her bare feet on the tiles, toenails painted pink. She considered the Absolut in the freezer, but it was getting close to her shift. Top of that, she only had about five hours’ sleep. Two truckloads packed with an estate sale coming to the warehouse later today. Rita having to sort through it, decide what went straight to auction or to charity, what went in the display cases, what she’d put out on the floor, fill the showroom, Rita looking at another long night.
“Johnny’s different,” Frankie said, putting the last dish on the drying rack, draping the dish towel on top. Picking up the phone, she dialed Arnie’s number again, then hung up, getting nothing but his machine. Reaching the open jar of Smucker’s, the spoon sticking out, she took a mouthful.
Rita saying, “That’s what bread’s for.”
“Less calories this way.” Frankie saying, “You liked him, huh?”
“He’s kinda cute.”
“Not going to say he’s older?”
“Let you worry about that. Main thing, you’re done working with these people. No going back this time . . .”
“I’m done, promise.”
Rita stopped from giving the “you’re a smart girl, you can do whatever you want” speech, hated when she started sounding like a parent. Having made enough mistakes in her own lifetime. Raised this girl since Frankie was six — Frankie’s mother killed in a car wreck. Rita and Frankie more like girlfriends. And Frankie wasn’t a kid anymore.
“Should have seen him, Johnny, the way he showed up at the barn, sitting in with Joey and me. Just looking out for me.”
“And then you brought him here.”
“Yeah, well, one thing led to another . . .” Frankie gave a shrug, saying, “Sounds trashy, huh?”
“Was thinking spontaneous.”
The two of them grinning, Frankie dipping the spoon in the Smucker’s jar, Rita checking the clock on the stove, saying she had to go, then snapped her fingers, remembered something and reached above the phone, taking a sticky note from the wall. “Nearly forgot . . .” Handing it to her. “Shithead called.”
“Marty?”
“This one was slurring his words. Called after you left yesterday, said he wanted you to call back. Hope I got the number right . . . all the noise in the background.”
Frankie jumped for the phone, unlooping the cord, dialing the number. Getting no answer, saying, “Shit. Tell me again.”
“Language.”
“Sorry.”
“Sounded like a party going on. Was hard to hear. Just said for you to call, sure he said . . . well, that was the name he said. Something about coming back from Regina for the night. Opening for the Crash.”
“The Clash?”
“And wanted you to call.”
Frankie dialed again, putting it together, Shithead flew back from Regina, interrupting the band’s tour to open for the Clash, the gig at the PNE Fairgrounds, not wanting to miss the chance. Last time she ran into him at the Buddha, he was talking about putting together another tour down the coast, hitting the Showbox in Seattle, the Revenge in Portland, the Mab in Frisco. Told her he’d talk to Chuck and Randy, set it up and get back to her. Said he wanted Waves of Nausea along. Talking about getting a big bus, doing it with the Subhumans, maybe the Dils and the Dishrags. He said he’d call when they got back from Regina. Wanted her to come to their gig at the Sub Ballroom, on the bill with Female Hands.
“People really call him that, huh?”
“Yeah, even his mom.” Frankie dialed again, not getting through, saying, “Shit.”
“Language.”
“Sorry.”
. . . MAN’S GOT TO GO
Zeke turned off Zero Avenue, pulled into the drive, gravel crunching under the tires. The wooden gate was closed. A loop of twine holding it in place. A No Trespassing sign, the kind you got at any hardware.
Redneck security.
He tapped the horn. Waited, then tapped a little longer, thinking, Jesus Christ. Finally, leaning on the horn.
The side screen door opened, Sticky poked his head out, coming out with his jeans undone, a pair of work boots in his hand, waving for Zeke to stop fucking honking. Socked feet on the gravel, Sticky walked like he was on hot coals, doing himself up, hopping on one foot, shoving the other into a boot, asking, “Can’t a man take a shit?”
Zeke laughing at him, drumming his fingers on the wheel, engine idling, betting this half-wit got his left and right boots mixed up.
A quarter million in pot down here, Marty Sayles putting Tucker and Sticky in charge of things.
Sticky unlooped the rope from the top of the gate, swinging it back. Zeke inched the car in, tapping the horn again, loved the way Sticky jumped.
Jesus Christ.
Rolling the Nova past him, Zeke reached the Colt Super under his seat, the trigger getting stuck on a spring, Zeke easing it loose, afraid of it going off.
Sticky re-closed the gate, saying, “I supposed to know you were coming?”
“Day I got to make an appointment with you, Stick, day I shoot myself.” Putting a boot out the door, the two-inch heel squishing in the muck.
Jesus Christ.
Took half an hour to clean them yesterday, Zeke sitting in his Barcalounger, in front of the Zenith, working in the dubbin, buffing the soft leather with a rag, took him all the way through a Five-0 episode to get them looking right. Zeke loving when Jack Lord said, “Book ’em, Danno.”
Looking at Sticky, seeing the pistol stuck in his pants, Zeke said, “So, what’ve you got there, Sticky? Take that in with you when take a dump, huh? Shootin’ the shit.”
Saying he didn’t go by Sticky anymore. “Name’s Lenny Lowe.” Sticky cleared it, quick and easy, careful not to point it at Zeke, saying, “Colt Commander. Seven in the clip. Just blued her.”
“Yeah, nice and shiny. Good for shooting cans off a fence, huh?” Zeke guessing that was like a sport down here. Showing his own Colt, nickel-plated, the .38 Super with the ivory grips, not worried about pointing it at Sticky.
“What the fuck?” Tucker stepped from the barn, wiping his hands on a rag, flinging it down. Careful where he stepped, the drive slick from last night’s rain. “You clowns playing with your pistols, how about you don’t do it down at the road, and what’s with the fuckin’ honking?”
“You and me need to get things straight, Tuck,” Zeke said, putting the pistol away, walking toward him.
“Yeah, how’s that?” Tucker said, his shotgun leaning by the barn door.
“The way you’re talking, sounds like you didn’t get word.” Zeke walking closer, thinking if he made a move for the shotgun, he’d put a bullet in him. “About Marty putting me in charge.”
“You ask me, the way you’re stepping, careful about getting mud on your boots, you’re looking more like a fruit than a boss.”
“You want to make the call, hear it from the man himself, see what’s what?”
“I make a call like that, maybe I tell him how his new boy’s down here honking his horn, flashing his gun and begging for the law to stop by.”
Zeke looked around, shrugged like he didn’t see anybody.
“Two patrols by this morning, fucking chopper flying over couple days ago. Guess you didn’t hear about that tunnel, huh?”
“Yeah, I hea
rd.” Looking from one to the other, not liking Sticky standing beside him, Zeke feeling flanked. “Next time, I don’t want no gate in my face.” He fished out his keys and tossed them, Sticky catching them.
“Pull her in, Sticky,” Zeke said.
Tossing the keys back, Sticky said, “Don’t do valet parking, and told you it’s Lenny now.”
“That so — Lenny, huh?” Dropping them back in his pocket, Zeke snapped the Colt out, pointing it, stepping so he could see Tucker at the same time. Zeke saying, “Take the gun out with your left hand and drop it on the fucking ground.”
“Just blued her.” Sticky doing it slow, taking it out and setting it down, stepping away.
Zeke tossed the keys again, Sticky catching them.
“Don’t make me tell you again.”
Sticky turned and walked to the Nova, rolling it up past the house.
Tucker hadn’t moved.
Zeke thinking he could empty the clip before the man got a hand on the shotgun, saying, “Came to see how things were getting done.”
“Who you think got shit done back when you were driving Marty around?” Tucker turned and walked into the barn.
Bending for Sticky’s pistol, Zeke dropped it in a pocket, looking to see Sticky going back and closing the gate. Following Tucker into the barn, passing the double-barrel Winchester, he said, “Happened to the guy out in the corn?”
“You want, I can take you out there, show you where Sticky put him in the ground.”
“He shoot him?” Zeke looking surprised.
“Finished the job you started. Cleaning up your mess, yeah. You want a look, make sure it got done right, we’ll walk you out there.”
“Take your word. Want to know about the drying and curing.” Asking Tucker about his crew, how many he had picking the weed.
“Could’ve done that with a phone call,” Tucker said.
“Yeah, well, I’m a hands-on guy.” Zeke looked up at the washing lines strung between the rafters. A couple of heaters, fans and a pair of generators at the back wall. Some of the crop already hanging, looked like a couple hundred plants so far. Plenty of room for more.
“Heard some guys use ovens,” Zeke said, like he knew something.
“Yeah, you do that, and the shit dries too fast,” Sticky said, coming in the barn. “Dark and dry, nice and easy. Too fast and you trap the sugars and chlorophyl. The weed ends up tasting like shit, and turns out weak as ditch weed.”
“So you lower the temperature.” Zeke stepping so he could keep them both in view.
“Uh uhn. Got to be at sixty-five, seventy, tops,” Sticky said. “Humidity’s got to be just either side of forty-five.”
“Done this before, huh?” Zeke said, lightening up, looking from Sticky to Tucker. These guys maybe not as dumb as they looked.
“Growing pot’s one thing Sticky knows,” Tucker said.
“And the one making the bhang,” Sticky threw in. And if Tucker wasn’t standing right there, he would have started up about his days making Owsley blotter. Tell Zeke how he used to print the tiny images of Stanley Mouse and R. Crumb. Mr. Natural and the flying eyeball. Did it with the vegetable inks on the old Heidelberg after hours, the print shop out in New West, up until he got sacked. Tripping most of the time back then, Sticky buying the acid tartrate dissolved in methanol from some chemist he knew, using eyedroppers, hanging the printed sheets. Mixing up the vegetable inks, printing up the blotter and running the perf machine in the wee hours. Each square promising a microgram of cosmic tripping. Still had his stoner’s scrapbook someplace. Sticky still getting the flashbacks from time to time.
“That got it covered, Zeke, answer all your concerns?” Tucker said.
Still looking around, Zeke’s eyes went from the vacuum sealer to the tool chest and welding torch, stopping on the catapult, saying, “What the fuck’s this?” Walking past Tucker’s tool trolley, a bunch of wrenches, screwdrivers and a box of shotgun shells.
Tucker moved behind him, tempted to grab a wrench and bash him with it.
“This what I think?” Zeke walking around it.
“Like I know what you think,” Tucker said, reaching a brace off the tool trolley, still looking like he might go at him.
“How far?” Zeke said.
“Far what?”
“Far’s it shoot?” Zeke walking around it again, looking impressed, saying, “Like a giant slingshot, right?”
“Yeah, more like a catapult.” Tucker pointed out the side door, across the marsh. “Gonna have her firing out to those trees.”
Zeke looked out the side door, out to the grove of trees, saying, “Marty seen this?”
“Wanted to get it right before anybody saw it,” Tucker said.
“Showed it to the girl,” Sticky said.
Tucker raked him with a look, Zeke still walking a circle, checking it out, touching the sling, the trigger, figuring it out, saying, “I got to say, my man, this is something.”
Tucker looked at him.
Zeke looking serious, saying, “So, you fire it, think you can hit the same spot every time?”
“What I’m going for, yeah.”
“And you’re thinking at night, right?”
“Yeah. Gets us around the patrols and choppers, nosey farmers on the other side.”
Zeke going yeah, seeing how they could increase the business they had going with Murphy, the guy getting leery about doing business on the Canadian side since the tunnel bust, the DEA sniffing around. Zeke saying again, “So, Marty doesn’t know, huh?”
“Not till I get it right. That or you go running your mouth.”
“Won’t hear it from me,” Zeke said, both of them looking at Sticky.
“What the fuck am I gonna say?” Sticky said, “But you want something, I been thinking about making blotter acid. Like I used to, real quality stuff.”
“Where are we, the sixties?” Zeke said. “Nobody wants that shit.”
Tucker laughed, asking Zeke if he wanted a beer.
Zeke saying, “Why not.”
Tucker telling Sticky to run to the house and fetch some. “And make sure they’re cold.” Then saying to Zeke, “Come out tonight, I’ll fire something across, show you how it works.”
“Sure like to see it.” Zeke looking out at the fog hovering over the marsh, saying, “Sure could put it to work.”
Looking out, Tucker said, “What the hell.” Going to the row of pumpkins, thinking they could risk it. Calling after Sticky, telling him to bring that telescope, wanting to give Zeke a better look at that grove of trees on the U.S. side, telling him about the back road running right past it, nobody using it much anymore, a natural pickup point. Zeke forgetting the pistol he held down at his side, Sticky’s in his pocket, the shotgun by the door.
Tucker readied the rig, blocking the soft tires and cranking a lever, setting the tension on the band, taking a pumpkin and setting it on what looked like a catcher’s mitt, the three of them drinking beer. Sticky handing Zeke the telescope.
Tucker asked if they were ready.
“Let’s see what you got,” Zeke said.
Showtime.
Pulling the trigger, Tucker let it fly. Zeke putting the glass to his eye, watching the pumpkin’s path, falling just short and east of the grove, but not bad, Tucker betting he’d get it right on the next try.
. . . DIRTY BACK ROAD
“Take all you can get,” is what Murphy had told him. Didn’t matter where it came from, Murphy not loyal to Marty Sayles or anybody else. Told Johnny he figured Zeke Chamas for a dumb fuck, betting he’d screw things up and get everybody busted. Guy always flashing that nickel-plated Colt, driving his muscle car, begging for attention. Told Johnny to call if he got his hands on any more. Johnny thinking if he timed this right, he’d be making that call. Had the idea to split down the coast with Frank
ie before these guys figured out who robbed them.
Driving his Scout nearly thirty miles down the 99, Johnny crossed the border at Blaine, showing his driver’s license, saying he was just visiting a friend, finding his way along another nine miles of back roads, passing farms. Driving around till he found a tractor trail leading to the marsh, marking his own map so he could find his way back.
Making like a bird watcher, the binoculars hanging around his neck, he stepped out, going along the edge of the marsh, finding a spot behind a mossy rock, dry enough for him to squat down, the farmhouse on the Canadian side a couple hundred yards off. The fog hanging like a low ceiling.
Staying low, Johnny felt the cold and damp coming through his pants and shoes. He trained the field glasses on the farmhouse and turned the focus knob. Smoke plumed from the chimney, nothing happening for a quarter hour, then an old delivery van rolled down the townline and pulled to the gate, Sticky coming from the barn and swinging it open, letting the driver pull in and up to the barn. The hedge out front and the angle didn’t give Johnny much more to see. From somewhere a hound bellowed, Johnny looking around. Geese flying in formation, heading south.
The morning chill was biting into him when the van rolled back down the drive and pulled away. Sticky closed the gate and went back into the house. Johnny’s teeth started to chatter by the time the Nova rolled along Zero Avenue, heard it before he saw it, the grumbling of the headers rolling across the marsh.
Pulling into the drive, Zeke Chamas tapped the horn. Doing it twice more, longer each time. Sticky hurrying from the house, boots in his hand, stuffing his feet into them, pulling back the gate. Johnny grinning, watching these fools, thinking this could be easier than he thought.
Zeke rolled up the drive and Sticky closed the gate, the two of them stood there, looked like they were talking. Tucker coming from the barn, the three of them standing on the drive, Sticky tossing down his gun, Zeke picking it up and following Tucker into the barn, Sticky pulling the Nova up past the house. Johnny shaking from the damp and cold, rubbing his hands together, planning how to hit them, reminding himself it would be worth it.
Zero Avenue Page 13
