Pistol Poets

by Victor Gischler

  Red Zach had hair the color of a fire engine. Not natural, of course. Zach was a broad-shouldered, light-skinned black man with a pencil-thin beard also dyed red. He had sharp features, a pointed nose. Story around was Zach had some white blood in him somehow.

  Jenks heard Zach clanging halfway up. Red Zach wore an impressive collection of gold chains and bracelets, a brown pin-striped suit that cost more money than Jenks saw in a month.

  By the time Zach reached the fifth floor he was huffing and puffing pretty good.

  “You know I’d climb down,” Jenks said.

  “Better up here,” Zach said. “We can see if the cops come in either side of the alley and have plenty of time to dump the stuff. Besides”-Zach grinned big, capped teeth, white-“I need the exercise once in a while.” He patted the beginnings of a slight paunch under his suit.

  Zach opened the gym back and showed Jenks the contents. It was full of little clear Baggies of white powder, prepackaged for street distribution. Jenks’s job was to ferry the stuff to the bartenders and hairdressers and street pushers who distributed the stuff in his area. Jenks knew he was looking at a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of junk.

  “Here you go, Harold.” Zach handed over the bag. “You know what to do with it.”

  “Right.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m good.”

  “You don’t seem like yourself,” Zach said. “You down? Got some kind of woman trouble?” He nudged Jenks, laughed.

  “I’m just tired.”

  “Uh-huh. Where’s your boy Spoon today?”

  “I didn’t bring him.”

  “Shit, I know that. That’s why I asked where he is.”

  “Went to see his sister and her kids. Going to eat Chinese with them.”

  Zach leaned on the rail, looked down into the alley, then out across St. Louis. “You know I been keeping an eye on you, Harold. You’re doing good work, and I’ve noticed that. I need loyal men on my team. You keep clearheaded and put in your time, and I’ll do right by you. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I know.”

  “I could send one of my boys up the ladder with the stuff if I wanted, but I come up here to talk to you personal. I’m bringing you along. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you.” Jenks looked up at the gangster. “You know I appreciate it, Red.”

  Zach nodded, squeezed Jenks’s shoulder. “Okay. You stay cool and I’ll check you later.”

  Red Zach climbed back down the ladder. Jenks watched him get back into the limo with his boys. Jenks lit another Blunt, inhaled long and slow, watched the limo glide quiet out of the alley like smoke on the wind.

  Back at Jenks’s shabby apartment, he threw the gym bag on the bed, looked at it for a long time.

  For two years he’d been Red Zach’s boy. He knew Red was right. If he stayed tight, he’d eventually have a fine ride, a Caddy or a BMW. He’d have fine clothes, bitches that did whatever he said simply because he was Red’s boy.

  But Jenks kept seeing Ellis’s eyes when Spoon had stabbed him. In one angry motion, Spoon had taken away everything the boy was, everything he’d worked for. And Jenks was to blame too. He’d been there.

  Jenks pulled his big army surplus duffel bag out from under the bed. He packed his clothes, packed everything he valued, and threw away the rest.

  And he took Red Zach’s gym bag too.

  Red Zach sat in the back of his limo, mute goons on either side of him. The limo cruised the decay of East St. Louis’s side streets. He had more stops to make. A big day of pimping and gangstering.

  He pulled out the latest copy of Esquire from between the seat cushions. There was a clothing advertisement which featured a square-jawed black man in denim. Stonewashed. Snakeskin boots. The jacket matched the jeans, and the black man had one leg up on some rocks, a mountain view in the background with an SUV off to the side. Zach couldn’t decide if the man in denim looked rugged or like a fag.

  He thought about elbowing one of his goons, showing him the ad and asking what he thought. Never mind. It was no good talking to these guys. They didn’t do talk. And Zach couldn’t risk his image anyway. These boneheads expected him to strut around in ridiculous outfits and spit out homeboy talk. Fine. He’d put on the act for the troops. Whatever.

  But Zach didn’t bust his hump to clear a high six figures a year just to waste away in the hood. He had reservations in Aspen. He wanted to catch Don Giovanni before the season ended. He’d recently become a gold-level member of the St. Louis Art Museum and there was a cocktail reception at the end of the month.

  He needed some new clothes.

  And some new acquaintances. He was surrounded by troops and his crew, but not pals. These leg-breaking motherfuckers were useful, but not good company.

  Harold Jenks was a little different. That boy had something. A quality. But Zach noticed something was off. Jenks had something on his mind. And when a brother didn’t have his mind right, things could go bad.

  five

  Three beers later, and Morgan left Valentine’s office, drifted back down to the inhabited floors of Albatross Hall. No sign of Ginny.

  Morgan felt woozy. Beer on an empty stomach, and he still wasn’t in top shape from the night before. He needed to go home, get a bite to eat. He needed to shower again after the cloying experience of Valentine’s smoke-filled office.

  On the way out of the building he heard Ginny’s high, clear voice chasing after him. “Professor Morgan!”

  He ran to the parking lot, started his car, and almost smacked a coed while backing out of his space. In his rearview mirror, he saw Ginny fumble with car keys, gallop toward a half-rusted, silver Toyota. Morgan gunned the Buick, squealed the tires, and scraped pavement on his way out of the parking lot.

  He tangled himself in traffic on Garth Brooks Boulevard but thought he could still see her a dozen cars back. He yanked the Buick down a side street, found himself in a maze of student slums. He came out on Old Highway 12 and made the long, slow curve back to the house he rented. Morgan kept an eye in the rearview mirror, lips curving smug and satisfied when he didn’t see Ginny’s car.

  Not today, junior newshound.

  Morgan shuffled back into his little house. Not even 11 A.M. and he was beat, a little nauseous, skin slick with alcohol sweat. He’d begun the semester recklessly, unprepared. He didn’t even have syllabi finished for his two undergrad classes.

  Sleep. He’d sleep away the rest of the day and start fresh tomorrow. And exercise. Sit-ups. He’d start doing sit-ups. He was a wreck.

  “You look like shit, Doc.”

  Morgan leapt back against the door, yelped, a high-pitched bleat like a puppy or a little girl.

  “Take it easy, Doc.” It was Fred Jones. He perched like a ghost in the shadowy corner of Morgan’s living room, a bony apparition in a billowy sweater, sitting in a wooden rocker but not rocking.

  “You can’t just barge into a guy’s house,” Morgan said.

  “Whittaker sprang the deal on you,” said Jones. “I understand that. You wasn’t ready, so I figured I’d come talk to you one-on-one.”

  Morgan had almost forgotten. He’d agreed to participate in something and wasn’t sure what it was. Still, Whittaker might have wanted him to humor the old fart, but if he couldn’t escape this shit in his own home, well, something would have to be done. First thing was to toss this old bag of sticks out on his ear. He started to tell the old man to take a hike when the giant walked in from the kitchen.

  “Hey, boss, you want a beer? Imported.” He was six and a half feet easy, shoulders carved of granite. His blue-stubbled chin was an anvil. Sleepy eyes. He chewed slowly, half a sandwich still in his fist. Morgan reconsidered his plan. Maybe he should politely ask what he could do for these fellows.

  Jones craned his neck, looked up at the bruiser. “You know my doctor said to lay off, meathead.”

  Assorted protests tumbled in Morgan’s brain. The one that came out was �
�That’s my beer.”

  “Your cheese went bad,” the giant said. He looked mournfully at the rest of the sandwich, then finished it in one bite.

  “I can’t digest dairy,” Jones said. He handed Morgan a manila folder filled with loose paper. Thick. “How long to look at those?”

  The folder was heavy. Morgan opened it. Poetry. Tons of it. Handwritten in feeble, shaky scrawl. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” He felt hungover-sick and confused. His stomach boiled. Head swimming.

  Those beers in my stomach. I need food. The thought of the bad cheese put him off. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  Jones leaned forward, frowned, put his gray hands on his knobby knees. “Dammit, man, are you on the dope? You can’t seem to focus on what we’re doing here. I’m getting impatient.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket, shook it open, and blew his nose. “By the way, you got a dead girl in your bedroom.”

  “What?” Morgan felt hot in the face. His ears buzzed. He took halting steps toward his bedroom.

  “Hey, Doc.” It was the giant.

  “I’m not a doctor. I have an MFA from Bowling Green.” He was trying to think.

  “I just wanted to tell you-”

  “Don’t tell me anything. Just shut up a second.” He felt dizzy, blood pumping in his ears, mouth pasty. Did he just tell that hulk to shut up? What had happened to the girl? Annie. Was she…?

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked the old man.

  Had Morgan done something to her? No, some kind of misunderstanding. But he couldn’t feel his legs. Head… spinning…

  The giant said, “I just thought you’d want to know that there’s this chubby girl looking in your front window.”

  Morgan turned. Ginny Conrad had a hand cupped against the glass, trying to see into the dim living room.

  The room tilted. Morgan’s mouth fell open, his jaw working but nothing coming out.

  Darkness.

  six

  Morgan blinked, moaned, belched acid. His eyes focused on the giant kneeling over him.

  “You fainted.”

  “I didn’t faint,” Morgan said. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “You look like you’re gonna barf.”

  “Look, Mr.- Who are you?”

  “Bob Smith.”

  Morgan sat up. “Where’s Fred Jones? I want to know- Wait a fucking minute. Fred Jones and Bob Smith?”

  “The boss went to get help. He says we got to smooth over some of your problems for you.”

  You are one of my problems.

  Morgan swallowed another belch, rubbed his head. “The dead girl.”

  “And the live one.” Bob jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the rocking chair in the corner.

  Ginny sat forward. “Professor Morgan, will you please tell this enormous wad of muscles that I know you?” Her chin was out, defiant. It was a good act. Morgan could hear the little tremor in her voice.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Morgan said. “She’s a reporter for the university paper.”

  “I know,” Bob said. “We searched her.” He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “She threw her shoes at me.”

  “They took my notepad and my tape recorder,” Ginny said.

  Morgan climbed to his feet, swayed a little, then headed for the bedroom. “Back in a minute.”

  Ginny made a little disgusted noise. “Professor, what’s going on? This guy won’t let me leave.”

  “Just shut up a minute, okay?”

  He kept his eyes averted from the girl in his bed and went to the bathroom. He splashed water in his face, leaned on the sink.

  He went back out and looked at Annie. Eyes closed, lips slightly apart. She could have been sleeping. Somebody’s child gently napping. Perhaps it had been a mistake. Maybe she was fine, and Morgan moved toward her as he thought this, hand outstretched to touch her cheek. If she was warm…

  But he jerked his hand back. If she was cold, he wouldn’t be able to stand it. It would break him. He’d lose it. Had she still been alive earlier or not? Had she been dead when they were under the covers together?

  He went back in the bathroom, closed the door, and sat on the toilet.

  What in holy hell was he going to do? After that business with the provost’s daughter at UNLV two years ago, Morgan was lucky to be working at all. Another disgrace might relegate him to a community college in backwoods Mississippi for the rest of his career. He hadn’t published a collection in seven years. He hadn’t published a single poem in two. All he could do was teach. The thought of a nine-to-five job in some Dilbert office twisted his stomach again. A dead coed would seal his fate.

  A knock on the bathroom door startled Morgan. “Yes?”

  The old man pushed his way in, frowned down at Morgan like he was looking at a dumb little kid. He handed Morgan an empty pill bottle. “Found this on her side of the bed. Looks like she couldn’t handle her shit. You give this to her?”

  “Of course not.”

  She’d overdosed. Pills on top of the alcohol. Crazy. But the more Morgan thought about it, the more he wondered. He did feel pretty goddamn awful. Had she slipped him something? Last night was hazy at best, especially toward the end when they closed down the pool hall across from campus. Stix, it was called.

  Oh, hell, if somebody saw me with her…

  “Come on,” Jones said. “I’ve got some plastic. Let’s get her out of here.”

  Morgan followed him into the bedroom.

  Giant Bob turned Annie on her side, a big roll of clear plastic over his shoulder. It was an awkward arrangement. Annie’s arms flopped.

  Ginny stood off to the side, eyes big, watching them wrap Annie in the plastic. “Oh my God.”

  “What’s she doing in here?” Morgan’s voice had climbed two octaves. Almighty God, Morgan realized, was finally getting him. An old man with reams of tattered poetry. A fearless reporter ready to expose his scandals. Plagues upon Egypt.

  “We’ll handle that later,” Jones murmured in his ear.

  Bob wrapped Annie in the plastic, sealed her up with duct tape.

  Ginny stood near the chair, hands clasped in front of her. “Why do you need the plastic?” Curiosity fighting anxiety.

  “Routine,” Bob said.

  “Would you shut up,” Jones said. “This ain’t routine. We’ve never done this before.”

  “Right, boss.”

  Jones nudged Morgan with a pointy elbow. “Get her feet.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t carry her with my back. Grab the feet.”

  Morgan took Annie by her plastic-bound ankles, Bob at the other end. Morgan’s breathing went shallow. The girl was heavy. They made sure nobody was looking, then quick-walked her out to the trunk of an old Plymouth Fury. Jones explained that they’d swiped a car specifically for this errand.

  Morgan turned green as he listened. Sweat on his forehead.

  “There’s two shovels in the backseat,” Jones said. “There’s a peach orchard six miles south of town. Take the dirt road and bury her in the middle.”

  Morgan choked. “Me?”

  “For chrissakes, Doc, I can’t be involved,” Jones said. “I’m in a very delicate situation. Besides, she’s your dead girl, not mine.”

  “But-”

  “You’d think you’d be grateful I was fixing this up for you.”

  “But-”

  “Make sure you ditch the car someplace out of the way when you’re done.”

  “But-”

  “And don’t worry.” Jones jerked a thumb at Ginny, who watched from Morgan’s porch. “We’ll take care of the kid.” He made a trigger-pulling motion with his finger.

  “No!” Morgan’s eyes bulged. “Let me worry about her.”

  “Want to do it yourself, huh? Sure, put her in the same hole as the other one.” Jones slipped something cold and hard into Morgan’s hand.

  Morgan looked. A little blue-metal revolver with a stubby barrel. “What the fuck’s thi
s?” He’d wanted to sound tough and outraged, but it came out like a squeak.

  “It’s a.38. You said you’d handle her.”

  “Right.” Now wasn’t the time to argue. He’d take Ginny with him and figure what to do with her later. But he wasn’t going to shoot her.

  Maybe himself, but not her.

  Morgan waved Ginny into the Plymouth. He took the keys from Jones and climbed behind the wheel. The car’s interior reeked of stale cigarettes, and he told Ginny to roll down the window. The cold wind steadied him.

  They were a mile from the peach orchard when Ginny spoke.

  “They wouldn’t give me back my tape recorder, but I have my notepad.”

  “This will not be a newspaper story,” Morgan said. “You must know you can’t say anything about this to anyone ever.” And how do you shut up a chatty undergrad newspaper reporter? The old man’s revolver nudged cold against his thigh in his front pocket.

  “I know. It wasn’t your fault, right? I mean, you’d be fucking ruined if they found out. I mean, with a student and everything. Not that I find it offensive, but a lot of the establishment types like to maintain this artificial hierarchy.”

  “Right.”

  “Besides, I figure if I help you, you might be able to help me, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I asked for this assignment specifically because I wanted to speak to you,” Ginny said. “What I really want to be is a novelist.”

  Maybe Morgan would shoot her after all.

  He turned the Plymouth into the peach orchard. The narrow road petered out, and he found himself zigzagging among the trees. He parked in an arbitrary spot. He and Ginny took the shovels and started digging.

  Morgan began sweating again, rings under his armpits, stomach queasy. His hands ached with the cold, fingers rubbing raw on the shovel’s handle. He hadn’t done anything this physical in a long time. He stopped digging, leaned on the shovel. His chest heaved, short breaths puffing out like fog. “Okay, good enough.”