Pistol Poets

by Victor Gischler

  No, there just wasn’t any honest way to do this deal, and frankly Duncan didn’t bet on losing any sleep over it.

  Nothing to do now but let the truck get close and park. If he could get the coon into the barn, they could bushwhack him good.

  “Stop the truck,” Jenks said.

  DelPrego parked the truck a hundred feet from the barn and shifted into park. He left the engine running.

  “Here’s how it’s going to happen,” Jenks said. “You guys get out the truck, see. Stand there by the open doors and watch me go toward the guy with the money. Be looking around in case he’s got some buddies. Lancaster, you can leave that.32 in your coat pocket. It’s small enough. Keep your hand in there like you’re staying warm. Keep hold of the gun, be ready to bring it out fast in case some shit happens. You hear?”

  Lancaster shook his head. “I changed my mind.” He looked a little green, breath short. “Wayne? You changed your mind too, right? I want to go.”

  Jenks ignored Lancaster, nudged DelPrego. “You’ll need to leave that scattergun on the seat, but the door will be open so you can grab it quick if you have to.”

  “Right.”

  “But your main job is to drive. Some kind of hell breaks loose, you come get me. I’ll jump in the bed so you can drive off quick. Slow down a little, so I can jump in the back.”

  “You expect trouble.”

  “Just being careful. Lancaster, you got to spray bullets at whoever’s causing the trouble. Keep me covered until I’m in the truck.”

  “God. Sherman, look, I don’t want to shoot anybody, okay? I don’t think I can. You said all I had to do was sit in the car.”

  “Sit in the car with the gun. You just got to make them duck. Give me a chance to get back.”

  “I have to pee.”

  “Chances are he’ll give me the money and I’ll give him the powder and that’s that. So you two stay cool. Don’t twitch out on me. Keep your eyes open.”

  DelPrego opened their car door, stepped out. Lancaster was frozen in his seat. Jenks slid out DelPrego’s side, walked around, and stood in front of the pickup. DelPrego leaned on the driver’s-side door, the butt of the shotgun on the seat within quick reach.

  The barn door creaked open and Moses Duncan stepped out. He had a paper grocery sack under his arm. Jenks tried to eye him for weapons, but that corduroy jacket was so baggy, could have been twenty guns and a bazooka under there. Jenks waved, set the gym bag with the cocaine on the hood of DelPrego’s truck.

  “Hey there, boy,” called Duncan. “You’re on time. Good. I got your money right here.”

  “Let’s trade,” Jenks said.

  “That’s fine. Come on in the barn and we’ll settle up.”

  Jenks shook his head. “Out here in the open.”

  “Hell, boy, I just want to get out of the wind.” Duncan frowned, rubbed his nose with his thumb. “Besides, I don’t know them two fellows you brought. Sort of makes a man nervous.”

  “Look, dude, this is simple,” Jenks said. “You walk this way and I’ll walk to you and we’ll trade in the middle.”

  Duncan looked back into the barn, turned again to Jenks. “Yeah, okay.”

  They both started walking and met between DelPrego’s pickup and the barn. Jenks dropped the bag at Duncan’s feet.

  Duncan smiled big. He was missing a molar toward the back. “Got your cash right here. Had to hit up a few folks to raise this kind of money, but I managed to scrape it together.” Duncan unrolled the top of the grocery sack, started to reach inside.

  “Just hand me the bag.” Jenks grabbed it, started to pull it out of Duncan’s hands.

  For a split second Duncan resisted, his smile wavering. “No problem. Count it if you want.” He released his grip and Jenks took the sack.

  It had happened before that some slick criminal had hidden a gun in the money bag, gone in for greenbacks and came out with the heat. Jenks wasn’t taking any chances. He opened the bag, peeked inside.

  DelPrego’s voice came strained and panicked from behind. “Sherman, look out!”

  Duncan’s hand was halfway out from under his jacket. Jenks saw the pistol and leapt forward, tossed the bag of money into Duncan’s face, and grabbed at the gun. Duncan kicked him away, pulled the pistol, but Jenks was already swinging. He popped Duncan solid on the nose, pressed it flat. Duncan grunted and his pistol flew, landed behind him.

  Jenks went for his Glock, and behind him DelPrego’s shotgun thundered.

  Jenks looked up.

  A lanky redneck in a blue plaid shirt fell through the open door of the barn’s loft. He tumbled in B-movie slow motion, ragged arms flapping in the air. He did a long slow flip and landed on his back in the dirt.

  Explosions from the front window of the house. Shots.

  Bullets chewed up the ground around Jenks’s feet, flew over his head, dotted the hood of DelPrego’s truck with metallic ptunks. Jenks fled toward the pickup.

  DelPrego was in the driver’s seat and already screaming toward him.

  Lancaster dropped the.32 onto the floor of the pickup. He squeezed himself as low and as small as possible. DelPrego slammed on the brakes too late, smacked Jenks in the upper thighs with the front bumper.

  Jenks sprawled back, landed hard in the dust. “Fuck!”

  Shots from the barn now. Duncan had recovered his pistol and was blasting wildly from the barn door. Most of the shots went high, but one shattered a headlight.

  Jenks fired from his back, upside down over his head back at Duncan, didn’t hit anything but sky. Jenks shifted, shot at the house, shattered the glass of the front window into glittering shards.

  DelPrego stuck the sawed-off shotgun out the window, fired it one-handed. The buckshot pellets scorched the barn door, but a few ventilated Duncan’s jacket under his left arm. Duncan’s scream was high-pitched, like a frightened animal’s. He ducked back into the barn, pushed the door closed.

  Jenks groaned to his feet, hobbled around to the side of the pickup, and threw himself in the bed. He still had the gym bag in a tight grip. “Drive! Get the fuck out of here, man.”

  DelPrego drove twenty feet then slammed on the brakes again.

  “What are you doing?” Lancaster’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. Shots had erupted again from the house’s front window. “Keep driving.”

  “I’m going for the money,” DelPrego shouted. “Cover me.”

  DelPrego dashed from the truck, snatched the paper sack out of the dirt.

  “Cover you? What?” Lancaster yelled after him.

  Jenks raised his head from the back of the pickup, saw what DelPrego was doing. “Run, white boy. Move your ass.” He pointed the Glock at the house, unloaded the rest of his clip, the pistol bucking in his hand. More glass rained.

  DelPrego jumped back in the truck, tossed the sack into Lancaster’s lap.

  He slapped the truck in gear and fishtailed around, stomped the gas. He clipped Duncan’s mailbox as he made the turn out of the driveway. The mailbox made a hollow pop and spun off into the hedges. He hauled ass down the narrow dirt road, the plume of dust behind him like some kind of freak sandstorm. Each bump and dip almost tossed Jenks out of the back. He only slowed down when they finally reached the highway.

  DelPrego pointed the truck back toward town, chest heaving. Lancaster still shook.

  In the bed, Jenks lay flat on his back, looked up unblinking at the cloudless blue sky stretching wide and forever. After a few minutes he climbed to one knee and knocked on the little window in back of the cab.

  Lancaster slid it open.

  “Check the money,” Jenks said.

  Lancaster opened the bag, pulled out a wad of newspaper cut to seem like bills. He dumped the whole bag onto the floor of the pickup at his feet. It was all newspaper.

  “Oh, no,” Lancaster said. “We were almost killed. Almost shot for shredded newspaper. I can’t believe I let you two talk me into this.”

  Jenks wasn’t listening. He was alr
eady trying to figure what his next move would be.

  “Cheer up.” DelPrego grinned big at Lancaster. “If it makes you feel any better, you can have my share.”

  Moses Duncan unbuttoned his jacket with trembling hands. His ribs blazed. He felt warm and wet under his shirt. He peeled the jacket off, explored his side with tentative fingers. It stung. He wiped the blood away, made himself look.

  One of the shotgun pellets had only scraped him, a deep gash, plenty of blood.

  Nervous laughter spilled out of him. He thought the shotgun had ended him, the hot stab of pain when the guy in the truck had squeezed one off. He ripped off his T-shirt, bunched it against the wound.

  He looked outside, saw Big John flat on his back.

  “Hell.”

  He took two halting steps toward the house, saw the shattered glass of the front window. He tried to shout “Eddie” but it came out hoarse and choked. He was shivering now, breath coming in short, aching gasps. He gathered his voice. “Eddie!”

  Nothing.

  twenty

  Deke Stubbs sat across from the bored police sergeant, trying not to look as impatient as he felt. The sergeant was on the phone and didn’t seem in any kind of hurry to get back to the P.I.

  Stubbs craned his neck, looked around the station. It was a pretty rinky-dink, tinstar operation. They probably handled minor crime, drunk college kids, traffic tickets, the usual. The sergeant wore his khaki shirt with the top two buttons open. A big straw hat pushed back on his head, and a police revolver slung low on his hip like a gunfighter’s. He probably had a lasso in his pickup.

  Stubbs didn’t think he was going to get much from the local law, but he thought he might as well work the case by the numbers. The Walshes had called the cops when they hadn’t heard from their daughter in four days. According to Eileen Walsh the cops were “impotent yahoos.” Probably true. In any case, he was obligated to stop in and see if there’d been any developments.

  The sergeant hung up the phone. His eyes focused on Stubbs again, and he frowned. “Oh, yeah. Now what can we do you for, Mr. Stunk?” His voice had a deep twang.

  “It’s Stubbs.” He stuck a cigarette between his lips. “I told you already, Sarge. I’m following up on a missing college kid. Annie Walsh. Her parents called you and made a report.”

  “Don’t light that. No smoking in county buildings.”

  Stubbs stuck the cigarette behind his ear. He looked at the cop’s name tag. “Listen, Sergeant Hightower, maybe this is a bother for you, but the parents are really worried. How about you just check the files?”

  Hightower nodded, smacked his teeth, and ran a thumb over the stubble on his chin. “Well, let me tell you something, Stubbs. Better yet, let me show you something.” He stood slowly, shuffled to a file cabinet behind his desk. He opened the top drawer, pulled out a thick file, and put it in front of Stubbs as he sat down again.

  “That’s just this last eighteen months or so,” Hightower said. “All parents who’ve called about missing kids. Nearly four hundred on file. Half these parents phone all panicked if the kids miss responding to one e-mail. And the kids, hell, they get a taste of freedom and that’s all she wrote. You think they always tell their folks when they run off with a boyfriend or a girlfriend or join some cult or even just load up a van full of beer with some fraternity buddies and head to Mexico? Shit no. Most of them turn up a week or a month later and can’t believe anybody was looking for them. And one more thing. Once the little spoiled brats leave the county, it ain’t our problem no more. We’ll forward the report to the State Police if someone requests it, but it almost never gets that far.”

  “What about the ones dead or kidnapped?”

  Hightower sighed. “It happens, but not often and not recently.”

  “Annie Walsh has been missing two weeks.”

  “Hell, she could be in Colorado skiing.”

  “Or she could be dead.”

  “True enough,” Hightower said. “But until we get a body or some other kind of evidence it just ain’t a priority.”

  Stubbs grinned and stood. “Thanks, Sarge. It’s cops like you that keep guys like me in business.”

  Hightower frowned, watched the private investigator shake his head as he left the police station.

  Stubbs drove in ever-widening circles around the little college town. He wasn’t sight-seeing or getting the lay of the land although maybe that was a good idea. He simply thought better while driving. He hung one arm out the open window of the Dodge, let the cold blast him sharp in the face. It felt good.

  He wasn’t thinking about how to go about his investigation. That was no problem. He just needed to find a thread, some kind of trail, then he’d keep following it until it led to Annie Walsh. Someone had seen or talked to the girl. Stubbs just needed to find out who.

  How far could he string the Walshes along? Stubbs got paid by the day, and this wouldn’t be the first time he took a more or less straightforward case and stretched it out like he was searching for the Lindbergh baby. He figured he could feed the Walshes little tidbits of information every two or three days, who he’d interviewed, where he’d been. From their end it would look like he was doing a lot of work.

  Okay, so what was the first stop? He checked his notepad, read the address for Annie’s apartment. Maybe the roommate would be home. A good place to start.

  The girl was a stick figure, sickly pale, glasses thick. Lips fat and dark red. She looked at Stubbs through the door crack and over the chain. “Yeah?”

  “I’m Deke Stubbs. Sorry to bother you. I’m a private investigator. Annie’s parents hired me to look for her. Can we talk?”

  She unchained the door and opened it a bit wider, leaned against the door frame, looking up at Stubbs without any particular expectations.

  Stubbs checked his notepad. “You’re Tiffany?”

  “Just Tiff.”

  “Sure. You mind if I come in?”

  She thought about it a little too long, but then stepped aside. Stubbs walked in, looked the place over. Secondhand furniture, a futon couch, prints of classic paintings cheaply framed. The living room turned into the dining room with a small kitchen on the side.

  “When was the last time you saw Annie?” he asked.

  “I’ve already been through this with Annie’s mom,” she said. “All I know is she’s not here and rent’s due in a week.”

  “Yeah, that’s a drag, but it would help. Really.”

  “It was right after the start of school, about two weeks ago. Maybe a bit more, but I didn’t think much about it when I didn’t see her for a while.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I didn’t say this to Annie’s mom, but in my opinion the girl was pretty much a slut. I’m sorry if that’s offensive.”

  “I’m not offended.”

  “When a girl has a different boyfriend one right after another, she’s a slut. So I hardly ever saw her sometimes. She’d stop in to check mail or change clothes or whatever, but she’d sleep out a lot of nights.”

  “Do you have names for any of these guys?”

  “It wasn’t any of my business, and I didn’t care and I didn’t want to know. Sometimes older men would come pick her up. You know what I mean by older.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you liked her.”

  “She was just a roommate.”

  “Can I look in her room?”

  Tiff shrugged. “It’s through there.”

  She led him past a bathroom down a short hall, opened a door. A tiny bedroom. Clothes piled on the bed and behind the door. No pictures on the wall. Spartan.

  Stubbs opened dresser drawers, pushed the clothes around. Nothing.

  “What are you looking for?” Tiff acted like somebody who didn’t want to seem interested but was.

  “I don’t know.” Stubbs looked under the bed. “Anything helpful.”

  “She didn’t have a lot of stuff,” Tiff said. “All the furniture is mine.”

  Stubbs circl
ed to the other side of the bed. He’d tuned the girl out. He sat on the bed, ran his hands between the mattress and box spring. His fingers hit something.

  “Can I get a glass of water?” He rubbed his throat. “Dust.”

  “Sure.” She left.

  Stubbs pulled out the book. It was a journal, fake-leather bound, lined blank pages like they had in most bookstores. He thumbed through it quickly. It was half journal and half poetry notebook. Some of the entries had dates. Many didn’t. He closed it and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

  Tiff returned and gave him the water.

  He gulped, smacked his lips. “Thanks.” He handed the glass back to her. “I guess that’s all. Nothing here.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Just routine. Had to give it a try.” He took a business card out of his wallet. “My number’s on here. Give me a ring if you hear from Annie or find out anything useful. Her folks are worried.”

  “Okay.”

  He gave her a final wave as he left the duplex. He slouched into the Dodge and pointed it toward a TGI Friday’s he’d seen on the way into town. He’d have a beer and go through the journal.

  A thread, that was all he needed. The little start of a trail to follow.

  twenty-one

  Jenks, DelPrego, and Lancaster stood around the hood of DelPrego’s pickup in dreary silence. Jenks quietly puffed a Philly Blunt. They were parked in front of Jenks’s garage apartment. The neighborhood was still, most everyone at work or school.

  DelPrego fingered one of the ragged bullet holes in the hood. “They shot my truck.”

  They lapsed back into silence. Lancaster shifted from one foot to another.

  Jenks sucked deep on the cigar, held the smoke in his lungs, then let it out in a long gray stream. He looked at DelPrego. “You ran me over, you dumbass.”