Pistol Poets

by Victor Gischler

  The kid paled. “Are you the police?”

  “Drug Enforcement Administration.” Stubbs flipped his wallet open and closed again at light-speed before shoving it back into his jacket. “I think you better let me in.”

  Lancaster stepped back, eyes steady on Stubbs.

  Stubbs closed the door behind him, looked around the apartment. The kid had about a thousand books stacked along the walls. He read the title of one at eye level, “The Spanish Tragedy.”

  Lancaster didn’t say anything.

  “We had a Spanish tragedy ourselves a few months ago. Buncha wetbacks coming across near Juarez, and we knew some of them were mules, carting a wad of smack across the river. So we figured what the heck, shoot ’em all and let God sort ’em out.” Stubbs mimed sighting a rifle. “We picked ’em off as they hit the American side. That’s how we handle drug dealers in the DEA.”

  Lancaster looked like he was about to puke or faint.

  “Listen, kid. I think you know why I’m here. I need you to talk and I need you to talk right now and real loud about what you know.”

  “About what?”

  “Everything. All of it.” This wasn’t the approach Stubbs had in mind when he came to talk to Lancaster, but it was obvious the kid was right on the edge. If Stubbs could just nudge him over, he might spill his guts big-time. There was some shit going on here and it was all tangled together, drugs and Annie Walsh and this kid Lancaster. A lot of dumb shits thought detective work was all fingerprints and looking at cigar ash under a magnifying glass like Sherlock fucking Holmes. Bullshit. It was asking the right questions and squeezing out useful answers.

  Lancaster started to shrug and talk and stammer all at the same time.

  “Hey, take it easy,” Stubbs said. “I’m here to save your ass if you cooperate. You got any beer?”

  Lancaster raised an eyebrow. “Uh… I have a Grolsch in the refrigerator.”

  “And that’s beer?”

  Lancaster nodded.

  “Bring it.”

  Lancaster went to the kitchen, came back with a big green bottle, and handed it to Stubbs. His hands shook.

  Stubbs tried to open the bottle. But the cap wouldn’t twist.

  “Sorry,” Lancaster said. He went to the kitchen again and came back with a church key. He popped open the beer for Stubbs.

  Stubbs drank. “This some foreign shit?”

  “From Denmark.”

  Stubbs took another slug. “Not bad.”

  “I haven’t seen Annie Walsh in weeks,” Lancaster said.

  Good. The kid was ready to talk. The suspense was eating him alive.

  “To hell with Walsh, kid,” Stubbs said. “Talk to me about the drugs.”

  “I really don’t know anything about that.” Lancaster’s voice was weaker than dishwater. He wouldn’t meet Stubbs’s eyes.

  “Talk, kid.”

  “I–I don’t know anything.”

  “Talk, you little shit. I’ll put you in jail and you’ll get butt-raped by a nigger the size of Mike Tyson.”

  “I don’t know-”

  “Talk!”

  “Please, I-”

  “You little prick.” Stubbs shook the beer bottle at him. It foamed, dripped on the carpet. “I’ll shove this bottle up your ass and break it off. You don’t fuck with the Drug Enforcement Agency.” He put his nose an inch from Lancaster’s, yelled, beer spit flying.

  Lancaster backed up, eyes wide. Terror.

  “Come back here.” Stubbs grabbed Lancaster’s arm at the elbow, dug into a pressure point with his thumb.

  Lancaster winced, tried to twist away. Stubbs held him one-handed.

  The detective finished the beer, tossed the bottle onto the floor. It rolled up against a stack of books. “This way.” Stubbs pulled Lancaster into the kitchen.

  “Hey.”

  “Shut up.”

  Stubbs shoved the kid up against the kitchen cabinets. “Stay put.”

  Lancaster obeyed.

  The kitchen was dim and yellow, paint chipping on the cabinets. The linoleum needed a good scrub.

  Stubbs opened the refrigerator, took out another Grolsch, opened it. He smacked his lips, stood examining Lancaster’s open refrigerator. “Holy shit, kid. How do you live?” There were two more beers, a jar of pickle brine, a soy sauce packet, and a defeated length of sagging celery.

  He closed the refrigerator again, gulped the beer as he opened random kitchen cabinets.

  “Don’t you need a warrant or something?” Lancaster asked.

  Stubbs tapped his chest with a fat finger. Hard. “You a lawyer, kid?”

  “What department did you say you were with?”

  “Drug Enforcement Agency, so don’t yank me off, okay?”

  Lancaster said, “When you first came in you said you were with the Drug Enforcement Administration. Not Agency.”

  Stubbs froze. “What?”

  “I think you’d better go,” Lancaster said. He was wary, but the tables were slowly turning. “Or maybe I should call the local authorities, and we could all discuss this together.” Lancaster was testing the waters. He had a piece of something and was pushing it now.

  “Now hold on, kid. Wait a minute.” Stubbs was losing control of the situation, scrambling to get the upper hand again was making it worse. “Dammit, I’m with the Drug Enforcement- The DEA goddammit!”

  Lancaster lifted the phone off the hook. It was an old rotary dial model on the kitchen wall. “Let’s get a few deputies over here.”

  “Kid, don’t-”

  “I’m sure impersonating an officer of the law is some kind of serious offense,” Lancaster said. He had a full smug going. He didn’t believe in Stubbs anymore.

  “Kid, I swear, you’re making a mistake.”

  Lancaster dialed.

  Stubbs grabbed the phone with two meaty hands and ripped it off the wall. Dropped it on the floor and kicked it. Lancaster was already running. He pushed past Stubbs, through the living room, making for the front door.

  Stubbs ran after him, dove at the kid’s legs, and tangled him up. Both on the floor. Lancaster tried to kick Stubbs away, the heel of his shoe digging sharply into the top of Stubbs’s head. Stubbs yanked his legs, climbed on top of them so he couldn’t kick, punched Lancaster hard once in the gut.

  Lancaster whuffed air. His eyes bulged.

  Stubbs shifted up, sat on Lancaster’s chest. Stubbs was huffing hard at the sudden exertion. Slick beer sweat under his arms and on his forehead. He felt the distant tug of nausea.

  “Drugs,” Stubbs barked.

  “It wasn’t me. I–It was Ellis.” Lancaster gulped air. Tears streaming from the sides of his eyes.

  Stubbs slapped him loud across the face. “Who the fuck’s Ellis?”

  “Sherman Ellis. A student in my class with Professor Morgan. He had a whole bag of cocaine. I only even looked at it once.”

  A whole bag of coke? How much? Stubbs wondered.

  “Please, I can’t breathe.” Lancaster writhed beneath Stubbs’s mass.

  Stubbs took Lancaster’s throat in his hands. “You’ll get worse than that. How much coke? Did the Ellis kid say?”

  “Like a hundred thousand bucks’ worth. Maybe more. I don’t know. He was going to dump it off for twenty and give me and Wayne a thousand just to go with him.”

  “Wayne?”

  “Another student.”

  A hundred thousand in coke. Stubbs knew some contacts in OK City. He could maybe unload the stuff for fifty or sixty easy. He felt his hands close on Lancaster’s throat. Stubbs’s own breath came hot with beer stink. His heart hammered in his head.

  Lancaster gagged, pulled at Stubbs’s thick fingers.

  Stubbs could make a lot more on the coke than he could tracking down Annie for the Walshes. This was just the kind of opportunity he always kept an eye peeled for. His hands tightened again on Lancaster.

  But this kid. This damn-smart-ass, know-it-all kid. He couldn’t let him call the cops. Th
ey’d pull his license and slap a charge on him for sure. He couldn’t let the kid talk. No way.

  Lancaster bucked, scratched at Stubbs’s hands, turned blue, mouth working noiselessly.

  Always some smart-ass college punk making life hard for Stubbs.

  But who had the drugs? This Ellis kid? Annie’s journal had mentioned something about a drug connection. He’d ask Lancaster. He’d make the kid talk. He needed more information.

  “Kid?”

  But Timothy Lancaster lay stone-still, eyes open to the dull, cracked ceiling.

  Stubbs drove fast, hands shaking and knuckle white on the steering wheel. Lancaster’s last bottle of Grolsch nestled cold between his legs. He paged through Annie Walsh’s journal on the seat next to him. He flipped to the last entry, read it.

  Tonight I see Professor Morgan.

  Not much help, but it was the last entry. This Morgan guy might’ve been the last person to see her. He flipped back through the journal. A car honked loud. Stubbs had slipped over into the other lane. He jerked the wheel back, kept thumbing in the journal.

  He was breathing heavy, still seeing Lancaster’s face. Damn, snotty, know-it-all kid. He gulped beer. Wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The window was down, cold air blowing, but Stubbs felt hot. Around his neck. His ears. Sweat.

  Jay Morgan.

  Okay, Professor Egghead. Let’s see what you have for old Deke.

  twenty-six

  Morgan tried to get Ellis on the phone, but the kid was nowhere, hadn’t shown for class. The dean would probably go ape-shit. Whittaker wanted Ellis.

  Okay, screw it. He’d try calling again later, perhaps call some of Ellis’s other professors. Maybe they knew where he was keeping himself. In the meantime, Morgan could get some work done.

  He spread a blank sheet of lined paper on his desk, stared at it. Today he would write one good poem. Only one. He looked at the paper. It was still blank. He’d cleared his day, no tutoring, no grading. Nothing. Only the poem.

  He got up, went into the kitchen, and put on a pot of coffee. He watched it brew. He looked over his shoulder at the relentlessly blank sheet of paper on his desk.

  Poetry was hard.

  He watched the pot fill, then poured a mug, walked slowly back to his desk, sipping. He eased back into the chair. Morgan had not one idea in his empty head, not even the seed of an idea rattling in his hollow, freshly swept cranium.

  He thought fleetingly about smoking the cigar for the old man. The idea danced just over the horizon of his imagination.

  He picked up his pen. He made the point of his pen touch the paper. It left a black dot. Soon he’d make the pen move. It would be the start of a word. He felt it coming, the word forming. Potential energy built in his thumb and forefinger. Here came the first word. The poem was beginning.

  The phone rang.

  “Cocksuckers!”

  Morgan threw down the pen, grabbed the phone. “What?”

  “Hey now, Morgan. Get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

  “I was working, Reams.”

  “Listen, how about you come over this afternoon and help me with a project? I’m building a gazebo. Just got back from Sears with quite an impressive assortment of tools. The lumber’s piled high as an elephant’s eye.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “How hard can it be?” Reams said. “Hammer nails, saw wood, nothing to it.”

  “I told you I was working.”

  “So you did. What on?”

  “Trying to write a poem.”

  “Is that all? Dash it out quick, then head over to my place. The sun’s out and the beer is in the cooler. Be a good change of pace. Work with your hands for a change.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’ll love it,” Reams said. “We’ll let our pants sag low until our butt cracks are showing. Sweat and everything like real handymen.”

  Morgan sighed. “I appreciate the call, Reams, but really I need to get in some writing.”

  “Well, okay then.” A pout in Reams’s voice. “Maybe next time.” He hung up.

  Morgan looked at his piece of paper. There was a jagged ink mark where his hand had jerked at the sound of the telephone. He crumpled the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. He spread a fresh sheet. This time he got a word out. The. He looked at it, shook his head, crossed it out, and replaced it with A. He crossed that out and wrote The again.

  Good. This was progress. He began writing in earnest. Sweat broke out across his forehead. It came properly now, a line or two at a time. He crossed out a line, replaced it, switched lines around.

  Finally Morgan had four good lines. The first stanza. He felt exhausted. He looked at the clock. Eighty-two minutes. Not bad. His coffee had cooled. He took his mug into the kitchen, dumped it into the sink, and poured a fresh cup.

  Back at his desk.

  The next stanza was crucial. He needed a good transition. He wanted the poem to make a turn in thought, but it needed to be subtle. His pen stalled again. He should never have gotten up for coffee. His rhythm had broken and he’d lost momentum. He frowned at the paper, tried to conjure the mood again.

  A knock at the door.

  “Goddammit!”

  He looked out the front door’s peephole. Ginny Conrad stood on his porch. She’d done something with her hair. It was pulled back, highlighted with garish burgundy streaks. She wore only a light jacket. Reams was right. It was a nice day, sun brilliant in the wide sky. Perhaps winter was fading at last.

  She knocked again, and he opened the door.

  “I was writing,” Morgan told her. He wanted to preempt any ideas she might have about shucking her clothes and crawling into his bed.

  She seemed not to hear, pushing her way in. “I thought we could have lunch.”

  “Lunch.” Morgan tasted the word, rolled it around on his tongue. His concentration had broken anyway, and a bite would be good.

  They ate at the same pizza joint Morgan had gone to with Annette Grayson. This time the meal was more relaxed. He wasn’t on the make. No pressure. They talked of unimportant things and laughed.

  Once, a silence between them stretched, and Ginny leaned slightly across the table and asked, “Do you wonder what it might be like if I were a little older and you were a little younger?”

  “No, not really,” Morgan said.

  A grin tickled the corners of Ginny’s mouth. “Neither do I.”

  “Good. Better this way.”

  “Better what way?” Ginny asked.

  “Like this,” Morgan said, but he really didn’t know what he meant.

  “I guess,” Ginny said. “I don’t know what I want.”

  “I don’t know either.”

  “What?” Ginny asked. “You mean you don’t know what I want or you don’t know what you want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  And that about summed it up.

  Back at the house, Ginny already had her blouse off before Morgan could decide to protest or not. He didn’t want her. He felt guilty about not writing, and he was full of pizza.

  He was, however, beginning to develop some sort of friendly feeling toward her, like for a distant niece or a cat. But he didn’t want to sleep with her again, not now. It just wasn’t in him. Even when she stripped completely, running her stiff fingers down between her furry folds, he couldn’t quite imagine taking her in broad daylight after a heavy meal. It had been different during the driving rainstorm. Or maybe it was different now. Maybe everything was changing. Maybe he’d changed.

  The phone rang.

  She’d already slipped into his bed. “Let it ring.”

  “It might be important.” He grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

  “Is this Jay Morgan?” A woman’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Nurse Benneton at County General Hospital. We have a Louis Reams here. He’s been injured, and he listed you as a contact name. Can you possibly come down and pick him up?”

&nbs
p; “He listed me?”

  “Yes, sir. Can you come down in the next twenty minutes or so?”

  “But why would he list me?”

  A pause. “Sir?”

  “I don’t want to pick him up.”

  Another pause. “He really shouldn’t drive himself.”

  “How bad is he? What happened?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t release patient-”

  “But you called me to pick him up, right? Doesn’t that entitle me to know what happened?”

  Ginny came to the bedroom doorway, holding a sheet over her but failing to cover up any of the important parts. She mouthed the words “what’s wrong?”

  Morgan waved her quiet. To the nurse he said, “Never mind. I’ll be down as soon as I can.” He hung up.

  Ginny asked, “What is it?”

  “I have to pick up a friend from the hospital,” Morgan said. “Sorry, but I have to go.”

  “Is he hurt bad?”

  “I’m sure he’s okay,” Morgan said.

  “I’ll wait here for you,” Ginny said.

  Morgan sighed. “Sure.” He closed the door behind him.

  Reams sat in the passenger seat of Morgan’s car with his left hand in the air and his head down between his knees. A thick white bandage was tightly wrapped around his middle finger. Reams breathlessly related the story.

  He’d been sawing wood with a particularly wicked little saw which had neatly sliced off the top half inch of the finger. Blood had spurted, and Reams had run in circles for a bit before calling an ambulance.

  Morgan said Reams could probably have wrapped the finger in a towel and driven himself to the hospital.

  “Too light-headed,” Reams had explained. “I saw stars. I never believed that about seeing stars before, but I do now. I felt I was spiraling down into a long black hole, slipping right out of the daylight, swimming toward a long cottony sleep.”

  It sounded like something Reams had read in a Raymond Chandler novel.

  Morgan turned onto Reams’s road. “I’m taking you home. You need to stop anywhere first, get a prescription or anything?”

  Reams shook a little bottle of pills in the other hand. “These will get me by for a day or two. Doctor had some samples. For pain.” Reams still had his head between his legs.