Pistol Poets

by Victor Gischler

  “Jesus, will you sit up?” Morgan said.

  “I need to sit like this. Isn’t this what you’re supposed to do?”

  “That’s for airline crashes. That’s crash position you’re in.”

  Reams said, “I thought I was supposed to let the blood flow to my head, or out of my head, or something.”

  “I’ll have you home in a few minutes and you can stick your head in a bucket if you want.”

  “Dammit all, Morgan, have a heart why don’t you? I’ve been mortally wounded.”

  “It’s just your finger.”

  “I think I sliced an artery,” Reams said. “If I’d passed out before I made it to the phone, I most likely would have bled to death.”

  Morgan doubted that.

  “I’m feeling a little ill even now. I’ve had a shock to the system. That’s how these seemingly little injuries can sometimes be serious. They shock the system.”

  “Don’t puke in my car,” Morgan said.

  Morgan parked in Reams’s driveway. Sluggishly, Reams climbed out, still holding his hand over his head. It looked like he was flipping the bird to the whole neighborhood. He fished his keys out of his pocket with the other hand.

  “Thanks, Morgan. I didn’t know who else to call, but I knew you said you’d be home all day.”

  “Go take one of your pills,” Morgan said.

  “Right.” Reams closed the car door, took two steps toward his house, and stopped. He swayed. A pause. Reams tumbled, wilted facefirst into the front lawn.

  Morgan watched for a few seconds, but Reams didn’t get back up.

  “Hell.” Morgan shut off the car, climbed out, and picked Reams up from the grass. “You okay?”

  “Hmm? What?” Reams rubbed his head. “See, I told you. I asked the doctor for a transfusion, but he wouldn’t do it. Damn quack.”

  “Uh-huh.” Morgan dragged Reams to the front door, took his keys, and unlocked it. They went in. Morgan draped Reams on the sofa.

  “Thanks, Morgan. I really owe you even more now.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, really. First that craziness with Pritcher and now this. I think you ought to come down to Houston with me. I know I can put in a word with that guy I know, get you a job lined up for fall.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” Reams squirmed on the sofa, arranged it so his hand was elevated above his head. “What’s it like?”

  Morgan sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair across from Reams. “What’s what like?”

  “The gypsy prof gig, moving around all the time?”

  Morgan thought about it. “I used to like it, or thought I did. Changing scenery all the time helped me not think about other things. But I think I’m getting tired of it. I think maybe I need some roots. It’s time to start putting my energies back into my work, you know? Hard to accomplish anything when you’re always worried about your next paycheck.”

  But Reams didn’t hear. He snored lightly, middle finger over his head, blazing white to the world.

  twenty-seven

  While waiting for Morgan to return, Ginny Conrad went through all the professor’s cabinets, closets, and drawers. She realized, even as she was doing it, that her actions were the result of a minor, quirky character flaw. She hated to be left out of anything, hated the thought that something was going on and she wasn’t in on it.

  Once, when she was eleven years old, she’d painted a Magic Marker moustache on herself and taken her father’s Dodge. She’d picked up two friends and went to see an R-rated movie in which there was rumored to be nudity. The policeman who brought her home warned her father he’d better keep an eye on her.

  The incident had only strengthened her resolve to get away with things. She made up her own rules as she went along, and damn the consequences.

  Screwing Professor Jay Morgan was a thrill. He was older (a teacher!) and a writer. He hung out with dangerous criminals! Helping Professor Morgan stash the body of the dead girl had been one of the most exciting things she’d ever done. She’d been so horny in the peach orchard, she’d been unable to keep her hands off him.

  But Morgan had been a bit of a dud since. He seemed timid, almost frightened, that he was going to be caught or that something would go wrong. Oh, the sex was halfway good, but she could get sex anywhere. And rummaging Morgan’s closets was dullsville. Pale blue Hanes boxer shorts, a half-used tube of BENGAY, and a clip-on tie from Sears were the highlights.

  She thought about putting her clothes on, leaving a note for Morgan.

  No, she’d wait. One more roll in the hay before cutting him loose.

  Deke Stubbs screeched into the parking space in front of the convenience store. He shut off the engine, went in, hands shaking as he pulled crumpled bills from his pants pocket. He bought another six-pack of beer and a pack of cigarettes.

  The girl behind the counter looked scared of him. Stubbs caught his reflection in the fish-eye mirror behind the girl. He looked distorted and evil, eyes red, skin waxen and moist. I’m a villain, thought Stubbs, like in a creepy foreign film or a Stephen King novel. Stubbs didn’t watch foreign films or read much beyond the sports page, but he knew he’d crossed some line and couldn’t get back.

  On his way out to the car he ripped a phone book out of a booth. He sat in the front seat, flipped through the residential listings until he found Jay Morgan’s address.

  He popped a beer, gulped half, lit a cigarette, and sucked it slowly. He let out a long gray breath.

  There was nothing to do now but see this through. He nodded to himself, pleased with the grim finality of his decision. Yeah, he’d have to go all the way. The Lancaster kid wasn’t coming back, and it wasn’t like Stubbs planned to turn himself in and say he was sorry. Rage and craziness had killed the kid. Stubbs would have to get his shit together from there on out. It was all or nothing.

  Tracking down the cocaine was his first priority. He’d look for Annie Walsh still, and he’d send the parents a bill of course. But following Annie’s trail might lead him to the drugs. He was way too deep into this shit not to get some kind of payoff.

  Stubbs finished the cigarette, started the engine, and pointed the car toward Morgan’s house. No more kid gloves. He’d find out what Morgan knew about this the hard way or the easy way. It didn’t matter.

  Stubbs was committed.

  He found Morgan’s house and parked across from it on the street. He watched for ten minutes, but didn’t see anybody in the windows. He drank one more beer while he thumbed through the Hustler again.

  When he finished the beer, he crushed the can and tossed it into the backseat. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out his.45 automatic. No spare clip or extra bullets. He hardly used the thing. But now it was a sign he meant business. All the way. He shoved it into his coat pocket and climbed out of the car.

  The sudden cool air on his sweaty face was a shock. He woke up a little bit. Breathed deep. His chest burned with beer and too much smoking. He belched, tasted acid.

  He spit and started up the short walkway to the house.

  He knocked, waited. Nobody.

  This might even be better if the guy wasn’t home. He could break in through the back maybe and poke around.

  He knocked again. This time he heard movement. Somebody was coming to the door. One hand fell into his coat pocket, clutched the grip of the automatic. He heard locks turning.

  The door opened a crack. A girl on the other side, hair tousled. Broad shoulders and a nice face. A hand holding up a bedsheet to her neck. Soft, round breasts floated underneath. They swung interestingly as the girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other and tried to get a better hold on the sheet. “Yes?” She looked through the crack at Stubbs.

  “I’m looking for Morgan.”

  “He’s not here. Can I take a message or something?”

  “Who are you?”

  A little frown from the girl, and Stubbs guessed what she might be thinking.
She was young. Shouldn’t answer the door naked, honey. Not even in a sheet. Stubbs’s private-eye instinct kicked in, and he ran the possible scenarios through his brain. Maybe Morgan was married, had a little thing going with a student on the side. Anyway, she didn’t like being asked who she was.

  “I’m just a friend of his,” she said. “He’s letting me stay here for a while.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Stubbs pushed his way in. She didn’t know what to do, stepped aside for him. He looked around, gave the place the once-over. Not a lot of personal stuff, like maybe Morgan hadn’t lived there too long. “I need to see him. Maybe I’ll wait.”

  The girl didn’t like that. “He didn’t say anything about when he might be back. Better maybe if you just left a message.”

  “Where did he go?” Stubbs was still looking around the house, craned his neck to see back into the kitchen. He didn’t look at her. He bent over the coffee table, spread the magazines around and looked at the titles. “Paris Review. What’s that? From France?”

  “No, it’s- Look, I don’t think you should wait,” she said. “He might not be back for a while.”

  Now Stubbs turned his gaze on her, red-eyed, dark bags underneath. “Oh yeah?”

  The girl realized her mistake. “I mean he might be back any minute. Just that you shouldn’t wait. In case he’s a little late.” She trembled now. She was talking herself into being scared. “But he might come through the door any minute.”

  “I asked who you were.”

  “Ginny.”

  Stubbs stepped toward her, and she eased away from him, the sheet dragging on the floor. Stubbs stepped on it. She tugged gently, and Stubbs grinned. He breathed loudly through his mouth. Licked his lips.

  “Please.” She tugged at the sheet again. Her voice was calm, but her hand shook worse where the sheet was bunched in her fist. “I’m stuck. You’re on the sheet.”

  “Yeah.” Stubbs liked the soft, half-seen curves of her under the sheet. Big tits, round hips. He liked it when they were afraid.

  He stepped on the sheet with his other foot. It pulled tight, and Ginny gasped, used both hands to pull back and keep herself covered. “Don’t.” She meant to shout it, but it came out plaintive. She couldn’t find breath, couldn’t raise her voice. A cold, paralyzing chill ran through her. “Don’t,” she said again, and she could only stare at him, feebly holding on to the sheet.

  He moved close, grabbed the sheet in his free hand, and yanked it away. He still had the other hand in his gun pocket.

  A scream rose up but caught in Ginny’s throat. She only made a sick, strangled bleating sound. She felt like lead, sank back against the wall. Stubbs crowded her, breathed his stink on her neck.

  “So I think you’re ready to talk to me now, right?”

  Stubbs touched her hip and she jumped.

  “Yeah, you’re ready. I want to know about Annie Walsh.”

  So that’s it, thought Ginny. He knows. He found out about the peach orchard. Ginny’s mouth fell open, and she sucked for air. She closed her eyes tight and shook her head. She couldn’t breathe. The leaden feeling on her chest worsened, knees turning to cold jelly.

  “And the cocaine. All of it. I know all about it so tell me. Start talking.”

  Stubbs slapped her on the hip, not hard, but enough to make a loud smack.

  That snapped her out of it. A hoarse scream. Eyes wide. Startled, even amid the terror, at the sudden slap. She pushed past Stubbs, started to run for the door. He grabbed her hair, yanked her back. She yelled again, high-pitched and panicked.

  Stubbs grabbed her by the upper arm, fingers sinking in soft flesh. He let go of the.45 in his pocket, used the hand to slap her face. Hard. Tears in her eyes. She kicked, twisted, pulled away.

  Two more slaps. Bells in her ears, flashes of light drowning her vision. Ginny shook her head, and her sight came back. She was on the floor, curling into a ball.

  Stubbs stood over her, straddling. “Little slut.” But Stubbs wasn’t talking to her, only muttering to himself. He tugged his belt loose, unbuttoned his pants.

  Ginny shook her head. No. Please. But the words wouldn’t come. The weight was back on her chest, no breath. The horror of the world pinned her naked to the cold floor, the unreal thought that this was actually happening to her. She watched Stubbs reach for her, her tears turning him into a blurry apparition.

  Morgan froze when he saw his front door halfway open. The house was quiet, dark.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  He ran in, paused in the living room at the crumpled sheet on the floor. He picked it up, looked at it, looked around the room, dropped it again. “Ginny?”

  Dread sprang up in his gut. “Ginny!”

  He ran to the kitchen and back, then into the bedroom. When he tried the bathroom door it was locked. He knocked, tried the knob again.

  No reply.

  He banged with his fist. “Ginny! You in there?”

  Morgan backed up three steps then threw his shoulder into the door. It made a cracking sound but didn’t give. Pain lanced through his shoulder.

  “Fucking shit.” He rubbed the sore spot, gritted his teeth.

  He backed up for another go at the door when he heard the voice. Weak, tentative.

  He put his ear against the wood. “Ginny? Open up. It’s me.”

  “Professor?”

  “It’s me, Ginny.”

  Shuffling on the other side, scratching. “Professor?” Dazed.

  “It’s Professor Morgan.”

  He heard the lock work. He pushed at the door. It opened an inch then stopped. He looked in. Ginny leaned against it naked.

  “Ginny, now, come on. Back up and let me in. I’m going to help, just back up a bit, okay?”

  Her head flopped. She reached, draped her arms around the toilet bowl, pulled herself out of the way.

  Morgan went in, knelt next to her. “It’s okay. I’m here.” He took her in his arms, eased her down onto the tile. Her faced turned to his.

  Morgan’s eyes grew wide. He stifled a gasp. Both her eyes were swollen and purple. Dried blood from her nose and the corners of her mouth.

  “Professor…”

  “I’m here. It’ll be okay.” Dear God. Morgan’s eyes misted. He forced his voice not to choke. “I’ve got you.”

  “I think I need some… a doctor.”

  “Yes. I’ll take care of it.”

  Ginny struggled to talk. Only half her mouth seemed to work. “I screamed, and he… he went away. I screamed and screamed.”

  “Don’t talk, Ginny. Take it easy.”

  “He said he knew about the… drugs…” She tried to pick her head up, neck limp, eyes unfocused.

  “Take it easy. Just be still.”

  Morgan ran to the bedside phone. He had to dial three times with shaking hands before he got the 911 operator.

  The paramedics seemed to take forever but finally found them in the bathroom, Morgan cradling Ginny’s head in his lap.

  By the time Morgan got to the hospital, they’d already taken Ginny back for X rays.

  He paced.

  Finally, a nurse came and told him that Ginny might have a concussion. The nurse was short with him. Cold.

  She thinks I did that to her. Morgan felt sick in the pit of his belly. This must happen all the time. Violent parents, abusive spouses. He fell down the stairs. She ran into a doorknob. Isn’t that how it is in TV movies?

  Morgan went to the men’s room, splashed water on his cheeks and in his eyes. The memory of Ginny’s swollen face was still too vivid, the bruises on her upper arms, the deep red welts on her legs and backside.

  He went back to the nurses’ station, tried to appear benign. “Will I be able to see her soon?”

  “It will be a while yet.” The nurse was tight-lipped, didn’t look at him. Shuffled papers into charts as she spoke. “I’ll notify you if she wants visitors.”

  Morgan noted the if.

  He sat at th
e end of a line of hard, molded plastic chairs. The sick and injured passed before him, two hours dragging his eyelids down into a doze.

  “Mr. Morgan.”

  His head jerked up, eyes focusing on the nurse.

  She said, “You can go back and see her, but she’s still a little groggy. The doctor gave her a mild sedative.”

  “Thank you.”

  He followed the nurse back, and she pointed behind a plastic curtain. Ginny lay on the other side, curled on an examination table. A stool nearby. Morgan sat, reached to stroke her hair but pulled his hand back. She’d been bandaged, put in a hospital gown, a light blue blanket pulled up to her shoulders.

  Her eyes flickered open. “Professor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice flat, eyes dark.

  Morgan couldn’t imagine what she was sorry about. “How are you?” The dumbest question in the world.

  She told him, her voice small, each word precise like she was reading the ingredients to a complex recipe. They’d x-rayed her skull, nothing busted. No concussion. One cracked rib. Two stitches below her left ear. One tooth knocked loose. An orthodontist would have to be called in, but no complications were expected.

  “What happened?”

  She shook her head.

  “You don’t have to talk. Rest.”

  “He was looking for you,” Ginny said.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. He was crazy, asking about drugs and Annie.”

  A chill crept over Morgan. “What else?”

  “I thought he’d ask about the peach orchard, but he never did. He thought we had some drugs, I think. Maybe hidden. I couldn’t figure out what he wanted. I’d have told him anything, but I just couldn’t understand what he wanted to know.”

  Tears welled in Ginny’s eyes, spilled down her cheeks, but her voice was flat. She was detached, huddled somewhere far away. Morgan felt crushed listening to the young girl. She must’ve thought the world her giant playground when they buried Annie in the orchard. Maybe she didn’t think of Annie as a person then, only an elaborate prop in the big-budget movie of her life. Now Ginny’s relationship with the world had dramatically changed. Her life was no longer a bright plaything. It was hard and real and had knocked the light of youth from her face. Maybe she’d never get it back.