Pistol Poets

by Victor Gischler

  Now she would only be scared all the time. Like him.

  “Did he… did he make you…” The words eluded him. No will to speak them.

  “He tried to,” she said. “He couldn’t get hard. He already had his belt in his hand, so he used it to whip me. When he bent down I kicked him in the… down there.”

  Morgan felt a ghost pang in his balls, winced.

  “I got away and locked myself in the bathroom,” she said. “He tried to get in, but I kept screaming. He must’ve worried about the noise and the neighbors and went away.”

  Morgan couldn’t look at her, couldn’t stand it. He wished he’d never come to Oklahoma, wished he hadn’t been a teacher, that he didn’t have to see this young girl have the love of life beat out of her. He taught poetry. What the hell was that? What the fuck good did poetry do anybody?

  He said, “I’ll take you home. You can stay with me for a while.”

  “No.”

  He opened his mouth to object, shut it again.

  “I had the nurse call my parents,” Ginny said. “They’ll be here soon. Don’t worry. I won’t tell them anything.”

  “Oh, I didn’t think- Okay.”

  “You’ve got to be careful.”

  He blinked. Did she mean about her parents?

  She said, “It’s not me he’s after, Professor. He wants you. I just happened to be there.”

  He nodded, bit his lower lip. Of course. He hadn’t thought beyond what to do with Ginny. The guy had something to do with Annie and drugs. It was all too much. Morgan didn’t want to go back to his house. Didn’t want to wait there for the guy to return.

  “Professor, I think I need to sleep now.”

  “Do you want me to wait until-”

  “My parents will be here soon.”

  “Okay.” Morgan swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, Ginny. This shouldn’t have happened.”

  But she was already asleep.

  twenty-eight

  Morgan left the hospital numb and scared. He drove his car, automatically heading back to his little house. Halfway there he thought, I can’t stay at home. That guy’ll come back.

  He turned the car around, headed for the Best Western at the edge of town. Halfway to the motel he turned around again. He hadn’t any luggage, not even a toothbrush. He’d have to risk his house for twenty minutes, long enough to grab some clothes and his toilet kit.

  His thoughts tumbled, wouldn’t line up straight. He couldn’t hide out at the Best Western the rest of the semester. Another thought. If the guy knew where he lived, he’d probably be able to track Morgan to his campus office. A night at a motel wouldn’t solve anything.

  Fuck it.

  One night at a time. That was all he could manage.

  He parked in front of his house and ran up to the porch. The front door still stood open. He looked in, crept around the house, searching for intruders. Empty.

  He ran to the bedroom, yanked a gym bag out of the closet. Two shirts, three pairs of boxer shorts, a fistful of socks. Into the bathroom next. He couldn’t find his leather toilet bag, so he swept his toothbrush and razor off the sink and into the gym bag. He already wore his coat. What else? He always forgot something.

  “Professor Morgan?”

  Morgan froze. The voice was male and deep, came from the front porch.

  “Hello? Professor Morgan?”

  Morgan made himself calm down. A killer wouldn’t call out. He’d just barge in. Still…

  “It’s Sergeant Hightower from the police, Professor Morgan.”

  Morgan realized he was holding his breath. He let it out. He walked slowly into the living room, clutching the gym bag to his chest. “Yes?”

  Sergeant Hightower wore his straw hat back on his head. Big country-boy smile. Heavy brown jacket over a khaki uniform. Gun slung low. “Morgan, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Hightower still stood on the porch, leaned into the living room without actually stepping over the threshold. “I just came from the hospital.”

  “Yes?”

  Hightower pulled a pen and notepad from his jacket pocket. He flipped open the notepad. “I just need to ask a few questions.” He gestured into the house. “Uh… you mind?”

  “Please come in.” Go away.

  Hightower eased into the living room. He looked infuriatingly comfortable with himself. He looked the place over, took off his hat, and dropped it on the sofa. His pen hovered over the notepad. “How do you know Miss Conrad, sir?”

  “She’s a student.”

  He nodded. “So you have her in a class then.”

  “No. She is a student in the department, but not actually in one of my classes.”

  Hightower raised an eyebrow. “Oh.” He wrote in his little notebook.

  What are you writing? Stop that.

  “Were you tutoring her?” asked Hightower.

  “No.”

  Hightower smiled again, wide and self-satisfied. “This isn’t like Twenty Questions, Professor Morgan. You’re allowed to volunteer anything that might speed this along.”

  “We were friends. She was interested in writing.”

  “Uh-huh.” He scribbled in the notebook again.

  Son of a bitch.

  Hightower scratched his chin with his thumb, squinted at Morgan. “Taking a trip, Professor?”

  “No.” He looked down at the gym bag. “I mean yes. But not until tomorrow. I was just packing.”

  “Where you going?”

  Good question. “I’m going to Houston. There’s a conference. I’m attending with another professor.”

  “Right.” The information went into Hightower’s notebook. “Do you know anyone who might want to hurt Miss Conrad?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Anyone gunning for you?” Hightower asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Hightower shrugged. “Something don’t jibe. Nothing stolen, not a burglary. If it’s a rapist, he didn’t rape.”

  “I talked to Ginny,” Morgan said. “She told me she kicked him in the balls and locked herself in the bathroom.”

  “Maybe. But she don’t live here. You do.”

  “So the rapist happened to see her come in. Then he saw me leave and figured… hell, I don’t know.”

  “Sure, sure.” Hightower nodded. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Professor.” That goddamn smug grin again. “Us country cops are slow, but once we get our teeth into something we don’t let go. This don’t seem like a normal rape attempt, but we’ll figure it.”

  “And what is it exactly you figure?”

  A shrug. Morgan couldn’t quite understand the cop. It was almost like he was lazily working the Sunday crossword puzzle rather than trying to solve a violent crime. “Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “Maybe you’d better talk to Ginny,” Morgan said. Anything to get the cop on his way. Morgan couldn’t stand talking to him much longer.

  “Yeah, well, I talked to her already.” He shook his head, tsked. “Her story’s about like yours. Too many gaps. But I figure she’s maybe still in shock. I’ll talk to her again when she comes around.”

  Morgan cleared his throat. “Is there anything else?”

  Hightower shook his head. “Nope.” He flipped his notebook closed, shoved it back into his jacket. “When you coming back from Houston?”

  “Monday.”

  “Right.” He put his hat back on and gave Morgan a two-fingered salute. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Five seconds after Hightower left, Morgan collapsed onto his sofa. His sweaty shirt clung to him. His hands shook, knees like water. Had the cop seen how nervous he was? God, I need a drink.

  Not yet.

  He locked up, got in his car, and drove to Professor Reams’s house.

  Morgan woke up late the next morning on Reams’s couch. He felt sore, unhappy, desperate. His life was out of control, and the only solution he could come up with was to run away and hide in Houston for the week
end. At least it would give him time to think.

  Reams had been childishly overjoyed that Morgan had decided to make the conference. All Morgan had wanted to do was escape into sleep, but in his dreams, he saw Ginny’s battered face. It became Annie’s, all the guilt and bad decisions mixed up together. He’d woken in the middle of the night, his pillow damp with sweat, a feeling of deep anxiety over him like a heavy blanket. He’d finally drifted off again about 4 A.M.

  Morgan heaved himself off the sofa, rubbed his back. He called out to Reams but didn’t get an answer. He found a note near the coffeepot. Reams had gone out to gas up the car.

  Morgan showered, dressed.

  He drank coffee and stared a long time at the phone. He wanted to call Ginny. But not to check on her, and that made him feel guilty. He wanted to get his story straight with her, didn’t want Hightower to find little details to pick at. Morgan was already a wreck. He couldn’t take another go around with the hick cop.

  Okay, forget it. He drank coffee. Ginny was smart. She wouldn’t get him or herself into trouble. All Morgan needed to do was lie low for a day or two while he figured things out. And he’d been laying off the booze, trying to get healthy. The first thing Morgan wanted to do in Houston was hop off the wagon long enough for a stiff drink.

  A car horn blared outside. Five seconds later, Reams stuck his head in the door. “Let’s go, buddy. Train’s leaving the station.” His finger was still wrapped, but he wasn’t sickly anymore. Reams had the energy of a kid on his way to summer camp.

  “Okay.” Morgan dumped his coffee in the sink, grabbed his gym bag.

  On the way out to the car, Reams said, “I had to put the Volvo in the shop. Transmission trouble. But I got us this for the drive.”

  Morgan stopped on the passenger side of the brand-new Mercedes. It looked nice, long and black, tinted windows. Expensive.

  He opened the back door, and the sharp stench of bourbon slapped him in the face. Dirk Jakes stuck his head out. “Hey there, Morgo-man. Ready for a road trip?”

  Morgan’s jaw dropped. “What the hell’s he doing here?”

  “It’s his car,” Reams said.

  Jakes held up a hip flask, swirled it around. “How about a little eye-opener, Morgan?”

  It was actually tempting. “No thanks.” He tossed his gym bag into the backseat next to Jakes. Jakes opened his yap to say something, but Morgan shut the door on him. To Reams he said, “You didn’t tell me he was coming.”

  “Oh, take it easy.”

  Morgan shook his head. Reams’s steadfast enthusiasm for the trip was not contagious. Morgan second-guessed his own decision to hide out in Houston at the academic conference.

  Morgan climbed into the front passenger seat and Reams got behind the wheel. Reams went through a complex series of checks: headlights, windshield wipers, turn signals. He turned on the heat and set the thermostat. He was especially concerned with getting the volume exactly right on the radio.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Jakes yelled from the backseat. “It ain’t the goddamn space shuttle. Just start driving.”

  Morgan fastened his seat belt.

  “Wagons ho, gentlemen.” Reams put the Mercedes into gear and headed for the highway.

  Jakes leaned forward between Morgan and Reams. “Remember, guys. What happens on the road stays on the road.”

  “Exactly,” Reams said. “Just a trio of stout lads out for a good time.”

  “What actually do you think you’re going to do?” asked Morgan.

  Jakes said, “First thing is we brace ourselves with a few drinky-poos, then we round up some tail.”

  Reams didn’t look so gung ho anymore. “Uh… maybe that’s not the best idea, Dirk.”

  “Oh, put a sock in it, you sissy.” Jakes grabbed the crotch of his pants. “Damn, I got to take a piss. Pull into that Chevron, will you?”

  “We’ve only been on the road three minutes,” Reams said.

  “Dammit, Reams, I’m not going to let you fuck up a perfectly good road trip with your bullshit rules and schedules. Now pull into that gas station so I can tap a kidney.”

  Morgan sank low in his seat. It was going to be a long drive.

  Deke Stubbs let the Mercedes get a head start, then followed. An expensive car. Maybe it was the drug dealer making the buy. Maybe this Morgan character had the cocaine after all. Maybe they had some kind of racket going. The kid had said a hundred thousand dollars’ worth. Hell, maybe more.

  Stubbs was red-eyed, queasy, tired. He’d had a very, very bad couple of days, but it would all pay off when he found the drugs and the money. He could turn things around pretty quick then.

  What he really needed was sleep. But not now. Not yet. He had to see where Morgan was going in that big black Mercedes. He leaned over, popped open the glove box, and found the half-empty bottle of caffeine pills. They came in handy when Stubbs was on all-night stakeouts.

  He rubbed his balls. They still ached. That bitch had kicked him good, but he’d fixed her.

  He popped two of the caffeine pills, washed them down with his last beer. Okay, Professor Morgan, you lead. Deke Stubbs is on your ass like shit on a shoe.

  twenty-nine

  On a hard-packed dirt road under a gray sky just north of Fumbee, Red Zach cursed an underling on his tiny cell phone. Zach wanted answers and he wanted them yesterday.

  “I asked you who was in charge of this one-horse shithole,” Zach yelled. “I got to know who to deal with.”

  Red Zach had been around long enough to know the score. You don’t go deep-sixing motherfuckers on somebody else’s turf without permission, and you don’t go poking your nose into the local drug economy without paying respects to the chief. It was like a franchise thing. He could kill Jenks. That was okay. Jenks was one of his boys run amok. But shit was getting out of hand, and he needed to speak to the local boss, whoever the fuck that was.

  “I told you,” Zach yelled into the cell phone. “If Jenks is going to unload my merchandise around here, I got to know where he’s going.”

  “Okay, boss,” said the voice on the other end. “But Fumbee, Oklahoma, ain’t even on the damn map. It’s in some kinda fucking no-man’s-land between Tulsa and Fayetteville. I don’t think it’s anybody’s turf.”

  “I don’t want to hear that shit,” Zach said. “You call back with a name.” He slapped the phone shut and looked at his boys down from St. Louis.

  When Red Zach had called for reinforcements, he’d asked for a dozen of the meanest, bad-ass motherfuckers available. It had been a long time since he’d gathered this much muscle together in one place, but he was dog-determined to finish this shit quick.

  He hadn’t been this pissed in a long damn time, and it was all because of Harold Jenks. He’d looked out for the boy, brought him along, gave him all the breaks. Zach had plans to make something out of him. But Jenks stabbed him in the back. Nobody but nobody fucked with Red Zach. The fact it was somebody he trusted made it double-worse.

  Zach looked at the razor-thin man directly across from him. Maurice Arnold. He was a light-skinned black man, shaved head, bright, straight teeth, alert brown eyes. He wore a simple gray suit and a muted red tie. He looked like somebody’s tax attorney, but Zach knew Maurice was the baddest, cruelest motherfucker this side of the Mississippi. He’d led the pack of reinforcements down from St. Louis. He was the guy Zach called whenever he wanted to turn a problem into a violent, screaming, smoking mess. Maurice didn’t just make problems go away. He made them sorry they’d ever decided to be problems.

  “Maurice, I want Jenks and any motherfuckers with him to pay the price. You catch my drift?”

  Maurice sat with his hands folded in his lap. He nodded politely. “I understand, sir. Leave them to me.”

  “I got a man watching that redneck’s trailer, but they ain’t been back,” Zach said.

  Zach’s cell phone rang, and he flipped it open. “Talk.”

  “I got a name for you, boss.”

  �
�Let’s hear it.”

  “Moses Duncan.”

  “Affiliated?”

  “Nope. Freelance. Buys out of Tulsa for resale around Fumbee, especially the campus, but he don’t answer to nobody.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Zach said. “Where is he?”

  The voice on the other end gave him directions. “A farm outside town.”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “He’s a white guy.”

  “You think I give a shit?” Zach said. “What, you think I’m a racist?”

  “No, boss.”

  “Damn straight. I’ll own his shit if he’s black, white, green, or polka-dot. I’m an equal opportunity motherfucker.”

  The fifth floor of Albatross Hall was pissing off Harold Jenks.

  He’d been going stir-crazy stuck up there with DelPrego and the whacked-out old professor, so he’d risked sneaking across campus to the student union for a milk shake and a newspaper.

  Jenks had gone through the local section and the police blotter, but apparently nobody had found the dead body at DelPrego’s trailer. Jenks didn’t know if that was good news or not.

  At least the milk shake had been good.

  But upon climbing back up to the fifth floor of Albatross Hall, he’d found himself completely turned around. He’d listened for the music like DelPrego had instructed, but all was quiet. Jenks had concluded some crack-head architect son of a bitch was having a big laugh somewhere. Jenks was all turned around.

  He stood, scratched his head, cursed again.

  Then he heard it.

  Slow footsteps and metal dragging. A peculiar rhythm. Step, step, drag. Step, step, drag. Jenks froze. What the hell was that? He strained to listen, tried to determine from which direction it was coming. That shit’s creeping me out. It reminded him of this Frankenstein movie he’d seen as a kid. It had scared the shit out of him. No matter where the people ran, the Frankenstein kept coming. And he dragged one foot behind him, made that scraping noise.