Pistol Poets

by Victor Gischler

  “What?”

  “It’s just… I feel embarrassed.” She scooted out from under him and ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Morgan crawled off the bed, schlong dangling wet. He was dazed, bewildered. He gathered up his clothes, cradled them. He noticed absently he still wore his socks.

  Annette came back wearing a white robe. “It’s not right. We work together.”

  “But-”

  “We got carried away.” She pushed his shoulder gently, herded him toward the door.

  “Let me get dressed!”

  She paused, let him get into his boxers and trousers, then opened the door. She pushed him out. He opened his mouth but couldn’t get a word out.

  “I’m sorry,” Annette said. “But we let the moment overcome our good judgment.”

  And the door was closed.

  He put his shirt on, started down the hall, mouth still hanging open. Stunned.

  Just that quickly Annette Grayson had scurried back to her hole. She’d been out for only a glimpse, grabbed herself a chunk of Jay Morgan, and was gone again. Would she pay for it like the cheese pizza? Could she work off the memory of him on the stationary bicycle?

  He stopped walking, looked down at his feet. He’d forgotten his shoes.

  thirty-three

  One-thirty in the morning, and Morgan had painted himself into the corner of the hotel lounge. He knew he was in for an apocalyptic hangover but couldn’t make himself care. He was maxing his Visa card on Sheraton martinis.

  After Annette had kicked him out, he’d waited in his room for an hour in case she regained sanity and wanted to call. No call. He’d gone down to the bar in his socks. He’d kept drinking, hunched over the table, eyes going glassy and unfocused.

  He stumbled to the house phone, dialed his room.

  Reams answered, sleepy, mumbled something that might have been “hello.”

  “Reams, buddy. Any calls for me?” Morgan heard his own voice loud in his ears. Good. A time to be loud. Let the trumpets sound.

  “Morgan?”

  “Morgan.”

  “Glad you phoned.” Reams woke up, spoke more clearly. “I scheduled a breakfast with a Professor Klein. That one-year job I told you about. Klein runs things over at San Gabriel College. He can get you on the short list.”

  “I didn’t ask you about that,” Morgan said.

  “What?”

  “Did I have any calls?”

  “What? Here in the room? No, no calls.”

  “Not from-” He almost said her name. That might not be good. They all had to work together in the same department. “Not from a woman? Did a woman call?”

  “I told you. No calls.”

  “Goddammit.” Morgan hung up. He almost dialed Annette’s room but knew it was a bad idea.

  He went back to his table in the lounge. Somebody was sitting there. A man.

  “Hey,” Morgan said.

  The man looked up. A crooked smile. Jowls. A cheap suit, polyester and wrinkled. Red eyes. “Your table?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He stood. “Sorry.” He rubbed his chin stubble with hairy knuckles. “Nobody around this time of night. Nobody to talk to. How about I sit down, buy you a drink.”

  “Sure.” Morgan sat.

  “I’m Deke.”

  Morgan gave his name, and they shook hands.

  “Here for the conference?” Morgan asked.

  Deke Stubbs shook his head. “Other business.”

  Stubbs bought Morgan a martini. He drank beer from a big, green bottle. Morgan asked about it.

  “Grolsch,” Stubbs said. “It’s foreign. Somebody put me onto it recently.”

  “That’s good. You’ve got to try new things,” Morgan said. “You’ve got to come out of your groundhog hole.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We all live in little holes,” Morgan said. He slurred his words, swayed in his seat. He took a swig of the martini. Most of it ran down his chin. “Got to come out of our holes and screw and drink foreign beer and run back in before anybody sees us.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stubbs said.

  “Something to do with God and life and stationary bicycles.”

  “Maybe you’ve had enough.”

  “Maybe.”

  Stubbs put a cigarette in his mouth. “You don’t mind, right?”

  “No. Good idea.” Morgan pulled out one of his cigars, bit the end off, and spit it like Jones had shown him.

  Stubbs lit his cigarette, then Morgan’s cigar. Both men puffed. They sat back in a gray-blue cloud of tobacco. A couple of guys enjoying drinks and a smoke. Sudden chums at the end of a long day. Morgan was seized with an irrational fondness for the man. How friendly to buy him a drink, keep him company during his fruitless brooding over Annette Grayson.

  “Let’s get some pancakes,” Morgan said.

  “Is the kitchen open?”

  “We’ll go someplace, get out of this fucking hotel.” Morgan pushed his drink away, stood, almost tumbled over the table. Stubbs caught him.

  “We’ll find someplace open,” Morgan said. “Come on. I got a car we can use.”

  “Okay, sport,” Stubbs said. “You lead the way.”

  Morgan made a point of verbally abusing the parking valet, then felt guilty and tipped him twenty bucks when he brought Dirk Jakes’s Mercedes. Morgan took the wheel, and Stubbs climbed into the passenger’s side.

  “That way out of the parking garage.” Stubbs pointed straight ahead.

  Morgan maneuvered the car, circled down a level. His steady hands on the wheel surprised him. He knew he was drunk.

  “You don’t got any shoes.” Stubbs watched him work the pedals.

  “I don’t need any goddamn shoes!”

  He circled the garage, followed the EXIT signs. A red vest caught his eye, a guy walking along the edge of the garage, cute little bow tie pulled loose. It was the prick from the gift shop, off work. He was walking toward the big Dumpster in the corner. Morgan hit the accelerator, bore down on him, teeth clenched, eyes blazing.

  Stubbs grabbed at his seat belt. “What the hell’s the hurry?”

  The prick stopped, turned. His eyes bulged, grew to the size of headlights, mouth pulled tight in terror. He ran.

  Morgan followed, honked the horn.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Stubbs yelled.

  Morgan swerved, came within two inches of the prick’s knee. The prick dove, screaming fear. He landed in a pile of garbage bags. The Mercedes roared by, tires squealing as it made the turn down to the next level.

  Morgan’s face was a mask of feral joy, wicked contentment. He laughed, and it sounded like the devil.

  They didn’t go for pancakes.

  Deke Stubbs talked Morgan into heading for the Gulf, where he’d seen billboards advertising titty bars near the beach. Since it was a thirty-minute drive, they stopped at a liquor store and purchased nine small bags of BBQ chips, a six-pack of Busch, and more cigarettes for Stubbs.

  Stubbs was having a problem. He liked Morgan. Morgan told him all about the prick at the Sheraton gift shop. Stubbs hated little smart-ass guys like that. Morgan told him about Annette Grayson, the sudden boink, the woman’s lightning change of heart. Stubbs hated women like that. So superior. They’d slum with a guy, then try to cover it.

  Morgan wasn’t a pompous, know-it-all, snob professor. He seemed to be a regular guy just trying to get some action, have a few laughs, live his life like anybody else. Stubbs would feel real bad when he turned Morgan’s lights out and made off with the cocaine-if he could find it. It would be a shame since Morgan appeared to be a stand-up guy.

  These were Stubbs’s thoughts at a dark, corner table at The Shag Hut just outside of Galveston. The marquee boasted 75 Beautiful Women & 3 Ugly Ones. Onstage a woman named Cricket and another woman named Jade seemed unnaturally interested in one another. One of the women-Jade? — was a curvy Hispanic lady, round ass, hanging tits, a
n enormous pile of midnight hair. The other was willowy, pale, blond, barely eighteen-maybe.

  Morgan swayed with the show, chin in hand, elbow on table. His eyelids were heavy. He’s fading fast, Stubbs thought. No sleep. Too much to drink.

  “I’d sure like to be in between that,” Stubbs said, nodding at the stage show.

  Morgan said, “MmmHmmmm.”

  “I’m going to take the car keys a minute,” Stubbs said. “I left my smokes in the Mercedes.”

  Morgan waved his disinterest.

  Stubbs went outside. He smelled the ocean, the Gulf of Mexico actually. It was a good smell. Maybe when everything was settled, he’d move near the ocean. Not right on the beach. He hated the beach, hated sunburn and sand in his ass crack and screaming kids and surfers. But close to the water where he could smell it and get fresh seafood. Maybe near a pier. He’d never fished, but he thought he might like it.

  Stubbs tried the trunk first. He went through by the numbers, pulled out the spare tire, lifted the carpeting.

  No drugs.

  He looked in the backseat. For some reason there was a bunch of tools. He ignored them, kept searching. There was a god-awful odor in the back. Faint but plain.

  If he got lucky, if he found the drugs here in the Mercedes, Stubbs could just take off and leave Morgan inside the titty bar. He wouldn’t have to bash the guy over the head-or worse. That would make it easier all around.

  He took a pocketknife out of his jacket and opened it, shook his head. A shame. The Mercedes was a damn nice car. He plunged the short blade into the fabric, cut a six-inch slit. He reached in and around. Only stuffing.

  Hell.

  He did the same to the other seats. Nothing.

  Stubbs sighed. He’d have to make Morgan talk. But just to be sure, he went through the car one more time.

  Morgan couldn’t believe naked women could get so boring so fast. The simple fact was that Jade and Cricket didn’t give two shits about Professor Jay Morgan. Neither did Amber, Titania, Zoey, Brandi, Jasmine, or Princess Daisy. As soon as Morgan ran out of dollar bills, he’d be just another sucker paying inflated prices for watered-down drinks.

  He looked around for his new pal. Deke had been a good sport. Morgan knew he was a textbook sad-sack drunk. It was good of Deke to humor him, keep an eye on him while he destroyed himself. Where was Deke? The rest room? No. Morgan remembered. The car. Cigarettes. But that seemed like a long time ago.

  Morgan stood. He felt tired but steadier. He walked toward the exit. The beefy bouncer gave him a long look on the way out. The parking lot was dark, poorly lit. Chilly. His feet especially were cold. He saw the Mercedes and shuffled to it.

  He opened the back door and saw Deke pulling the stuffing out of the backseat. Morgan blinked, not sure if he was seeing right. He opened his mouth. He should say something, make Deke stop tearing up the expensive car, but he couldn’t quite get his mind around why Deke would intentionally fuck up the interior of a brand-new automobile.

  Jakes will go nuts.

  Stubbs looked up, met Morgan’s eyes. They stayed frozen like that for a long second.

  “Shit.” Stubbs grabbed Morgan, pulled him into the car, shut the door.

  Morgan couldn’t resist. He was stupefied. Stubbs pulled his fist back to his ear, held it a moment, then let loose, popped Morgan across the jaw. Hard. A smack of flesh. Morgan wilted into the corner of the Mercedes, the sparks going off in his eyes, bells. He didn’t even put up his hands, couldn’t fight back. Maybe Morgan didn’t understand what was happening. But Stubbs was on top of him. Another punch. Darkness overtook Morgan a moment, a cottony drifting. He shook himself out of it, tried to speak, wanted to know what and why. The salt taste of blood in his mouth.

  “Sorry,” Stubbs said. “I can’t have you yelling for help.”

  Morgan groped for reality. Was Deke robbing him? He’d had the car keys. It would have been easy to take off.

  “I hate to do this, pal.” Stubbs had a fistful of Morgan’s shirt, hand cocked for another punch. “I tried to find the stuff the easy way, not cause you any more grief than needed, but it just didn’t happen that way. You should of stayed inside and watched the T&A show.”

  Morgan spit blood. It stained his teeth and chin. “What do you want? Take the car.” He couldn’t find breath. Panic and dread had sapped him.

  “Not here for the car, buddy. Maybe some cargo. You truck anything down here from Fumbee?”

  Morgan looked blank.

  “Come on,” Stubbs said. “I know all about your little side deal, snowman. Don’t you want to fork over the goods and get all this nastiness over with?”

  Morgan shook his head. He didn’t know what the man meant. Cargo? What did he think Morgan was doing? There was nothing in Houston for Morgan but the conference. The only reason he’d even left Fumbee was to get away from…

  “Oh no.” Morgan’s own voice was tinny and far away in his ears. Cold dread seeped into him, spread down his spine. He shrank in on himself, looked up at Stubbs.

  “Oh no.” It was all he could say. He thought feebly he should fight or flee or scream, but he could only wait for the end. Maybe Stubbs would kill him quickly. Or maybe he could figure out what the man wanted, give it to him. Mind and muscle surrendered. All Morgan could do was shut his eyes tight, whine like a whipped dog.

  “Knock it off,” Stubbs said. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just tell me where the drugs are.”

  Morgan sobbed. He was so desperately tired. And ashamed. He thought of Fred Jones. Frail, emaciated Fred Jones. The old man would never whine. The sudden thought that Jones would see him like this, hear about Morgan’s pathetic display made him the most ashamed.

  Morgan had to do something-anything-to help himself. He wouldn’t go out a quivering wad of jelly. “Drugs?”

  “Don’t play dumb. I can put two and two together.”

  It was perhaps a mistake that Morgan now decided to be creative.

  “Jakes.” Morgan was appalled at the sound of his own voice, a hoarse croak. Fear. It was a start at least. He was trying. He would rage against the dying of his own, sad, little light.

  “What? Jakes?” Stubbs’s voice took a rough edge. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “The guy I came with,” Morgan said. “He’s the one. He’s got the drugs in his hotel room.”

  “Let’s go get him.”

  “What are you going to do?” Morgan’s voice was better. Still scared but no longer jelly.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Stubbs said. “All you need to know is that I’m desperate and committed and if I don’t get what I want, there’ll be hurt and pain and bad times forever.”

  Not an eloquent threat but convincing.

  “Okay,” Morgan said. “Just take it easy.”

  “Don’t tell me to take it easy. You take it easy.”

  “Right.” Morgan’s hands shook. He breathed deep, made himself calm. “What do you want me to do?”

  Stubbs let him up. “Get behind the wheel.”

  Morgan reached for the door.

  “Not that way.” Stubbs jerked him by the shirt. “Over the seat. I don’t want you making a run for it.”

  Morgan crawled into the front seat, sat behind the wheel. He was breathing better. In the rearview mirror he saw Stubbs move, felt the cold metal behind his ear. Morgan didn’t need to be told it was a gun.

  “I’ll stay back here,” Stubbs said. “You can guess what’ll happen if you pull something screwy. Don’t fuck with me.”

  “I’ve had a lot to drink.”

  “Don’t give me your mothers against drunk drivers bullshit.” Stubbs pressed the gun barrel harder against Morgan’s ear. “This should keep you plenty alert.”

  Deke handed Morgan the keys and Morgan cranked the engine. “You’re going to hold that gun against my head all the way to Houston?”

  “Yep.”

  Morgan pulled out of the titty-bar parking lot, turned vaguely toward the highway.

>   At the light he made a decision. He barely knew he was doing it. Instead of taking the highway on-ramp, he turned toward the water, the Gulf of Mexico.

  “What are you doing?” Stubbs pushed the gun barrel into Morgan’s neck.

  “I missed it.”

  “I can fucking see that. Don’t make this hard.”

  “I can get on at the next intersection.”

  Morgan drove along the water, the Gulf glittered in moonlight. Although he knew the risk, Morgan felt strangely calm. There was a certain freedom in doom. He flashed back to his dream, how he’d felt turning the car into the headlights. A giddy liberty in surrendering to oblivion.

  Which was maybe why he laughed a little when he jerked the wheel and turned onto the fishing pier.

  “Goddammit!” Stubbs’s face flushed. He spit when he yelled. “You think I’m kidding? You don’t think I’ll blow your fucking head off?”

  The pier hadn’t been built for cars. The boards rattled, creaked. The Mercedes bounced violently. Morgan sideswiped a trash can, debris exploding upward, drifting down again on the Gulf breeze. Morgan hit the accelerator.

  Stubbs reached over Morgan, tried to grab the wheel. Morgan pushed him away, steered one-handed. Stubbs went for the keys, and Morgan punched over his shoulder, tried to get Stubbs in the face. They picked up speed.

  “Are you crazy?” Stubbs had gone back to waving the gun. He still leaned into the front seat, tried to threaten Morgan with the.45 and grab the wheel at the same time. “I swear to God I’m going to do it. I’ll blast a hole in your face. Hit the brakes.”

  “You’re all talk.” Morgan swerved between the guardrails, clipped one on the left with a sharp crack, splintered wood. The left headlight winked out. The end of the pier sped toward them in near darkness. Stubbs was tossed around in the backseat, but righted himself quickly, shoved the gun against Morgan’s neck. He kept with the threats, shouted himself hoarse.

  Morgan didn’t care. He half expected-half wanted-the bullet. Let it come. Bring on the hot flash of blood, fragmented skull. He could pitch forward into sweet, eternal nothingness.

  The Mercedes exploded through the wooden railings at the end, slipped the surly bonds of earth, pier, and reality. They seemed to hover. Stubbs screamed something, the pistol gone from Morgan’s neck. Neither wore a seat belt. Morgan felt himself float up and away, weightless, breathless.