Pistol Poets

by Victor Gischler

  forty-four

  Even over the blizzard, Morgan still heard the kids cheering.

  The snow mixed with a little sleet. Morgan didn’t care, didn’t mind that it stung his face. His smile was a mile wide. Something good and right had finally happened.

  Morgan ducked his head into the wind, put one foot in front of the other toward Albatross Hall. He wanted to find Valentine, have a drink, toast to Fred Jones’s success.

  It was after working hours, and the main doors were locked. His keys jingled in his shaking hands. Finally, he found the slot, inserted, turned the key, and pushed the door open.

  They grabbed him by both arms, rushed him into Albatross Hall, and shoved him to the floor. Morgan hit hard. He flipped over, looked up at ten black men in long coats. All had pistols out.

  A man in a bright yellow suit pointed down at him. “Stay put, motherfucker.”

  Morgan nodded. “Okay.”

  “Anybody else in this building?”

  “I don’t think so,” Morgan lied.

  “What’s up there?” The black guy in charge pointed his gun at the ceiling. “Dorms or something?”

  “Offices.”

  “What you doing here?”

  “My office. I left something. A book.” Morgan looked at the guns pointed at him and felt sick. “There’s nothing here of any value. What do you want?”

  “We’re gonna go upstairs and kill everyone we see.”

  Morgan gulped. What the hell’s going on?

  “What you want to do, Zach?” one of them asked.

  The man in yellow said, “Fan out and search the floor. We’ll work our way up. If Maurice said they were here, then they’ve got to be here someplace.”

  “We ain’t seen Maurice.”

  “We’ll find him,” Zach said.

  “What about this guy?” Zach’s henchman indicated Morgan with a trigger-pulling motion to the head.

  “Don’t shoot. They’ll hear it upstairs,” Zach said. “Just knock him a good one.”

  The henchman leaned over Morgan. The butt of his pistol came down sharp and fast across the back of his skull.

  Morgan’s eyes flickered open. He saw only darkness. He closed his eyes and opened them again. No change. He rubbed the back of his neck, climbed to his knees. He tried to stand and lost his balance. His hand flew out and he grabbed something wooden. It wasn’t attached to anything and didn’t offer any support. He fell forward into a pile of clattering items, metal and wood. Something fell on him, plastic and heavy.

  He didn’t try to stand this time, crawled forward, a tentative hand in front of him. He found a wall, no, wait. It was wooden. Hinges. A door. He felt his way up until he found the knob. He twisted it, fell forward into the light, a clattering wad of brooms and mops. An empty metal bucket rolled out in front of him.

  He staggered and stood, felt the back of his head again. Swelling. He looked at his hand. No blood.

  How long had he been in the closet? Morgan checked his watch. No more than five minutes. They’d expected him to be unconscious longer, out of the way. Who the hell were those guys?

  What had the gang leader said? He’d ordered a search floor by floor. If Morgan acted quickly, he could make it upstairs in time to warn Valentine.

  Or he could save his own ass and run away like a little girl.

  It shamed him a little that he paused an extra few seconds to decide.

  He bolted for the stairs, legs still wobbly. He didn’t pause at any of the lower floors although he wished he knew where the gangsters were. Possibly they were already ahead of him. Perhaps he would find only bodies on the fifth floor. He didn’t stop to think about it, bounded up the steps two at a time.

  When he reached the fifth floor, he collapsed, lay sprawled on his back, heaving for air. His lungs ached for breath. His stomach churned and burned with alcohol. His brain spun with the knowledge of imminent death.

  He willed himself to his feet, jogged the maze to Valentine’s office.

  He threw open the door, stumbled in, startled a “whoa” out of Jenks.

  “There’s a bunch of black guys coming up here with guns,” Morgan said.

  Morgan leaned heavily against the doorjamb, out of breath, sweat sticking his shirt to him, his heart nearing terminal velocity. His eyes took in Valentine’s office, darted around the room, and landed on Wayne DelPrego, who sat in a corner chair with his head in his hands. Morgan frowned. What was his student doing there?

  Then Morgan saw Jenks. His eyes shot wide. “You!”

  Jenks looked confused. “Yo, Professor. What are you doing-”

  Morgan leapt, hands outstretched, a feral scream splitting the air. He hands went around Jenks’s throat, and both men tumbled to the floor.

  “Where have you been, you stupid son of a bitch? I’m going to get fired because of your sorry ass.”

  “Get him off me,” Jenks yelled. “Get him off.”

  “Professor Morgan!” Valentine leapt on Morgan’s back, heaved him off Jenks.

  Jenks rubbed his throat. “He’s crazy.”

  DelPrego had watched the whole altercation unfold, hadn’t moved.

  “I’ve looked everywhere for you!” Morgan deflated in Valentine’s grip. “Fuck it. Just fuck you.”

  “These young men have been hiding here with me,” Valentine said. “Those men downstairs are killers.”

  “No time for this story now,” Jenks said to Valentine. “We need a way out of here.”

  Jenks went to Valentine’s desk, where Bob Smith had dropped the revolvers. Jenks had been glad to see the guns because he was afraid he’d need them. He tucked the.38 into his belt and checked the load on the Old-West Colt.

  Wayne DelPrego sat up from his chair. He looked pale and distracted. In a low, even voice, he said, “Give me one of those.”

  “No way,” Jenks said, without looking at him. “You’re not straight in the head.”

  “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

  Maybe it was the eerie calm in DelPrego’s voice. Jenks nodded and handed the Colt to DelPrego.

  Valentine thumbed two shells into the double-barreled shotgun. “I know a way downstairs. Follow me.”

  They followed Valentine out of the office, zigzagged the crazy turns of the fifth floor, and stopped at a door with the word ELECTRICAL on it.

  “Here?” asked Jenks.

  Valentine opened the door, and Jenks recognized the fireman’s pole he’d helped the custodian carry. It descended through a wide hole in the floor. Before Jenks could say anything, Valentine leapt on the pole and slid down.

  Jenks followed.

  The fourth floor whipped past and the pole ended. There was an alarming second of free fall, and Jenks landed on a dusty mattress. It was the third floor.

  Morgan landed on top of him.

  “Get the fuck off.”

  “Excuse me, Batman,” Morgan said. “I don’t have a lot of pole experience.”

  They managed to roll out of the way right before DelPrego hit. The four of them were in an abandoned classroom. Valentine cracked the door to the hall, took a peek.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Valentine said. “The stairs are directly at the end of the hall. We go down to the first floor, and there’s an exit outside right there.”

  “Let’s go,” Jenks said.

  They filled the corridor, stalked the hall with long, determined strides toward the stairs, guns at their sides, jaws set, eyes hard.

  The door to the stairwell flew open and three gangsters filled the other end of the hall. Jenks recognized Red Zach’s men. They saw Jenks and the professors, and their hands went into their coats.

  Valentine, Jenks, and DelPrego lifted their guns as one. The gangsters fired at the same time. The hallway erupted, shook with gunfire. Dust fell from the ceiling, plaster flying where lead hit.

  Morgan hunched against the wall, arms over his head. He felt his coat jerk where a slug ripped through the fabric. He heard yelling, realized it
was him.

  Birdshot from Valentine’s twenty-gauge sprayed the first gangster. He dropped his gun, screamed. The other two fired back. Jenks fired three times. The first bullet went wide. The next two struck home.

  The gangster who’d been sprayed with the birdshot lifted off his feet, a new red hole in his chest. The thug next to him fell back, his head spraying blood. He twitched on the ground a long second before going still.

  The last of Zach’s men bolted back for the stairs, firing wildly over his shoulder. The door banged shut behind him, and he was gone.

  Smoke and cordite hung in the air.

  “Dear God,” Morgan said.

  “We got to move,” Jenks said. “They heard the shots.”

  They ran for the stairs.

  DelPrego paused over the bodies of the dead black men. He stuck the Colt in his belt and picked up the two fallen pistols, heavy automatics, one nickel-plated.

  Jenks looked back. “Fuck that shit, Wayne. Let’s go!”

  They flew down the stairs, feet barely touching each step.

  The exit led them out to the blizzard. It still howled, wind flinging snow and sleet.

  “Where’s DelPrego?” Morgan shouted over the wind.

  Jenks turned around, saw DelPrego wasn’t behind him. “Shit.”

  These were the men who’d killed Timothy Lancaster.

  DelPrego held the pistols like white-knuckled death. He’d scour Albatross Hall, and all would fall before him. Nothing mattered but his white-hot vengeance.

  He found them on the second floor. They stood in a cluster, a half dozen of them, one gesticulating the story of the shooting on the floor above. DelPrego ran toward them, picking up speed with each step, arms extended and guns leading the way.

  Their faces turned, eyes wide, screaming. They pointed guns back at him. Curses. DelPrego didn’t hear. There was only the hot buzzing, blood pressure pounding hot in his ears. He squeezed the triggers as fast as he could.

  The hail of lead shredded the group, one gritting teeth, grabbing an arm. Another pitched forward. Two ran. Three returned fire, big automatics spitting fire.

  DelPrego caught a slug in the leg, he screamed, went down, but twisted to keep his pistols aimed at the group. He kept squeezing the triggers even after his gun was empty. His head swam, stomach heaving. Another bullet plowed a deep groove into his left shoulder. Blood gushed with each heartbeat.

  He lay on his side, dropped the empty pistols, and pulled the Colt from his belt. He cocked it, fired along the tile floor, and shattered the ankle of one of the gangsters. The gangster screamed, collapsed to the floor, squirming to get ahold of his ruined ankle. The puddle that formed under his shoe was thick and red and spread rapidly.

  Two more bullets smacked into DelPrego’s chest. He no longer felt the pain, only the dull impact. He fired the Colt one more time, but the bullet went wild.

  He was shot again. Again. His eyes looked up, dull and unblinking. The smile was faint and oddly peaceful.

  forty-five

  The three of them huddled against the blizzard, looked back at the door they’d used to escape Albatross Hall. DelPrego did not come out.

  “Maybe he took a wrong turn,” Morgan shouted over the blizzard.

  “H-he was r-r-right b-behind us.” Valentine had fled the building with only a light jacket. He was turning blue.

  “His eyes,” Jenks said. “He had a crazy look. I think he’s going to do something.”

  “Can someone please tell me what in the hell just happened?” Morgan asked.

  “Get himself killed,” Jenks said, still thinking of DelPrego. “I better find him before-”

  “D-don’t be a f-fool,” Valentine said. “You can’t go back in-”

  Valentine’s head jerked around. Morgan and Jenks followed his gaze.

  Distantly, figures took shape. They manifested out of the fog like floating stones, great, hard, square chunks of granite. Shoulders. Hands deep into the pockets of their long dark coats, hats pulled low to cover eyes. A ragged line of them moving forward, taking form as they stepped into the feeble lamplight. They did not heed wind or cold, only advanced like a silent, grim tide. Eight of them; no, ten. A dozen square-jawed ghosts.

  “Jesus,” Morgan said.

  “He ain’t going to help you.” Jenks’s hand tightened on his pistol.

  Valentine clutched the shotgun to his chest. “No shells l-left.”

  They marched toward Morgan, Jenks, and Valentine. Behind the line of men came another figure. He was small, bent against the cutting wind, thin hand holding a cloth cap on his bald head. He held on to the arm of one of the bruisers. The small man came within three feet of Morgan and stopped.

  “The reading went well,” Fred Jones said. “I should kick your ass, but I enjoyed it.”

  “Who are these men?” Morgan asked.

  A blast of wind sprayed the group with sleet. Bob Smith had to use both hands to keep Jones from flying away. Jones’s thugs continued to march past.

  “The kid told me about his troubles.” Jones nodded at Jenks. “I called a few old pals to come help.”

  Jones turned to Valentine. “A guy from University of Arkansas Press was there. Asked me if I had enough stuff for a whole book.”

  Morgan’s mouth fell open.

  “That’s m-most fortunate,” Valentine said.

  “You’re going to freeze your balls off,” Jones said. “Bob, bring the car around and pick us up.”

  “Right, boss.” Smith lumbered back into the blizzard.

  “The weather’s going to keep the cops off our backs for a little bit, but we got to move fast,” Jones said. “My guys will finish here. They know what to do.”

  Jenks yanked on Morgan’s sleeve. “Wayne.”

  Morgan said, “One of my students is still in there.”

  “I got to look for him,” Jenks told Jones.

  “Nunzio!” Jones waved over one of the long coats.

  The guy had big, red cheeks, black eyes. “Mr. Jones?”

  Jones jerked a thumb at Jenks. “Take this guy inside. He lost a lamb. Make sure he ain’t shot by accident.”

  “Right. This way, kid.”

  Morgan watched Nunzio lead Jenks back into Albatross Hall. The building looked like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe tale-dark stone, windows like vacant eyes, the snow piling at the corners. Morgan looked down, saw that Jones had latched on to his arm. He’d been holding the old man up. Morgan hooked arms with Jones, stood close to shield him from the wind. Jones let him.

  Jones craned his neck, lifted his mouth toward Morgan’s ear. The old man was trying to tell him something. Morgan leaned forward, cupped his free hand around his ear to block the howling storm.

  “You got to help me get my book into shape to show this Arkansas Press guy,” Jones said. “He says he’ll leave a slot in the schedule open this fall.”

  Morgan said he’d help.

  Dull gun blasts echoed from within Albatross Hall. Blue light flashed in the windows.

  “W-what are they doing?” asked Valentine.

  “Sweeping up,” Jones said.

  A sudden flurry of shots like a spurt of microwave popcorn, flashes from the third floor.

  Jones’s car pulled up on the sidewalk with Smith at the wheel. The big sedan carved dirty furrows in the white snow. Morgan opened the door for Jones. Valentine went around the other side. They climbed into the car, sighed relief at the warmth.

  “Are they going to be okay?” Morgan looked at the dark windows of Albatross Hall.

  “They’ll be fine,” Jones said. “I need some soup.”

  Under the car’s interior light, Morgan took a good look at the old man. His lips were blue, breathing shallow.

  Morgan took his hands. They were lumps of hard ice. “You okay?”

  “I can’t feel them.”

  Morgan put the hands between his own, rubbed hard.

  “It was like you said,” Jones muttered. “When I knew I had the crowd. T
hey loved it. I could feel them. It was the best I ever felt.” His voice was fading.

  Morgan pulled the old man close, tried to give him body heat. This little, gnarled poet. Morgan’s deus ex machina hero.

  Jenks knelt on the cold tile next to DelPrego’s body. His head ached from holding back the tears. Finally, he gave up, let them roll hot and salty down his cheeks and over his lips. Down the hall, Nunzio dragged a gangster’s body by the ankle, pulled him to the edge of the pile of bodies the hoods were making. It had been at least five minutes since Jenks had heard gunshots.

  Jenks pushed himself to his feet. He felt tired, a hundred years old, like he’d been awake for a week. He looked at the last body Nunzio had put on the pile.

  “You know any of these?” Nunzio’s hand swept over the pile.

  “A few,” Jenks said. “The one on top is Red Zach.”

  Jenks studied Zach, the slack, expressionless face. Eyes glassy and dull. It seemed impossible that this man had ruled his life. It was a hundred years ago he’d been Zach’s go boy, running errands. He had even hoped to be like Zach one day, but now the man was only cold bones and loose flesh and an already fading memory of fear.

  The cocaine was gone. Red Zach gone. Even Sherman Ellis was gone, with no family to remember him. It was all gone. For Harold Jenks, only the whole, wide world remained.

  forty-six

  It took an hour for Bob Smith to drive Morgan home. None of Fumbee’s stoplights worked. Power was out in various neighborhoods. Fortunately, the roads were nearly deserted, most folks having enough sense to stay at home.

  Jones regained some of his color and his voice was stronger. The sedan had good heat and Smith flipped it to full blast. Jones offered Valentine a spare bedroom and the old professor gladly accepted.

  Morgan’s porch light told him he was one of the fortunate few who still had electricity. He bid everyone good night, rushed up the steps and into his little house. He found the thermostat and thumbed the heat up until it clicked on. He stood over one of the vents, let it blow warm air up his pant legs.