Pistol Poets

by Victor Gischler

  He moved into the kitchen, rummaged every cabinet until he finally tuned up a half-full bottle of Cutty Sark he didn’t remember buying. He filled a juice glass and sat at the kitchen table still wearing his coat. Valentine had told Morgan about Jenks. That was the kid’s name. Harold Jenks. Morgan still wasn’t sure he understood what had happened.

  He wondered if Ginny were okay, vaguely wished she were with him. He didn’t feel like being alone, wasn’t really sure how he felt. His night had been a horror of dead bodies, yet Morgan felt relief he wasn’t one of them. He’d begun this mess with Jones bailing him out, hiding Annie Walsh’s body. Morgan could no longer remember Annie’s face. It didn’t seem like part of the same life.

  Now Jones had bailed him out again, even given him a ride home. A strange, sweet, odd old man. Morgan drained the Cutty Sark.

  He was so tired but forced himself to shower. The hot water felt good.

  No towel on the rack when he stepped out of the shower. He dripped and shivered as he walked to the hall closet, feet slapping wet on the floor.

  Morgan didn’t even see the lamp until it was an inch from his nose. It shattered against his forehead, and Morgan went down, blinked blood out of his eyes. He climbed to his knees, shaken, opened his mouth to yell. A fist caught him hard on the jaw, rattled teeth. He bit his tongue, more blood.

  Morgan lay on his back, legs curled awkwardly under him. He looked up into the grinning face of the man over him. Stubble. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles. All disturbingly familiar.

  The man’s left arm ended at a red stub, which had been wrapped in white gauze, blood spots seeping through.

  “Oh, no.” Morgan heard his own voice, small and without breath. It sounded like fear.

  Deke Stubbs laughed, a low wicked mix of scorn and amusement. “I thought you might remember me, Professor.”

  “I thought…” Morgan rolled over, wiped the blood out of his eyes. His head throbbed.

  “You thought I was dead?” Stubbs shook his head. “Nope. But I can see how you might think that since you left me trapped in the back of a goddamn car that was sinking into the fucking ocean.”

  Stubbs kicked Morgan hard in the ribs, and Morgan whuffed air, went into a fetal position. Stubbs kicked again. A third time. Morgan felt something give along his side, wondered if a rib had cracked.

  “I want to tell you something, Jay old boy,” Stubbs said. “When you’re halfway through your own arm with a saw, you really learn how to hate. I’ve killed you so many times in my imagination, I’ve lost count.”

  “Please.” Morgan backed away, tried to stagger to his feet but froze when he saw the automatic in Stubbs’s only hand.

  “In one scenario, I shove broken glass up your ass for an hour before I put a bullet in your head.” Stubbs stood close to Morgan, stuck the barrel of the automatic against Morgan’s temple. “But that’s too quick. After what I been through, everything’s too quick for you. You’re going to learn about a whole new bright world of pain. There’s going to be jagged things and sharp things and fiery hot things, and it’s all for you.”

  Morgan said, “I just wanted out of the car. I thought it was sinking.”

  Stubbs slapped the barrel of his gun across the side of Morgan’s head. Little fireworks went off behind Morgan’s eyes. Bells. Morgan felt something cool on his cheek. It was the floor.

  Morgan was dizzy, couldn’t get his bearings. He lost track of Stubbs, allowed himself the fantasy that Stubbs had left, changed his mind for some reason.

  But Stubbs was too in love with vengeance. Morgan felt his wrists being bound together. Some kind of thin cord. Then he was being dragged into the bedroom. Morgan could only get one eye open, the other caked closed with blood. He tried to twist around, see what Stubbs was doing.

  Morgan felt himself lifted by his wrists. He was half on his bed, half on the floor. The cord holding his wrists had been lashed to the bedpost. Stubbs’s footsteps retreated into the next room, but his voice carried. He was still talking, telling Morgan his gruesome story.

  “After I sawed off my hand,” Stubbs said, “I think I was in some kind of shock. The memory is a bit hazy, but I think I climbed out of the Mercedes.” Stubbs voice was closer now. “I threw up too. My gut was tossing pretty bad. Like I said, shock. Also, I swallowed about a gallon of salt water.”

  Morgan smelled smoke, heard Stubbs inhale. A cigarette.

  “Anyway, I wasn’t much good to swim with only the one hand. I couldn’t work against the tide. I floated along even with the shore for a while until my feet touched bottom and I trudged ashore.”

  Morgan felt the white-hot cigarette butt grind into his left ass cheek. He screamed, tried to twist away, but Stubbs held it in place. Finally, he let go.

  Stubbs flicked the butt away. “Look at that. My cigarette went out for some reason. Guess I better light another.”

  The burn throbbed, made Morgan nauseous with fear and pain.

  “I had to tie a tourniquet with my belt, pull it tight with my teeth,” Stubbs said. “If things slow down, I’ll tell you how I cauterized the wound. By the way, as if you couldn’t guess, yes it was pretty goddamned awful.”

  Morgan realized with cold dread that this was only the beginning. Stubbs had nursed his hatred since Houston and wouldn’t be satisfied until Morgan suffered every possible agony Stubbs’s warped mind could generate.

  Morgan filled his lungs with air, screamed as loud as he could. “Help! Help! Police! Call the-”

  Stubbs’s body crushed against Morgan’s. Stubbs forced the professor’s face into the mattress. He clubbed Morgan twice more with the butt of the automatic pistol.

  “No, no. That’s not how we do this.” Stubbs’s breath was hot on Morgan’s ear. “I know what you think. Maybe the police will hear or maybe not, but anyway maybe I’ll panic and kill you quick and clean. No way. I got plans for you. You’re going to beg for a quick death before this is over. And, buddy, just scream your fucking head off because nobody’s going to hear you over that blizzard out there.”

  Morgan only half heard, was only half-conscious. Black spots claimed his vision. He didn’t think he could take any more blows to the head. Maybe that was better anyway than being awake for Stubbs’s torture session.

  “Session,” Morgan said out loud.

  “What?” Stubbs lifted Morgan’s head off the mattress by his hair. “You trying to say something, Professor?”

  Morgan wasn’t paying attention. He’d stepped one foot into a dreamland, saw Valentine smoking his bong, DelPrego and Lancaster in his writing workshop. Was this what they meant by your life flashing before your eyes? If so, Morgan was disappointed.

  “Disappointed,” mumbled Morgan.

  “What?” Stubbs frowned. “Dammit, don’t you go out on me. I need you awake for the fun.”

  And this Harold Jenks son of a bitch, thought Morgan. This is all his fault, getting me involved with drug lords and gunfights and cocaine.

  “Cocaine,” Morgan said.

  Stubbs shook Morgan, slapped him lightly on the face. “Come on, now. Wake up. What was that about the cocaine?”

  Morgan didn’t move. Stubbs shook him again. “The cocaine, Professor?”

  “What?” Morgan’s good eye flickered open.

  “Don’t play dumb. You were talking about the cocaine. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Morgan said.

  “Did I mention I was going to put things up your ass?” Stubbs said. “Now start talking, goddammit!”

  Morgan forced himself to concentrate. “You’ll let me go if I show you where the drugs are?”

  Stubbs laughed, a sick wheezing sound. “Hell, no. But I promise not to do all that sick shit. Show me where you’ve stashed the coke and I’ll kill you clean. No pain.”

  “Untie me,” Morgan said.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Untie me and I’ll show you.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “
No,” Morgan said. “I don’t like being bent over like this. You’ll do something to me.”

  “Tough shit.”

  “Untie me.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Stubbs said.

  He unlashed the cord from the bedpost but left Morgan’s wrists bound. As Stubbs did this, Morgan turned his head, saw that Stubbs had stuck the gun under his other armpit so he could use his good hand to untie the cord. Morgan saw what was probably his only chance. He wanted to hit Stubbs in the face, make him drop the gun, surprise him, anything. If he could get past him, Morgan would even run out into the blizzard naked, maybe try to flag down a car.

  Morgan lurched to his feet and lunged, swinging two-handed at Stubbs.

  Stubbs sidestepped easily, popped Morgan in the nose with a right cross. Morgan felt cartilage snap, felt warm blood pour down his face and over his lips.

  Stubbs laughed, took the pistol from his armpit, and dropped it into his coat pocket. “What? You think since I got only one hand, I can’t take a pussy like you?”

  Morgan rolled onto his stomach, tried to crawl under the bed.

  Stubbs shook his head. “Now that’s just pathetic.”

  Morgan got halfway under the bed. Stubbs bent over, grabbed Morgan’s ankle, and pulled him back.

  Stubbs tsked. “Looks like we’ve got to do this the hard way now. Doesn’t bother me none, but you’re- Oh, fuck!”

  Morgan had rolled onto his back, Fred Jones’s little revolver in a two-handed grip held out in front of him. Stubbs fumbled for the automatic in his coat pocket, but Morgan squeezed the trigger.

  The first shot was unsteady, shredded Stubbs’s groin. The private eye went down, his one good hand clutching his balls, blood pooling. Morgan pulled the trigger again, blasted a hole in his bedroom wall. The third shot caught Stubbs in the top of the head, sprayed bone and brain.

  Morgan dropped the gun, crawled away from the body. He watched a long time, waited for Stubbs to get up, but nothing happened.

  Morgan limped into the kitchen. The adrenaline rush was rapidly leaving him. The aches and pain flooded in, head and ass throbbing, ribs screaming with every breath.

  He found a kitchen knife, sawed the cords awkwardly until he was free.

  Morgan went into the bedroom one more time. Looked at Stubbs to make sure he was still dead. He looked at his bedroom, the blood. A mess. He looked at the gun on the floor, the one Jones had given to him so long ago. It seemed like forever.

  Then he picked up the phone, dialed.

  “Bob,” Morgan said. “Is he still awake? Okay, put him on.” A pause. “Mr. Jones? I know it’s late, and it’s been a long day. But there’s just one more loose end I need you to help me tie up if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Epilogue

  Most of the students and faculty at Eastern Oklahoma University were glad it was the end of the semester. Summer waited, flings and family and a break from textbooks. For Morgan, it only meant unemployment. He’d have to hustle this summer to find something. Otherwise, it was adjunct hell at some community college.

  Strangely, Morgan couldn’t bring himself to worry about it. Where or when he might get his next job seemed like small potatoes. His capacity to fret had been exhausted. The uncertain future stretching out before him was a parole from his old life.

  Since Fred Jones had made the poetry reading a success (it received glowing reviews in the Tulsa and Fayetteville newspapers), Morgan was not immediately fired, and his contract was allowed to run its course until the semester’s end. But nobody mentioned anything more about Jay Morgan being hired in a permanent capacity at the university. It was generally understood that Morgan would move on, thanks a lot, good luck, and don’t let the door smack your ass on the way out.

  His office in Albatross Hall was almost cleaned out. He filled a cardboard box with books and file folders but paused over the newspaper clippings. They were yellow at the edges. In the weeks following the Albatross Hall slaughter, Morgan had collected the clippings obsessively. They seemed to chronicle an episode in his life that had refused to end. Every other day a new article.

  Some he liked better than others. The article about the man found wandering naked with cuts all over his face seemed unrelated, but Morgan had suspicions.

  But the one about the drug raid at a local farmhouse was clearly the result of Fred Jones’s machinations. According to the article, authorities had pieced together the following story after finding the bodies of Annie Walsh, Deke Stubbs, and Moses Duncan. Local drug dealer Moses Duncan had hidden the body of the Walsh girl after she’d overdosed on some of Duncan’s merchandise. She was found buried under the house. Tulsa private investigator Deke Stubbs, hired by Walsh’s parents, had apparently tracked the girl to the farmhouse. Evidence at the crime scene supported the theory that Duncan and Stubbs had killed one another.

  Several gruesome details of the killings were left unaccounted for. Morgan tried to laugh about this but couldn’t. The officer in charge of the case, a Sergeant Hightower, promised to keep investigating until authorities were satisfied.

  The article also quoted Annie Walsh’s parents, who expressed relief that the matter had at last been put to rest. Morgan felt a pang of guilt and regret. He tore up the clippings and threw them into the basket next to his desk.

  But he kept the postcard from Harold Jenks. It had arrived two weeks earlier and been addressed to Morgan, Valentine, and Jones. It said he was doing fine and thanks for everything. It also said he wasn’t sure what he was going to do next, but don’t worry it would be something “straight.” When Morgan read the postcard carefully, he thought he could just barely detect an apology. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

  He also kept the letter he’d received three days ago from The Chattahoochee Review. They’d accepted the poem Morgan had written about smoking the cigars for the old man.

  Morgan had tried to call Jones to tell him about it, but the number had been disconnected. The next day, Morgan had found a note from the old man in his mailbox. Jones had written that his “government friends” had been upset. Jones’s picture had been in the paper the day after the poetry reading. Evidently that was a no-no, and Jones had been “relocated.”

  It made Morgan sadder than he’d anticipated. He missed the old man and wished him well.

  Dirk Jakes walked into Morgan’s office without knocking. “Hey, hey, Morgo-man. Just wanted to stop by and say no hard feelings on losing my Mercedes.”

  “I sure am sorry about that, Dirk.”

  “No biggie,” Jakes said. “The insurance check finally came, and I just bought this sweet Lexus. Did I mention they found a severed hand in the back of the Mercedes?”

  “It’s a crazy world,” Morgan said.

  “Cops say maybe some kind of whacko gang ritual.”

  Annette Grayson walked in, put her hand on Jakes’s arm. “Come on, Dirk, you’re taking me to lunch, remember?”

  “Sure, babe. Just let me catch up to you in a minute.”

  She looked at Morgan. “See you later, Jay.” There was a message in her eyes Morgan didn’t understand, but he suspected it was supposed to be some kind of joke on him.

  After Grayson left, Jakes said, “Just between you and me, Morgo-man, I’ve been banging her for three weeks. Yeah!” Jakes made hip-thrusting motions and stuck his tongue out. “I’m sure you can imagine what that’s like.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Listen, don’t sneak out of town until we can grab a beer, okay?”

  “Right,” Morgan said.

  Jakes waved and was gone.

  Morgan took his last box of personal belongings out to the car and drove home lost in thought. The old man was gone, Jenks was gone, even Valentine had found a new place to hide. Morgan would leave Fumbee the way he’d come in, alone and a stranger.

  But he smiled when he saw Ginny waiting for him on his porch. A week after the blizzard, Ginny had shown up drunk and lonely. They’d fucked for five hours. The next day sh
e’d said it was a mistake, and four days after that they spent a weekend in Dallas. Once Morgan had the pattern down, she’d been easy to cope with.

  He stopped in front of her on the porch. “Hey.”

  The weather had turned warm. She wore a dark green tank top and denim shorts. “Hey, yourself. All packed?”

  “Almost.”

  She took his hand, stood, brushed off the bottom of her shorts. “Did you pack up the bed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I thought I’d stop and say good-bye,” she said. “You know.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’re leaving town, so, you know, it doesn’t mean anything.” She led him through the front door, past the taped-up boxes and into the bedroom. “I mean it simply can’t because you’re leaving, right?”

  “Right.”

  She tugged his pants down. He lifted her tank top, cupped her breast.

  She sank into him, said, “So this is it for us?”

  “Yes. The absolute end.” He lifted her chin, kissed her deeply and long.

  About the Author

  VICTOR GISCHLER teaches creative writing at Rogers State University in Claremore, Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping through his pants. His wife, Jackie, thinks he is a silly, silly individual. He drinks black, black coffee all day long and sleeps about seven minutes a night. Victor’s first novel, Gun Monkeys, was nominated for the Edgar Award.

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