The Pistol Poets

forty

Moses Duncan sat in his pickup truck in the university's south parking lot thinking about Mexican whores. Duncan preferred blondes, big Swedish honeys with long, long legs and giant milky tits. But Mexican whores were cheap. That is to say, Mexico in general was a cheap place to be. He'd been to Juarez once with his dad. The American dollar went a long way, and a guy could get anything-anything-down there if he had cash.

Duncan had been thinking he could still get his hands on the coon's cocaine and split town for Mexico. He could disappear and set himself up good south of the border. On his way down, he could unload the stuff in Oklahoma City or maybe Dallas.

He sort of felt bad about Eddie, but these were desperate circumstances. It was every man for himself. Even as he walked out of the old family farmhouse, he sort of knew he wasn't going back. He couldn't. Too much had changed. Too much was different than he had thought. The world wasn't right, and Moses Duncan didn't know how to live in it. In Mexico, cash and pistols would make him The Man. A system he could work with.

He tucked his dad's revolver into the front of his pants. He popped open the glove compartment, took out the Old-West-style, single-action Colt, and stuck it in the back. The corduroy coat hung low enough to cover both pistols. He put on his Harley-Davidson cap, tugged the bill down to hide his face.

He got out of the truck, walked toward the cluster of buildings at the heart of campus. Nothing to do now but keep his eyes peeled. That was important. He wasn't on an errand anymore for that fucking pimp Zach. He was on his own mission.

Maurice sat in his parked Lincoln Town Car two rows from Duncan's truck. If Zach wanted him to keep an eye on Duncan, then the peckerwood must be up to something or giving off a bad vibe. Anyway, Zach was suspicious. Then again, Red Zach was always suspicious of everyone and everything. Maybe that's how the man got to be boss.

Duncan was on the move, and Maurice watched him. He got out of the Lincoln but kept his distance. Maurice was aware he didn't exactly blend in. He checked his gat, his cell phone. He buttoned his coat and headed for the long yard in front of campus. He lagged behind, but kept Duncan in sight.

Zach hadn't said anything specific, but Maurice knew this peckerwood's time was short. Zach would use him to track down Jenks, then Maurice or one of the others would put a bullet between Duncan's eyes. And if Zach still thought it was worth setting up an operation in Fumbee, he'd pick his own man.

A few of the college kids looked sideways at Maurice, but most simply shrank into their coats, gritting their teeth against the sharp wind that had risen sudden and bitter from the west. Maurice craned his neck. The weather looked bad, clouds collecting low in the sky. But he didn't look at the sky for long, kept his eyes on Duncan.

Duncan wandered without plan, strolling a lazy circle around the campus buildings. Maurice shook his head. Amateur. When you're waiting to spot somebody in a situation like this, the better strategy was to stay put in a good location and let the crowd cycle under your nose. Eventually, whoever you're trying to find will drift by. But this was Duncan's turf. Maybe he knew what he was doing.

Duncan stopped, so Maurice stopped too. Maybe Duncan had seen something. Or maybe the motherfucker was just stupid and lost. Maurice backed up close to a tall bush. Watched.

That guy in the denim jacket and the sweatpants looked familiar, Duncan thought. A white guy, but Jenks had brought a couple of white boys with him that day at the barn. This looked like one of them, maybe the guy driving the truck. He looked harder, trying not to seem obvious. Yeah, he was pretty sure it was him.

The guy was walking fast, not really looking around. Duncan could follow no problem. The guy beelined for a building, and Duncan stopped to read the sign. Albatross Hall.

Maybe this was it. He'd go in, find Jenks, put the grab on the coke, then fill these shits with lead and head to Mexico. It was a perfect fucking plan. He touched the butts of his two pistols through the coat's heavy material. Okay. He was ready.

Moses Duncan entered Albatross Hall, followed Wayne DelPrego to the stairway that led up to the building's dead floors.

DelPrego trudged the steps up to the fifth floor. There was no anger left in him, no pity or sorrow, no grief. His capacity to feel anything at all had burned away in the fire of his rage. He was hollow and exhausted and each step was a test.

He found Valentine's office, pushed his way in without knocking. An old man was there, a giant behind him. Jenks sprang from the couch.

"Where the fuck you been, boy? Where's the bag?"

DelPrego said, "I flushed it. I flushed it all. It's gone."

"Are you crazy?" Jenks blinked. "What am I supposed to tell Red Zach now, motherfucker?"

"Tim's dead."

"What?"

DelPrego stumbled past Jenks. "Somebody got to him." He fell on the couch, waited for Jenks to start yelling. DelPrego didn't care. His eyelids were so very heavy. He felt the long blackness pulling him down. He only wanted to sleep.

forty-one

Morgan sneaked out of his office and drove home. He grabbed the mail on the way in. His house was cold, and he turned on the heat.

His life had somehow spun out of control. Maybe it would be okay. Possibly Dean Whittaker would not fire him on the spot when Sherman Ellis failed to materialize at the reading. Perhaps Ginny Conrad would not be scarred for life. Ginny.

Morgan was hungry.

The kitchen was not a happy place. Cupboards bare. The refrigerator wasn't much better. Some butter. Two eggs left in the door. He took them out, shook them next to his ear. Morgan couldn't remember how long he'd had the eggs. They looked fine on the outside, white and smooth. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd been to the market. It was possible the eggs had been there when he'd moved in.

This was ridiculous. Now he was afraid of eggs.

He popped open a beer and looked at his mail. A letter from Kenyon College.

Morgan had applied for a Visiting Poet position at Kenyon. He read the letter. Although they found his credentials impressive, Morgan should go stick his head up his own ass and die. Other pieces of mail wanted to sell him life insurance, pizza, and seeds.

He drank the beer.

Tired.

He went into his bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and fell on the bed. He could not immediately fall asleep. He kept thinking there was something he should be doing. His head spun with loose ends. But he couldn't tie up any of them. Nothing was in his power anymore.

He slept and dreamed he was at the poetry reading. He had to introduce the poets to the capacity crowd, but he was naked. This was when he realized he was dreaming, naked in front of people. Even his subconscious had run out of ideas. He laughed, started stroking himself in front of the audience. Stroking and stroking and not getting anywhere at all.

When Morgan awoke it was dark. Panic jerked him out of bed. He thought he'd overslept, that the poetry reading had started. But it was only six o'clock. He checked the window. The sky looked serious about ruining everyone's plans.

He flipped on the TV news. The meteorologist's plastic smile beamed at him. The cold front, said the weatherman, had shifted somewhat, and Green County was going to get a bit more snow than expected. However, the heavy stuff was going to pass north.

Morgan showered. He stood under the hot water a long time, trying to compose a poem in his head. He was still thinking about the eggs, about fear of the unknown, but it came out adolescent and silly. Then he tried a poem about dreaming and nudity, but that didn't go anywhere either. The hot water started turning cold, but Morgan stood there pretending it wasn't. At last, he couldn't kid himself anymore. He turned off the water, dried himself.

He looked in his closet. How did one dress for a doomed poetry reading? The blue suit was too formal. A shot of Jim Beam helped him decide. Tan slacks and his brown tweed jacket with a black turtleneck. Now he looked his most professorial. Another shot of booze. He could feel it on his breath when he exhaled.

It was still a little early to meet Ginny, but he didn't want to hang around. He took his long coat and went to the car. It was cold, and he almost went back for his gloves and a hat. To hell with it.

He unlocked his car door, felt a wet pinprick of cold on the back of his hand. He looked up. One or two flakes, then another. It was light but steady, swirling in the wind like ash.

Morgan parked on the street across from the administration building. There was a dark tavern across from campus that catered to professors. The drinks were just expensive enough to discourage students.

The snow was coming heavier. A few light flakes my ass.

He went in, took a table in the corner. Morgan no longer cared if anyone saw him with a student.

Morgan ordered three vodka martinis. "Keep them coming." He looked at his watch. The poetry reading started in twenty minutes. He was screwed.

Ginny walked in. Morgan saw her and waved her over. He looked her over. The bruises around her eyes were already fading. A scab on her bottom lip.

She sat. "I have something important to tell you."

"You found Ellis!"

"Huh? Oh no, I made a few phone calls, but nobody's seen him," Ginny said. "Don't worry. He'll turn up."

Godamnsonofamotherfuckingbitchshit-

"I want to talk about us."

Morgan blinked.

Ginny said, "I don't think we should see each other anymore."

"Jesus."

"I don't want you to take it hard," she said. "But don't worry about me. I'm a strong person. I've always been strong."

"Sure." Morgan wished it were true, but he didn't think Ginny strong. He didn't think himself strong. Nobody he knew was strong. Maybe people weren't strong anymore. In the 1950s maybe folks were strong. Eisenhower.

The next martini arrived. Morgan took half in one gulp. He waved at the waiter and pointed at his glass, a gesture meant to indicate you're too goddamned slow.

"It's just that this thing has run its course," Ginny said. "We both knew it couldn't work. We're from different worlds."

Morgan realized he was hearing a prepared speech. He decided to ride it out.

"I just don't think we should be... involved."

"I understand." Morgan finished his drink just as the third martini arrived.

"But I want us to be friends," Ginny said.

Morgan was a little slow remembering his lines but finally said, "I want that too."

She stood, dramatic, jaw set. Morgan could almost hear the music swelling. Ginny looked like a chubby Scarlett O'Hara. "Farewell, Professor Morgan."

Morgan flipped her a wave. "So long."

"Well, you could at least act a little upset."

Morgan rolled his eyes. "I'm in a shitstorm here. I don't have time for this."

"Fine." She began to stomp out of the tavern.

"Ginny," he called after her. When she turned around, Morgan cleared his throat, and said, "I'm sorry about that guy. Sorry you got hurt."

Her features softened. She nodded once and left.

Morgan tossed his drink down and took the empty glass to the bar. He took a stool next to an elegantly dressed black man and ordered another drink from the bartender.

Morgan turned to the black man. "Some snow, huh?" A little random small talk would get him back on track.

"I've found the local forecasts to be wildly inaccurate." The black man had a deep, articulate voice. Chin up, bright eyes. He carried himself well. "It will get worse, I think."

Morgan suddenly felt clumsy, his fingers thick and stubby. He reached for his glass and knocked over a bowl of peanuts. "Shit."

"I'll get that for you, sir," said the bartender.

"Yeah, thanks." Thanks came out thanksh. The vodka had hit his tongue. "It better not get worse," Morgan said to the black man. "Big dog and pony show tonight. Poetry reading across the street."

"I know."

"Bunch of crap," Morgan said. "A big public relations show."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Professor Morgan."

"Yeah, well I can't really say- Have we met?" The man did look familiar.

The man stood, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. "I'm Lincoln Truman. President of the university."

Morgan's mouth opened and closed a few times like a trout out of water. President Lincoln Truman walked out of the tavern, his back straight. He didn't look back at Morgan.

Hell.

forty-two

Moses Duncan lost DelPrego going up the stairs. Did the guy get off at the third or fourth floor? Or did he keep going all the way up? Shit.

Duncan stopped on the fourth and drew his dad's revolver. If he couldn't find the guy after a quick sweep there, he'd head up to the fifth to look for him. He thumbed back the revolver's hammer. Be damned if they would catch Moses Duncan with his pants around his ankles.

He listened for footsteps but didn't hear any. He didn't hear anything at all as a matter of fact. The floor looked deserted. Dust. Only one in four light fixtures had a bulb in it. No signs on the doors. He went down one hall, crossed over, found himself in a similar dusty corridor. Who designed this place, some goddamned retard?

Duncan heard footsteps behind him and froze. He spun around, pressed back against the wall, pistol out in front of him. Come on, son of a bitch. Show your ass.

The steps came closer. Duncan extended his arm, gun aimed at the corner. Soon as that guy came around, he was toast. Duncan had come gunning for the guy, but now the guy was coming up behind him. Maybe he had his coon buddy with him. Wouldn't matter. Moses would get the drop on their sorry asses and blast them to hell.

The guy rounded the corner, and Duncan's finger tightened on the trigger.

It was Maurice.

Duncan pulled the gun back, blew out a ragged breath. "What the hell you doing here?"

"Zach thought you might need some backup," Maurice said.

It occurred to Duncan that Maurice would severely fuck up his plan. He should have pulled the trigger, dropped this sucker when he had the chance. As a matter of fact... Duncan considered the pistol at his side, his hand squeezing the butt, tensing.

But Maurice had his automatic in his hands, brought it up, and pointed it at Duncan's head. "I don't like that look in your eyes, peckerwood. You're looking twitchy. You're not thinking bad thoughts, are you?"

Duncan looked down the barrel of Maurice's gun. Could he get his pistol up in time? Probably not. Duncan forced a weak smile. "If I'm twitchy it's 'cause you're sneaking up on me. Makes a fella nervous, don't you think?"

"I hear you." Maurice held out his free hand, kept the pistol steady with the other. "Why don't you hand me that peashooter? I'll give it back when maybe you ain't so nervous."

Duncan laughed, shrugged. "Okay. No need to get all suspicious." He turned the pistol around, handed it to Maurice butt first.

Maurice took it, put it in the big front pocket of his long coat. Then he looked around, took in the fourth floor, the dust. "This place ain't even being used. What the fuck you up here for anyway?"

"I think he might've gone in there." Duncan pointed at a door across the hall.

Maurice turned his head, examined the door. "Don't look like anybody's been in there for a long-"

The Colt thundered, filled the hall, bucked in Duncan's hand. The.45 slug tore into Maurice's shoulder, spun him around, a spray of blood dotting the walls and floor. Maurice grunted, went down. He struggled to lift the automatic.

Duncan stepped on Maurice's wrist, and the gangster's gun clattered on the tile. Duncan thumbed back the Colt's hammer.

Maurice's face was sweaty, contorted with pain. "F-fucking p-peckerwood."

The Colt roared again and a red splotch bloomed in Maurice's gut. Blood spread over him. Maurice clapped a hand over the gushing wound, warm blood seeping sticky between his fingers. "Oh, shit. Y-you redneck fucking... shit." Maurice's eyes glazed. He couldn't keep his head up.

Duncan hovered over him, kept the Colt pointed at the man's face. Maurice's head sank to the cold tile. He twitched, gasped for breath, then didn't move. Very slowly, Duncan reached into Maurice's front pocket, retrieved his daddy's revolver. He stepped back, watched the body for another moment. For some reason he thought it would spring back up, come after him like in a horror movie. It didn't. He'd finished the dirty son of a bitch.

Duncan tucked his guns back into his pants. Now he needed to find his way off this floor. He looked up and down the hall, trying to remember how he'd come in. All these damn doors and hallways looked the same. He made his decision and set off to find the stairs.

He didn't see Maurice roll onto his side, coughing blood. Didn't see the gangster pull the cell phone out of his pocket with shaking, blood-soaked hands.

"Boss?"

"I heard. Go check it out," Fred Jones told his big bodyguard.

"Shots," Jenks said. "Sounded like the floor below us."

"Right."

"You going to be okay without me?" Bob Smith asked.

"Just go," said the old man. "Find out what the hell's happening."

"Okay."

The bruiser checked his pockets on the way out of Valentine's office. Brass knuckles, sap, the.38 on his belt, and the.44 magnum in his shoulder holster. A British commando knife in his boot. He was traveling light that day.

Smith moved well for a big man, walked easy down the hall, head tilted, listening for approaching footfalls. He took the.38 out of his belt holster and put it in his jacket pocket. He wanted a hand on it without flashing the gun in the open. He held the sap in the other hand.

He positioned himself back against the wall near the corner of the hallway. Anybody on the way to Valentine's office would have to pass right under his nose.

He waited, listened.

It was after business hours, so there was a good chance nobody else had heard the shots. Maybe a couple of professors working late or maybe not. Smith shifted from one foot to the other. He didn't like standing for long periods of time, but often it was part of the job.

He was hungry. Jesus, this was going to be a long night. First he had to wait around twiddling his thumbs while that old professor gave the boss poetry advice. Then he'd have to hang around for the reading, then make sure they got home okay. Probably wouldn't be until midnight that he could build himself a nice pastrami sandwich on rye. Some BBQ chips too.

Smith heard footsteps coming. They were shuffling and irregular. The intruder was maybe looking around, trying to get his bearings. Smith stood rigid, hands in front of him ready with the sap.

He'd thought about ordering a pizza, but no way a deliveryman could find his way up to Valentine's office. And he wasn't about to leave the boss alone to make a Burger King run.

The guy was close now. Smith heard him breathing.

Smith tried to remember if there was still a MoonPie in the glove box of the car. No. He'd eaten it two days ago. He made a mental note to stash some snacks in the car. The boss had been keeping an odd schedule lately, and Smith needed to be prepared. Hunger, after all, caused distraction.

A hand came around the corner. The hand had a gun in it.

Smith brought the sap down hard across the guy's wrist. A snap. The guy yelped. The gun flew, slid across the floor. Smith slapped a meaty hand on the guy's forearm, pulled him around the corner.

He knocked the Harley-Davidson cap off the guy's head, patted his coat down, and found an Old-West-style revolver. Smith smelled the barrel before sticking it in his belt, gave the guy a shake. "Who are you?"

"Jesus, my wrist's busted."

"I asked you a question," Smith said.

"I don't feel so good."

"That's a shame. Hold still." Smith had him by the back of the coat.

The guy sagged, wanted to lie down. He groaned, leaned forward, and vomited.

"Christ!" Smith let go of the coat, stepped back, puke splashing on his shoes. The smell almost made him heave too.

The guy took off, running hunched over, clutching his busted wrist to his chest.

"Shit." Smith took one step after him, planted his shoe square in the puddle of puke. His feet flew out from under him. He landed on his back. Hard. The air knocked out of him. He tried to suck in breath, but it was a long few seconds before he could breathe normally. He sat up. A raw spot on his hip where he'd fallen on his brass knuckles. He'd be sore for a week.

He gathered the pistols, limped back upstairs, wondering how he'd explain this to the boss.

Smith lumbered back into the old professor's office. Valentine and Jenks looked at him expectantly.

But Jones read Smith's face, saw the pistols in his hand. The boss could always size up a situation in no time. "Who was it?"

Smith sighed. "Some guy. He got away." He dumped the pistols onto Valentine's desk. Smith didn't need any more guns.

"For Christ's sake," the old man said. "What happened?"

"I fell down."

"What's that on your pants?"

"Vomit."

Jones stood, joints creaking. "Forget it. I want to hear the poetry reading. Let's go."

Red Zach was sick and tired of Oklahoma, farmhouses, rednecks, and being jerked around. He had to take care of this shit quick, or he'd look weak. He couldn't go back to St. Louis without his property and Harold Jenks's head on a stick.

But it was taking too damn long. How hard could it be to find a man in this two-bit town?

Okay, he was getting tense. He closed his eyes and began his breathing exercises. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Long, controlled breaths. It wasn't working. Damn. He hated being on the road so long. Everything he needed was at home. His yoga workout videotapes, aroma therapy candles, the really good CD with the ocean noises. He needed all of it to keep from going nuts and getting an ulcer.

His cell phone bleated in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open. "What?"

It was Maurice on the other end. He sounded strange, weak, like maybe it was a bad connection. Maurice told him to get a pencil. Zach wrote the words Albatross Hall on a paper napkin. A building at the school.

"What is it?" Zach asked. "Dormitory or something?"

Nothing.

"Maurice?" Zach looked at the cell phone's display, made sure he still had battery power. "Maurice, you there?"

Must have lost reception, thought Zach. That happened too often with these cell phones. Hit a dead patch and everything goes quiet.

forty-three

Morgan drank another martini, then walked out of the tavern and into the blizzard. Snow flew sideways, stung his face. He walked across the street bent almost in half against the wind. This was bullshit.

The snow was ankle deep, seeped into his socks. The lampposts along the main sidewalk were fuzzy blurs of light in the driving snow. It took fifteen minutes to trudge to the auditorium, a trip that usually took five. Morgan had to keep stopping and looking around to make sure he hadn't taken a wrong turn. The campus looked unearthly and strange in the whirling mix of snow and pale lamplight.

They'll cancel the reading, thought Morgan. How can they not? A sudden, unexpected, freak blizzard. The roads would be a mess. He had heard, in fact, a siren in the distance. Emergency services would be caught back on its heels. Nobody would risk the roads for poetry. Nobody would know Ellis had never even shown.

He finally made the auditorium and ducked into the lobby, stomping his feet and huffing for air. His vodka breath burned up his throat and out of his mouth in a toxic cloud.

He heard the crowd. Morgan cracked the door to the auditorium, peeked inside. The seats were filled. He scanned the throng. Professors and administrators in the front two rows. Bored students packed the rest of the place, chatting among themselves. A paper airplane sailed from the back row. A guy in a university sweatshirt leapt up from his seat and snatched it out of the air to the scattered applause of the adjacent rows.

The freshmen. Morgan remembered what Dean Whittaker had said about filling the seats with honor school freshmen. They'd only had to come from the dorms, didn't need to drive or hunt for a parking space.

Jesus Christ Almighty. Morgan was well and truly fucked. A crowded auditorium and no Ellis. Morgan belched, tasted vodka, felt slightly dizzy.

He had to do something. The dean and the rest of the administration were expecting something special.

Well, fuck them. Morgan hiccuped. It wasn't his goddamn fault Sherman Ellis was missing in action. What was he? A miracle worker? He couldn't find a kid who'd disappeared off the fucking planet.

Still, just to show up empty-handed was pretty feeble.

Morgan scanned the crowd. There, in the back row, just coming through the door, were Bob Smith and Fred Jones. The big bruiser helped the old man into his seat.

Morgan suddenly had a bad idea, but it was better than no idea at all.

Dean Whittaker fidgeted in his seat, tugged at the band of the silk panties through his trousers. He usually liked wearing the panties, red with a little bow, and lace trimming. But he'd been shifting nervously, and the panties had crept into his ass crack. They also had a stranglehold on his scrotum.

Lincoln Truman sat to the dean's right, a random vice president on his left. Various other department heads and community big shots in the front row, and someplace there was a chancellor.

And where the hell was Jay Morgan? The show was set to start any minute.

President Truman looked impatient and cross. Whittaker opened his mouth to say something reassuring to the president, but a young woman in a long, black dress came onstage and modest applause signaled the reading was under way.

Whittaker recognized the woman as one of the graduating MA students in creative writing. She had a pierced lip and eyebrow, bright orange hair pinned elaborately into sprouting tufts of hair that sprang out at odd angles. How the hell did she expect to get a job looking like that? Whittaker thought about his own daughter, who was in her third year at Kansas State. Would she come back pierced, covered with tattoos, trailing some long-haired "dude" who fronted a speed-metal band? The thought made him shudder. What the hell was going on with the world?

He fingered his panties, watched the orange-haired woman approach the podium.

"Good evening everyone, and thanks for attending Eastern Oklahoma University's annual graduate poetry reading," she said. "Usually we give this reading in the big classroom in Albatross Hall, but this year it's been moved to the auditorium, because, as you can see, we've had one heck of a turnout!"

She paused for a burst of applause that never came.

She cleared her throat. "Our first reader will graduate with his master's in English this spring. His poems have appeared in Word Junkie, Gas-hole, and Pea-Pickin' Potpourri. Please welcome David Blanding."

The pale young man took the stage amid a sluggish ripple of golf clapping. He began to read, his voice a hypnotic murmur blanketing the audience like a high-tech sleep ray from a dime-store science-fiction novel. He wove his poems like elaborate spells designed by some evil wizard to suck all that was interesting and beautiful out of life. If his poems had been music, they would have been the same note over and over again. If his poems had been a meal, it would have been a plate of wet cardboard.

Dean Whittaker watched Lincoln Truman stick his fist in his mouth to stifle a yawn. Whittaker's panties were so far up his ass, he had tears in his eyes.

Morgan got the old man's attention and waved him into the lobby.