Reed Coleman - Gun Church

Some of the wee Mexicans at the slaughterhouse were friendly sorts, though nary a one spoke twenty words of English. McGuinn could manage a bit of Basque, but his Spanish was crap. No matter. He couldn’t envision himself and a bunch of Pedros sitting around passing the poteen. Besides, those lads were as busy keeping their heads down as was he.

He was so wrecked, he’d gone out of pocket for a bit of flange. Never before had he paid for a woman. A point of pride, that. No longer. McGuinn had killed in coldest blood without giving a toss, but could not forgive himself for the sin of paying for a piece of skirt.

“Escort service, me arse,” he snarled, shredding the postcard advert into confetti. “In the photos they all look like Christie Brinkley. Bollix! When they showed up at your door they look like buckets of snot.” But desperation improved their looks and never did he turn them away.

Christ on his cross, now he was talking to himself. Worse, he was showing his age. Though still a fine-looking flah, Christie Brinkley was older than his own self. He had to get out of there, now. Taking a bullet could be no worse than this lonely hell. He tucked the Sig in the small of his back and walked out into the night.

The first two pubs he tried were woeful disappointments-as if that was news in this town, the disappointment mecca of America-but McGuinn thought he spotted some promise in the twitchy neon sign above Ralph and Jim’s Bar and Grill. Dark lit and moody with a single ceiling fan that turned with the urgency of a sloth, the establishment was not without its charms. The bar surface was so pitted it was positively lunar and the red vinyl snugs were held together by duct tape and prayers.

McGuinn waved a twenty to get the bartender’s attention. “A scotch neat and a burger with chips.”

“I can do the scotch,” the barman said, “but the kitchen’s been closed since Jim took sick.”

“And when was that?”

“The second Eisenhower administration. Ralph and Jim were dead before I was born.”

McGuinn paid for his scotch and moved over to the jukebox, which was a bit of a revelation itself. That it was an authentic juke with real vinyl to play was shock enough, but that it contained Thin Lizzy tunes was brilliant. He stuffed in quarters.

“Tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak,” he sang along, pumping his fist in the air.

“Who is this?” A siren’s voice interrupted his reverie.

The voice belonged to a diabolical blond with untamable tresses and eyes that fairly glowed blue in the dim-lit bar. She was thirty years his junior with curves in abundance where the Almighty had planned them to go. Her skirt was short; her legs long and tanned. And her smile was white and inviting, but it was her eyes that held McGuinn’s attention.

“Have ya never heard of Thin Lizzy?”

“Tin Lizzy?”

McGuinn laughed his first honest laugh since he’d arrived in this beshitten town and there was more than a bit of nervousness to it.

“That’s Thin Lizzy-T-h-i-n-Thin. Great Irish band.”

“Like U2?”

“Not likely. Phil Lynott was a Dubliner, not a poser like Bono. Citizen of the world, me arse. He’s a singer in a feckin’ rock band, not Ghandi.” He finished his drink in a gulp. “I’m empty. Can I get ya a drink?”

“A Bud.”

“What’s yer name, darlin’?”

“Zoe.”

“Lovely name for a stunning woman,” McGuinn said, feeling almost human again. “Guard the juke with yer life. Any bollocks tries to play U2, come fetch me.”

As he stepped back to the bar and beyond the power of Zoe’s eyes, his radar popped on. Something was amiss. Of all the lads in the bar, why, he wondered, had the looker approached him, the one fella near old enough to be her aul da? Somehow he didn’t think it was his thinning hair, potbelly, or Phil Lynott’s singing that had called to her.

Waiting patiently to be served, McGuinn used the mirror behind the bar to study what was going on at his back. The fair Zoe kept a poker face, and a beautiful one it was. Her focus seemed fully on the juke, but he knew that if he watched her long enough, she would give herself away. One way or another, he supposed, women were always giving themselves away. Ah, just there, a subtle swivel of her head to the left and a shift in her gaze. As slight as her movements were, Zoe might just as well have painted a bull’s-eye on the poor fooker’s chest …

So entranced by what I’d written, I nearly jumped out of my skin when the phone rang. The phone hadn’t done much ringing since the day Janice Nadir moved upstate.

I picked up after catching my breath. “Yeah.”

“You’re such an asshole, Weiler. Don’t you ever return phone calls?”

Technically, I guess Meg Donovan was still my agent, a position her colleagues no doubt coveted as much as receiving placebos in a late-stage cancer study. Although I hadn’t seen her in years, Meg was still more friend than agent, really. She was my only remaining link to the Kipster.

“It was you who called?” I asked, pretending I’d noticed the red message light flashing. I hadn’t.

“You haven’t listened to the message yet?”

“Come on, Donovan. You know how it is with me and the phone. The last time someone called with good news, the Mets won the World Series.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve spent the better part of my life lending credence to that assertion.”

“Shut up and listen. Your second fifteen minutes of fame might pay off.”

“A reality show? Survival of the Fittest Has-beens? I’ll kick Webster’s little black ass.”

“Very cute, but no. Besides, my money would be on the dwarf.”

“Isn’t it your job to be on my side, Meg?”

“It’s a lonely place, being on your side. My job’s to tell you the truth.”

“Agents and the truth, now there’s unexplored territory.”

“If you haven’t managed to alienate me after all these years, you’re not going to do it now.”

“Okay, Meg, what are we talking about?”

“A book deal.”

Bookdeal : those two words made me weak. If I’d been born with a vagina, it would have been wet.

“What kind of book deal?” I asked.

“Haskell Brown at Travers Legacy has had a big Eighties retrospective series in the works for a year or so and-”

“A year, huh? And this is the first I’m hearing about it?”

“Don’t be a dunce cap, Weiler.”

“So I wasn’t part of the original retrospective.”

“Very good. You should take the Jeopardy home challenge. Now can we talk money?”

“Who was in the original deal?”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Kip.”

“If I don’t, who will? Names, ranks, and serial numbers, please.”

“The usual suspects: Bart, Nutly, Kate Silva, Marty Castronieves … ”

I couldn’t believe how much hearing those names hurt me. Surely the omission of my name should have come as no shock. I think maybe it was that I knew the Kipster had once been able to write circles around them all, even his Highness, Marty Castronieves.

“Earth to Planet Weiler, are you reading me? Over.”

“Sorry, Meg. I was lost there for a minute. Do the others know I wasn’t part of the original package?”

She hesitated. “Come on, Kip, of course they know. Publishing makes OedipusRex look like a play about distant cousins. Now can we stop talking about what was and get to what is? This could be a nice paycheck for us both.”

“Sure.”

Meg wasn’t exaggerating. Travers Legacy was willing to pay me big bucks for my backlist, which-not having published a novel in about fifteen years-was all the wares I had to sell.

“They’re going to do big print runs on your first three novels and might send you guys out on tour. Lots of press, lots of stores, even late night TV. Think of it: you, Bart, and Nutly back on the road together, and you could get away from that dreadful Garden State Brickface Community College.”