Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

“DelPrego.” Morgan looked up from the roll sheet, saw a bored youth in a T-shirt and jeans lift his hand. Hair shaggy and over his neck, dishwater strands falling over his eyes.

He went through eight grad students like that, all dripping attitude. One actually wore an ascot. A goddamn ascot! What the hell was that kid’s name? He scanned the roll. Timothy Lancaster III. Christ. Morgan made a mental note to humiliate and demean the kid soon.

He called the last name on the list. “Annie Walsh.”

Morgan marked her absent, then asked the class, “Has anyone… uh… seen Annie Walsh?” Good one, Jay. Nobody suspects a thing.

“She wasn’t in my eight o’clock class.” The kid in the white T-shirt. DelPrego.

The Lancaster kid cleared his throat. “It’s been my experience that Annie Walsh has some sort of allergic reaction to early-morning classes.”

Morgan wondered if the girl was still home in his bed. He supposed she might have a whale of a hangover.

Morgan pulled Lancaster’s poem from the bottom of the pile. “Okay, let’s start with you, Timmy.”

“Timothy, sir.”

“Eh? What?”

“I prefer Timothy to Timmy.”

The DelPrego kid snickered.

Morgan’s predatory smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Your poem’s called…” He squinted at his copy. “What is it?”

“‘The Fallible Quiescence of a Wrathful Jehovah.’ ”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s about the disparity between free will and-”

“What’s this about in line seven?” Morgan asked. “Fuzzy nut sacks…”

Lancaster’s lips moved as he counted lines. “Nut soldiers. It concerns-”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

DelPrego squirmed in his seat, bit his bottom lip. He couldn’t stand it.

Lancaster had a little sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I use rodentia to symbolize the lower societal strata-”

“Squirrels?”

Lancaster said, “It’s really a metaphor for a much broader-”

“It’s squirrels, isn’t it?” Morgan said.

“Yes, sir, but-”

“Your poem’s about squirrels, Timmy.”

DelPrego’s face had purpled, his shoulders shaking with barely controlled laughter. He stuck the heel of his hand in his mouth to stifle himself. Others in the class giggled openly.

Morgan sifted the pile of poems, moved DelPrego’s to the top.

Harold Jenks was one tough nigger, and everybody knew it. You had to be tough to work for Red Zach.

Jenks liked to call himself the King of East St. Louis, but that was sort of a joke too many of the neighborhood folks took seriously. More accurately, he was king of about seven square blocks between the bus station and the Missouri State Welfare Offices. But everyone knew Jenks was Red Zach’s boy. That made Jenks important.

Jenks and Spoon Oliver hung out in the alley near the bus station. They sipped beer and smoked and waited for something to happen. It was after midnight. When you worked for Red Zach, you didn’t keep regular hours.

Jenks’s boy Spoon nudged Jenks in the ribs and pointed down the alley. “Check it out.”

Some nigger coming down the alley, carrying big suitcases. Jenks watched a minute, puffed his cheap cigar, a Philly Blunt he bought at the convenience store along with a sixteen-ounce can of Bud Light in a little paper sack.

“So what?” Jenks drank his beer.

“Toll,” Spoon said.

Jenks shrugged. “Shit.”

“I say we toll him. This our alley or ain’t it?”

“We ain’t charged toll since we was sixteen,” Jenks said. “We work for Zach now.”

“I’m cash short,” Spoon said. “I say we do it.”

Jenks sighed, tossed down the cigar stub, and stamped it out. “Okay, but don’t go all crazy.”

Jenks backed up behind the Dumpster, gave the “stay down” motion to his partner Spoon on the other side of the alley. Let that nigger get closer, then we jack his ass good. Only I got to keep an eye on Spoon. He’s over the edge lately. Jenks suspected his boy had developed a coke twitch, dipping into the merchandise.

When the victim got between them, Jenks and Oliver leapt. Poor nigger dropped the bags and tried to run, but Jenks had a fistful of his jacket, and Oliver tackled his legs. They all went down in a pile.

Jenks saw the kid was about his age, maybe twenty-two. He yelled, but Jenks twisted, got on top of him. He punched down hard across his face, twice. A third time broke the kid’s lip open, and dark blood smeared down his chin. Jenks let up when he saw the blood.

Oliver stuck a knife to the sucker’s throat. “Give it up, boy.”

“Let me go,” the kid said. “Take the bags. I got money. Take it.”

“Shut up.” Jenks gut-punched the kid. He pulled the wallet out of the kid’s jacket, counted the bills. “Eighty fucking greenbacks. Shit.”

He pulled the kid up by the shirt. “All you got is eighty fucking dollars, motherfucker. Shit. Not even worth jacking your ass.”

“Please-”

“Shut up, nigger.”

“Aw, shit,” Spoon said. “We got to kill this boy.”

“Please, no, I-”

“I said shut your cunt mouth.” Jenks rapped him on the nose.

“I know this boy,” Spoon said.

Jenks shook the boy by the shirt. “You know us?”

The boy nodded.

“Who’s that?” Harold pointed at Spoon.

“Spoon Oliver.”

“Shit,” Jenks said. “Who am I?”

“Harold Jenks.”

“Who are you?”

“Sherman Ellis.”

“He live three blocks over,” Spoon said. “Pappy in prison. Momma died of the cancer last year.”

“You gonna die now, Sherman Ellis.”

“I won’t say anything. I promise.” He was shaking. Tears.

“Can’t take that chance,” Jenks said. “Nobody to cry for you anyway. All alone in the world. Say good night.” This always scared them good. Jenks had even seen a few motherfuckers piss themselves.

“W-wait,” pleaded Sherman. “I’m leaving. What if I promise I’m never c-coming back. Never returning to Missouri. That would be okay, wouldn’t it?”

“Shit,” Spoon said. “A motherfucker about to die will say any shit.”

“It’s t-true,” Sherman said. “I’ve got a scholarship to Eastern Oklahoma. Grad school.”

“Bullshit.”

“The letter’s in my pocket,” Sherman said.

Jenks pulled the letter out of Sherman’s coat pocket. It had been folded into quarters. He opened it and read by the dim light of the streetlamp.

“You gonna be a poet ?” Jenks couldn’t believe it. Of all the fucked-up things.

“Please.” Sherman’s face contorted with anxiety. “I’ve worked hard. Straight A’s in high school. I worked two jobs to get through Truman State. Please, brother. Not like this.”

As Sherman talked, Jenks felt himself deflate. He let go of the kid’s shirt. This nigger was on his way out. On his way to something better. He and Spoon always said that shit about killing. Kept the suckers scared. Make them keep their mouths shut. Hell, maybe they should let the kid go, give him his damn eighty dollars back. Maybe just this once-

Spoon moved forward, stuck the knife into Sherman’s chest, slammed it down to the hilt.

“Goddamn!” Jenks fell back.

“Motherfucker,” Spoon yelled.

Sherman twitched, clawed at the knife still in his chest, arched his back, eyes open to the night sky. He worked his mouth, no words. A trickle of blood welled up over his lips, stained his teeth red.

“Nigger thinks he can give us that brother shit,” Spoon said. “Who the fuck he think he is? He think he better than us. Fucking scholarship motherfucker.”

A long, strained breath leaked out of Sherman, and he went slack. Steam floating up from his open mouth, drifting out of the alley like a soul.