Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

DelPrego saw Duncan coming toward him. Duncan shrugged into his coat, so DelPrego stood. Maybe they were finally getting the hell out of here.

“You stay put, Eddie,” Duncan said. “I got to run an errand on my own.”

DelPrego’s eyes widened. He did not want to wait another minute in the farmhouse.

“Take it easy. I’ll be back when I can.” Duncan slapped him on the shoulder, then leaned in and whispered, “Just stay out of the way of these boys. We’ll get them out of our hair soon enough.” And then he was out the door.

DelPrego slowly looked around the room. One guy playing solitaire, two more watching television, and another two in the kitchen. He knew there were more someplace. DelPrego walked toward the bathroom. Keep it casual. He went in, shut the door behind him, and eased the dead bolt into place. He sat on the toilet and peeled off the bandages. The air on his skin was welcome relief.

DelPrego looked at the bandages and shivered. They were caked with dried blood, and some kind of slick goo DelPrego hoped was only ointment. The smell almost made him gag. He scrubbed his face in the sink, wiped off with a semiclean towel.

He looked at the window over the toilet. Small, but he was pretty sure he could squeeze through it, and be damned if he was going to wait around there until his luck ran out. He knelt on the toilet seat, pushed the window up. Cold air flooded the tiny bathroom. DelPrego breathed it in, filled his lungs. He’d always had an acute intolerance for heat, and the big gulps of cool air settled his nerves a little. But not much.

He put his arms through the window, wiggled his shoulders through one at a time. He hung half out the window, the drop down was a little farther than he’d thought but no big deal. He wiggled down to his hips and jammed himself in the window. He put his hands on either side of the window, set his jaw, pushed. He was just a fraction of an inch too wide. If he shucked his jeans, he could do it, he could just slither through, he was sure.

He backed into the bathroom, feeling for the toilet seat with his boot. His heel slipped on the slick porcelain and he fell backward, landed hard between the toilet and the sink. It made a good racket. DelPrego held his breath. Waited. Nobody came to investigate.

He grabbed the back of the toilet to pull himself up and his hand ran across something. He looked. A gun taped to the back of the toilet. He peeled it off, examined it. A.410 shotgun, a hack job. The barrel had been sawed almost to nothing, and most of the butt had been cut away, leaving only the pistol grip. He checked the breach, broke it in half. One shell. A fat slug.

Okay. Better than nothing. If he were going to get out of there, the shotgun might come in handy. But he hoped not. He wanted to sneak out without any trouble. He dropped the gun out the window.

He took off his boots, then slipped off his jeans. He remembered the drop and put his boots back on. He didn’t want to twist an ankle or land on something in the grass with his bare feet. He was still worried about the tight fit through the window. He’d probably scrape a little flesh. No big deal. As long as he squeezed through.

He shimmied back through the window, wedging himself again at the hips. But this time he detected a little more give. He pulled hard, felt his flesh bunch against the window frame. His flanks burned where they scraped against the wood but only for a second. He popped through, hit the ground hard. He stood, caught his breath and examined his raw, red hips. Scraped and bruised but nothing to worry about. Now all he had to do was put his jeans back on and-

His jeans were still in the bathroom.

“Fuck.”

He leapt for the windowsill but could only just grab it with his fingertips, not enough to pull himself back up. His jeans were gone. His ass was very, very cold. A frigid gust of wind shriveled his testicles.

He looked around, didn’t see anyone, picked up the shotgun, and ran for the barn. It was still cold inside, but at least he’d escaped the wind. He scanned the barn and saw an old horse blanket thrown over some lumpy machinery. He could wrap it around his waist like a kilt.

He pulled off the blanket, revealing the gleaming motorcycle underneath.

“Whoa.”

He wrapped the blanket around himself and knelt to examine the bike. A Harley, fat and low. It looked like it had recently been worked on and cleaned up. He checked the gas tank. Full. The bike was his ticket out, but he knew it would make a roar when he cranked it. He’d have to start the thing and ride fast before all those brothers poured out of the farmhouse to cut him down.

He straddled the bike, put up the kickstand. There was no way to ride the motorcycle and still keep the blanket. He was going to be cold no matter what. His ass stuck to the freezing leather.

DelPrego stood on the kick-starter. The engine sputtered. Smoke. Come on, come on. He kicked it again, and the engine howled to life. He twisted the accelerator, made sure it didn’t conk out. It sounded good, powerful. It took him a few seconds to figure the gears. The bike leapt forward, through the barn doors. DelPrego felt like he was riding a dragon.

An old memory flashed in his mind, senior year of high school. His only motorbike experience, an old dirt racer. Every weekend out with his cousins, to the bottom of the dried-out quarry and back. It was coming back to him now. He leaned into the turn, coming around the farmhouse. Once on the other side, he’d break for the road. The cold wind bit hard into his naked flesh.

He sped past the front porch, black guys spilling out, white eyes wide. But they didn’t have guns drawn. He was going to make it.

A car parked at the end of the drive. The driver’s door swung open. Another black guy stepped out. He wore a red suit, black shirt, and no tie. He flicked a cigarette away, and his hand went into his jacket. DelPrego knew it would come out with a pistol.

DelPrego still had the.410 across his lap. He took it in one hand, kept the bike steady with the other. He lifted the shotgun level with his chest, arm outstretched. Even hacked down, the shotgun was heavy. He pointed it directly at the red suit blocking his path. He spurred the bike faster. It shot forward, a thundering mechanical warhorse.

Ivanhoe. I’m fucking Ivanhoe.

The red suit pulled a silver automatic, thumbed off the safety, and squeezed two shots. DelPrego heard and felt the second slug whizz past his ear.

He pulled the trigger and the shotgun belched fire, kicked out of his hands, and tumbled back along the dirt driveway. The slug knocked the red suit back across the car, his chest exploding in blood.

Shots behind DelPrego now. But he was already leaning low over the handlebars. He’d found the road and opened the bike up for all she had. A wild, bare-assed streak across eastern Oklahoma.

For Christ’s sake.” Jones panted. “You trying to give me a fucking stroke here?”

Bob Smith slowed down halfway up the flight of stairs. “Sorry, Boss. We’re almost there. One more flight.” Sometimes the boss scared him. Smith didn’t know what to do those times the old man overexerted himself, the blood draining from his pinched face. Smith had made the mistake once of suggesting the boss hire a nurse. Jones had chewed him out good for that one.

“Fucking Mount Everest.” Jones sucked breath.

“You want a hand, Boss?” Smith reached for the old man’s elbow.

Jones swatted him away. “Lay off. I can make it.”

They made the fifth floor and Jones took a minute to catch his breath. Professor Morgan had told the boss to listen for the music. It had sounded goofy to Smith, but he cupped a hand to his ear and listened. A faint tune echoed through the halls.