Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

“Benny Goodman,” Jones said.

Smith would have to take the boss’s word for it. The big man stood quietly with his hands folded in front of him. A minute later, the old man stood straight, nodded at Smith. They followed the music, and Smith let the old man set the pace.

Not for the first time, Smith wondered how he and the boss had ended up in bumfuck, Oklahoma. But it wasn’t Smith’s job to wonder such things. The boss still had a lot of connections and more than a few enemies. So when it was time for the relocation, Smith packed his bags. There had never been any question that Smith would go wherever Jones went.

They arrived at an office door. Jones knocked, didn’t wait for an answer, and pushed the door open. Smith’s hand drifted into his jacket, a habit from the old days. He always itched for the feel of his gun butt when they walked through a strange door. Never can tell what’s on the other side.

A wild-haired man scribbled fiercely at his desk. He looked like a cross between Santa Claus and Charles Manson. There was a colored kid on the sofa reading a book. Both looked up as Smith and Jones entered the room.

Jones asked, “You Valentine?”

“Who are you?”

“Jones. I’m a friend of Professor Morgan,” the old man said. “He said you’d look at my poems.”

“He lied.”

“What?”

“I don’t do that. Look at poems, I mean.”

Jones frowned. “Maybe I made a mistake. You’re the professor?”

“Yes.”

“You won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry?”

“Yes.”

Jones threw up his hands. “Then what the hell is this?”

Smith stirred behind the old man. He didn’t like it when the boss was unhappy. The colored kid watched the whole thing with big eyes.

Jones said, “Morgan mentioned you enjoyed your privacy. Maybe I should pay the dean a visit.”

Valentine blinked. “Hell and blood.” He held out a hand. “Let me see the poems.”

Jones nodded. Smith handed the folder of poetry to the professor, then stood in a spot where he could see the door and the whole room.

Jones sat on the couch and turned to the colored kid. “Who are you?”

“Harold.”

Jones pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket, handed it to Harold Jenks. “Smoke that, will you?”

Jenks shrugged, unwrapped the cigar, and bit off the end. He lit it, puffed. The old man closed his eyes, let the cigar aroma wash over him.

Jones opened his eyes again, looked Jenks up and down. “So what’s your story?”

Morgan got Sherman Ellis’s address from the registrar’s office and drove to his apartment. Nobody home. He called four more times and left a note on Ellis’s apartment door.

It was getting down to crunch time, and Morgan was getting desperate. He had no idea where students kept themselves, where they hung out. Blindly roaming the campus looking for Ellis didn’t seem too productive. He needed some help.

Morgan parked on campus and went to Albatross Hall. He locked his office door behind him, slumped at his desk. He didn’t turn on the light, didn’t want people to see it shining under the door and know he was there. He especially wanted to avoid Dean Whittaker.

He got on the phone and dialed the hospital, where some clerical person told him Ginny Conrad had checked out.

His fingers hovered over the Touch-Tone pad, and Morgan realized he didn’t know Ginny’s home number. It had never occurred to him to ask for it. She’d always just been there, showed up on his doorstep. Another call to the registrar produced her number.

Morgan looked hard at the phone for a long time. Ginny had said her parents were coming. Morgan didn’t want to talk to Ginny’s father, but he needed somebody to help him track down Ellis. Ginny probably knew all the student hot spots.

Morgan found the bottle in his desk drawer. A few belts would help him think. The booze splashed harshly in his gut. He hadn’t eaten anything, and his stomach made little dying sounds.

He grabbed the phone, dialed quickly before he changed his mind or puked.

Morgan was ready to hang up, but Ginny answered after twelve rings. “Hello?”

She sounded good, Morgan thought, voice strong. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Morgan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Maybe Ginny didn’t want to talk to him.

“Hello? Helllloooo.”

“It’s me,” Morgan whispered. He didn’t want anyone walking by his office to hear him.

“Professor Morgan?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in the library or something? I can hardly hear you.”

Morgan raised his voice slightly. “How are you feeling?”

“The doctors said it looked worse than it really was. A lot of bruising.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My parents were here, taking care of me,” Ginny said. “But I sent them home.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean sometimes my mother can be so smothering. And my father has this anal streak. He’s always-”

“Ginny, I need a favor,” Morgan said. “And I need it fast.”

A pause. “What is it?”

Morgan explained.

“Have you tried the Black Student Union?” Ginny asked.

“There’s a Black Student Union?”

“Let me make a few calls,” Ginny said.

“Great,” Morgan said. “What then? Call you back in an hour?”

“No. I’ll meet you.”

Wayne DelPrego could not feel his ass. His frozen balls had shriveled and retreated. But he didn’t dare stop until he reached Lancaster’s apartment. The motorcycle roared.

A few wide-eyed motorists had gawked, but so far no cops. Some luck.

He parked the Harley in front of Lancaster’s place, looked around, didn’t see anyone. He sprinted to Lancaster’s door. His bones ached, teeth chattering. He pounded on the door. “Come on, Tim.”

No answer.

He knocked louder, looked over his shoulder. So far nobody had seen, but sooner or later somebody would notice the crazy pervert.

He tried the knob. It turned. He pushed the door open and darted inside, shut it behind him. He let himself warm up, breathed easy, relieved. “Tim?” Nothing.

He walked through the little apartment, found the bedroom, and pulled open Lancaster’s dresser drawers. He found a pair of boxers. Sweatpants. He put them on.

He walked around the apartment, tried to get some idea where Lancaster had gone. DelPrego couldn’t remember his friend saying anything about leaving town, visiting his parents, anything. He went to the bedroom closet to see if Lancaster’s suitcase was gone.

He slid open the closet door. When the body fell out, it took DelPrego a split second to realize what he was looking at. He screamed, stumbled back, tripped on the corner of the bed, and spun into a rack of compact discs. Scattered them. DelPrego landed hard on the floor, breathing hard, heart kicking its way out of his chest.

He crawled to the body. “No,” he whispered.

Lancaster looked like he was made of wax, pale and shiny. His eyes were open, looking up, jaw slack. DelPrego studied his face. It somehow didn’t look like Lancaster, the life sapped out of him, no light in his eyes. DelPrego grabbed the body, shook it wildly, without reason. “Tim. Tim.” The skin was cold.

“Oh, no.”

He gathered Lancaster in his arms, a strained, animal noise rising in DelPrego’s throat, coming out a wheezing grunt, the sound of raw, disbelieving pain. His fingers dug into Lancaster’s clothes, his skin. He willed this not to be true. But Timothy Lancaster III was dead. Gentle, silly, pretentious, naive, kind Tim. Timothy.

DelPrego leapt to his feet, raged into the kitchen. He flung the refrigerator door open, and it slammed against the counter. He jerked open the lettuce crisper at the bottom where he’d unpacked and hidden the cocaine. Lancaster never had any food in the refrigerator. He’d never used the crisper. He looked at the stash of coke, the throaty, strangled growl still coming out of him. This was the stuff that had killed his friend. And DelPrego had killed him by putting it there.