Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

He pulled out the crisper, went through the house, and flung it into the bathroom. The thin plastic shattered on the tile floor, the little Baggies of white powder spilling. DelPrego started grabbing Baggies. He tore them open, a white frenzy of powder. He dumped them into the toilet, spilling, powder caking the side of the bowl, the sink, getting it all over his clothes.

He didn’t stop. He screamed and sobbed and cursed and dumped the cocaine. “You goddamn cocksuckers, you fuckers, fuckers, sons of bitches.” The tears and snot ran down his face, left tracks in the white dust on his skin.

He sank against the tub, drew his knees up to his chest. He cried and felt dizzy, his throat raw and dry from screaming, his eyes red and hot.

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.

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.