Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

When Morgan awoke it was dark. Panic jerked him out of bed. He thought he’d overslept, that the poetry reading had started. But it was only six o’clock. He checked the window. The sky looked serious about ruining everyone’s plans.

He flipped on the TV news. The meteorologist’s plastic smile beamed at him. The cold front, said the weatherman, had shifted somewhat, and Green County was going to get a bit more snow than expected. However, the heavy stuff was going to pass north.

Morgan showered. He stood under the hot water a long time, trying to compose a poem in his head. He was still thinking about the eggs, about fear of the unknown, but it came out adolescent and silly. Then he tried a poem about dreaming and nudity, but that didn’t go anywhere either. The hot water started turning cold, but Morgan stood there pretending it wasn’t. At last, he couldn’t kid himself anymore. He turned off the water, dried himself.

He looked in his closet. How did one dress for a doomed poetry reading? The blue suit was too formal. A shot of Jim Beam helped him decide. Tan slacks and his brown tweed jacket with a black turtleneck. Now he looked his most professorial. Another shot of booze. He could feel it on his breath when he exhaled.

It was still a little early to meet Ginny, but he didn’t want to hang around. He took his long coat and went to the car. It was cold, and he almost went back for his gloves and a hat. To hell with it.

He unlocked his car door, felt a wet pinprick of cold on the back of his hand. He looked up. One or two flakes, then another. It was light but steady, swirling in the wind like ash.

Morgan parked on the street across from the administration building. There was a dark tavern across from campus that catered to professors. The drinks were just expensive enough to discourage students.

The snow was coming heavier. A few light flakes my ass.

He went in, took a table in the corner. Morgan no longer cared if anyone saw him with a student.

Morgan ordered three vodka martinis. “Keep them coming.” He looked at his watch. The poetry reading started in twenty minutes. He was screwed.

Ginny walked in. Morgan saw her and waved her over. He looked her over. The bruises around her eyes were already fading. A scab on her bottom lip.

She sat. “I have something important to tell you.”

“You found Ellis!”

“Huh? Oh no, I made a few phone calls, but nobody’s seen him,” Ginny said. “Don’t worry. He’ll turn up.”

Godamnsonofamotherfuckingbitchshit -

“I want to talk about us.”

Morgan blinked.

Ginny said, “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

“Jesus.”

“I don’t want you to take it hard,” she said. “But don’t worry about me. I’m a strong person. I’ve always been strong.”

“Sure.” Morgan wished it were true, but he didn’t think Ginny strong. He didn’t think himself strong. Nobody he knew was strong. Maybe people weren’t strong anymore. In the 1950s maybe folks were strong. Eisenhower.

The next martini arrived. Morgan took half in one gulp. He waved at the waiter and pointed at his glass, a gesture meant to indicate you’re too goddamned slow.

“It’s just that this thing has run its course,” Ginny said. “We both knew it couldn’t work. We’re from different worlds.”

Morgan realized he was hearing a prepared speech. He decided to ride it out.

“I just don’t think we should be… involved.”

“I understand.” Morgan finished his drink just as the third martini arrived.

“But I want us to be friends,” Ginny said.

Morgan was a little slow remembering his lines but finally said, “I want that too.”

She stood, dramatic, jaw set. Morgan could almost hear the music swelling. Ginny looked like a chubby Scarlett O’Hara. “Farewell, Professor Morgan.”

Morgan flipped her a wave. “So long.”

“Well, you could at least act a little upset.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “I’m in a shitstorm here. I don’t have time for this.”

“Fine.” She began to stomp out of the tavern.

“Ginny,” he called after her. When she turned around, Morgan cleared his throat, and said, “I’m sorry about that guy. Sorry you got hurt.”

Her features softened. She nodded once and left.

Morgan tossed his drink down and took the empty glass to the bar. He took a stool next to an elegantly dressed black man and ordered another drink from the bartender.

Morgan turned to the black man. “Some snow, huh?” A little random small talk would get him back on track.

“I’ve found the local forecasts to be wildly inaccurate.” The black man had a deep, articulate voice. Chin up, bright eyes. He carried himself well. “It will get worse, I think.”

Morgan suddenly felt clumsy, his fingers thick and stubby. He reached for his glass and knocked over a bowl of peanuts. “Shit.”

“I’ll get that for you, sir,” said the bartender.

“Yeah, thanks.” Thanks came out thanksh . The vodka had hit his tongue. “It better not get worse,” Morgan said to the black man. “Big dog and pony show tonight. Poetry reading across the street.”

“I know.”

“Bunch of crap,” Morgan said. “A big public relations show.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Professor Morgan.”

“Yeah, well I can’t really say- Have we met?” The man did look familiar.

The man stood, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “I’m Lincoln Truman. President of the university.”

Morgan’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a trout out of water. President Lincoln Truman walked out of the tavern, his back straight. He didn’t look back at Morgan.

Hell.

Moses Duncan lost DelPrego going up the stairs. Did the guy get off at the third or fourth floor? Or did he keep going all the way up? Shit.

Duncan stopped on the fourth and drew his dad’s revolver. If he couldn’t find the guy after a quick sweep there, he’d head up to the fifth to look for him. He thumbed back the revolver’s hammer. Be damned if they would catch Moses Duncan with his pants around his ankles.

He listened for footsteps but didn’t hear any. He didn’t hear anything at all as a matter of fact. The floor looked deserted. Dust. Only one in four light fixtures had a bulb in it. No signs on the doors. He went down one hall, crossed over, found himself in a similar dusty corridor. Who designed this place, some goddamned retard?

Duncan heard footsteps behind him and froze. He spun around, pressed back against the wall, pistol out in front of him. Come on, son of a bitch. Show your ass .

The steps came closer. Duncan extended his arm, gun aimed at the corner. Soon as that guy came around, he was toast. Duncan had come gunning for the guy, but now the guy was coming up behind him. Maybe he had his coon buddy with him. Wouldn’t matter. Moses would get the drop on their sorry asses and blast them to hell.

The guy rounded the corner, and Duncan’s finger tightened on the trigger.

It was Maurice.

Duncan pulled the gun back, blew out a ragged breath. “What the hell you doing here?”

“Zach thought you might need some backup,” Maurice said.

It occurred to Duncan that Maurice would severely fuck up his plan. He should have pulled the trigger, dropped this sucker when he had the chance. As a matter of fact… Duncan considered the pistol at his side, his hand squeezing the butt, tensing.

But Maurice had his automatic in his hands, brought it up, and pointed it at Duncan’s head. “I don’t like that look in your eyes, peckerwood. You’re looking twitchy. You’re not thinking bad thoughts, are you?”