Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

Duncan looked down the barrel of Maurice’s gun. Could he get his pistol up in time? Probably not. Duncan forced a weak smile. “If I’m twitchy it’s ’cause you’re sneaking up on me. Makes a fella nervous, don’t you think?”

“I hear you.” Maurice held out his free hand, kept the pistol steady with the other. “Why don’t you hand me that peashooter? I’ll give it back when maybe you ain’t so nervous.”

Duncan laughed, shrugged. “Okay. No need to get all suspicious.” He turned the pistol around, handed it to Maurice butt first.

Maurice took it, put it in the big front pocket of his long coat. Then he looked around, took in the fourth floor, the dust. “This place ain’t even being used. What the fuck you up here for anyway?”

“I think he might’ve gone in there.” Duncan pointed at a door across the hall.

Maurice turned his head, examined the door. “Don’t look like anybody’s been in there for a long-”

The Colt thundered, filled the hall, bucked in Duncan’s hand. The.45 slug tore into Maurice’s shoulder, spun him around, a spray of blood dotting the walls and floor. Maurice grunted, went down. He struggled to lift the automatic.

Duncan stepped on Maurice’s wrist, and the gangster’s gun clattered on the tile. Duncan thumbed back the Colt’s hammer.

Maurice’s face was sweaty, contorted with pain. “F-fucking p-peckerwood.”

The Colt roared again and a red splotch bloomed in Maurice’s gut. Blood spread over him. Maurice clapped a hand over the gushing wound, warm blood seeping sticky between his fingers. “Oh, shit. Y-you redneck fucking… shit.” Maurice’s eyes glazed. He couldn’t keep his head up.

Duncan hovered over him, kept the Colt pointed at the man’s face. Maurice’s head sank to the cold tile. He twitched, gasped for breath, then didn’t move. Very slowly, Duncan reached into Maurice’s front pocket, retrieved his daddy’s revolver. He stepped back, watched the body for another moment. For some reason he thought it would spring back up, come after him like in a horror movie. It didn’t. He’d finished the dirty son of a bitch.

Duncan tucked his guns back into his pants. Now he needed to find his way off this floor. He looked up and down the hall, trying to remember how he’d come in. All these damn doors and hallways looked the same. He made his decision and set off to find the stairs.

He didn’t see Maurice roll onto his side, coughing blood. Didn’t see the gangster pull the cell phone out of his pocket with shaking, blood-soaked hands.

“Boss?”

“I heard. Go check it out,” Fred Jones told his big bodyguard.

“Shots,” Jenks said. “Sounded like the floor below us.”

“Right.”

“You going to be okay without me?” Bob Smith asked.

“Just go,” said the old man. “Find out what the hell’s happening.”

“Okay.”

The bruiser checked his pockets on the way out of Valentine’s office. Brass knuckles, sap, the.38 on his belt, and the.44 magnum in his shoulder holster. A British commando knife in his boot. He was traveling light that day.

Smith moved well for a big man, walked easy down the hall, head tilted, listening for approaching footfalls. He took the.38 out of his belt holster and put it in his jacket pocket. He wanted a hand on it without flashing the gun in the open. He held the sap in the other hand.

He positioned himself back against the wall near the corner of the hallway. Anybody on the way to Valentine’s office would have to pass right under his nose.

He waited, listened.

It was after business hours, so there was a good chance nobody else had heard the shots. Maybe a couple of professors working late or maybe not. Smith shifted from one foot to the other. He didn’t like standing for long periods of time, but often it was part of the job.

He was hungry. Jesus, this was going to be a long night. First he had to wait around twiddling his thumbs while that old professor gave the boss poetry advice. Then he’d have to hang around for the reading, then make sure they got home okay. Probably wouldn’t be until midnight that he could build himself a nice pastrami sandwich on rye. Some BBQ chips too.

Smith heard footsteps coming. They were shuffling and irregular. The intruder was maybe looking around, trying to get his bearings. Smith stood rigid, hands in front of him ready with the sap.

He’d thought about ordering a pizza, but no way a deliveryman could find his way up to Valentine’s office. And he wasn’t about to leave the boss alone to make a Burger King run.

The guy was close now. Smith heard him breathing.

Smith tried to remember if there was still a MoonPie in the glove box of the car. No. He’d eaten it two days ago. He made a mental note to stash some snacks in the car. The boss had been keeping an odd schedule lately, and Smith needed to be prepared. Hunger, after all, caused distraction.

A hand came around the corner. The hand had a gun in it.

Smith brought the sap down hard across the guy’s wrist. A snap. The guy yelped. The gun flew, slid across the floor. Smith slapped a meaty hand on the guy’s forearm, pulled him around the corner.

He knocked the Harley-Davidson cap off the guy’s head, patted his coat down, and found an Old-West-style revolver. Smith smelled the barrel before sticking it in his belt, gave the guy a shake. “Who are you?”

“Jesus, my wrist’s busted.”

“I asked you a question,” Smith said.

“I don’t feel so good.”

“That’s a shame. Hold still.” Smith had him by the back of the coat.

The guy sagged, wanted to lie down. He groaned, leaned forward, and vomited.

“Christ!” Smith let go of the coat, stepped back, puke splashing on his shoes. The smell almost made him heave too.

The guy took off, running hunched over, clutching his busted wrist to his chest.

“Shit.” Smith took one step after him, planted his shoe square in the puddle of puke. His feet flew out from under him. He landed on his back. Hard. The air knocked out of him. He tried to suck in breath, but it was a long few seconds before he could breathe normally. He sat up. A raw spot on his hip where he’d fallen on his brass knuckles. He’d be sore for a week.

He gathered the pistols, limped back upstairs, wondering how he’d explain this to the boss.

Smith lumbered back into the old professor’s office. Valentine and Jenks looked at him expectantly.

But Jones read Smith’s face, saw the pistols in his hand. The boss could always size up a situation in no time. “Who was it?”

Smith sighed. “Some guy. He got away.” He dumped the pistols onto Valentine’s desk. Smith didn’t need any more guns.

“For Christ’s sake,” the old man said. “What happened?”

“I fell down.”

“What’s that on your pants?”

“Vomit.”

Jones stood, joints creaking. “Forget it. I want to hear the poetry reading. Let’s go.”

Red Zach was sick and tired of Oklahoma, farmhouses, rednecks, and being jerked around. He had to take care of this shit quick, or he’d look weak. He couldn’t go back to St. Louis without his property and Harold Jenks’s head on a stick.

But it was taking too damn long. How hard could it be to find a man in this two-bit town?

Okay, he was getting tense. He closed his eyes and began his breathing exercises. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Long, controlled breaths. It wasn’t working. Damn. He hated being on the road so long. Everything he needed was at home. His yoga workout videotapes, aroma therapy candles, the really good CD with the ocean noises. He needed all of it to keep from going nuts and getting an ulcer.

His cell phone bleated in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open. “What?”