Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

Stubbs laughed, took the pistol from his armpit, and dropped it into his coat pocket. “What? You think since I got only one hand, I can’t take a pussy like you?”

Morgan rolled onto his stomach, tried to crawl under the bed.

Stubbs shook his head. “Now that’s just pathetic.”

Morgan got halfway under the bed. Stubbs bent over, grabbed Morgan’s ankle, and pulled him back.

Stubbs tsked. “Looks like we’ve got to do this the hard way now. Doesn’t bother me none, but you’re- Oh, fuck!”

Morgan had rolled onto his back, Fred Jones’s little revolver in a two-handed grip held out in front of him. Stubbs fumbled for the automatic in his coat pocket, but Morgan squeezed the trigger.

The first shot was unsteady, shredded Stubbs’s groin. The private eye went down, his one good hand clutching his balls, blood pooling. Morgan pulled the trigger again, blasted a hole in his bedroom wall. The third shot caught Stubbs in the top of the head, sprayed bone and brain.

Morgan dropped the gun, crawled away from the body. He watched a long time, waited for Stubbs to get up, but nothing happened.

Morgan limped into the kitchen. The adrenaline rush was rapidly leaving him. The aches and pain flooded in, head and ass throbbing, ribs screaming with every breath.

He found a kitchen knife, sawed the cords awkwardly until he was free.

Morgan went into the bedroom one more time. Looked at Stubbs to make sure he was still dead. He looked at his bedroom, the blood. A mess. He looked at the gun on the floor, the one Jones had given to him so long ago. It seemed like forever.

Then he picked up the phone, dialed.

“Bob,” Morgan said. “Is he still awake? Okay, put him on.” A pause. “Mr. Jones? I know it’s late, and it’s been a long day. But there’s just one more loose end I need you to help me tie up if it’s not too much trouble.”

Most of the students and faculty at Eastern Oklahoma University were glad it was the end of the semester. Summer waited, flings and family and a break from textbooks. For Morgan, it only meant unemployment. He’d have to hustle this summer to find something. Otherwise, it was adjunct hell at some community college.

Strangely, Morgan couldn’t bring himself to worry about it. Where or when he might get his next job seemed like small potatoes. His capacity to fret had been exhausted. The uncertain future stretching out before him was a parole from his old life.

Since Fred Jones had made the poetry reading a success (it received glowing reviews in the Tulsa and Fayetteville newspapers), Morgan was not immediately fired, and his contract was allowed to run its course until the semester’s end. But nobody mentioned anything more about Jay Morgan being hired in a permanent capacity at the university. It was generally understood that Morgan would move on, thanks a lot, good luck, and don’t let the door smack your ass on the way out.

His office in Albatross Hall was almost cleaned out. He filled a cardboard box with books and file folders but paused over the newspaper clippings. They were yellow at the edges. In the weeks following the Albatross Hall slaughter, Morgan had collected the clippings obsessively. They seemed to chronicle an episode in his life that had refused to end. Every other day a new article.

Some he liked better than others. The article about the man found wandering naked with cuts all over his face seemed unrelated, but Morgan had suspicions.

But the one about the drug raid at a local farmhouse was clearly the result of Fred Jones’s machinations. According to the article, authorities had pieced together the following story after finding the bodies of Annie Walsh, Deke Stubbs, and Moses Duncan. Local drug dealer Moses Duncan had hidden the body of the Walsh girl after she’d overdosed on some of Duncan’s merchandise. She was found buried under the house. Tulsa private investigator Deke Stubbs, hired by Walsh’s parents, had apparently tracked the girl to the farmhouse. Evidence at the crime scene supported the theory that Duncan and Stubbs had killed one another.

Several gruesome details of the killings were left unaccounted for. Morgan tried to laugh about this but couldn’t. The officer in charge of the case, a Sergeant Hightower, promised to keep investigating until authorities were satisfied.

The article also quoted Annie Walsh’s parents, who expressed relief that the matter had at last been put to rest. Morgan felt a pang of guilt and regret. He tore up the clippings and threw them into the basket next to his desk.

But he kept the postcard from Harold Jenks. It had arrived two weeks earlier and been addressed to Morgan, Valentine, and Jones. It said he was doing fine and thanks for everything. It also said he wasn’t sure what he was going to do next, but don’t worry it would be something “straight.” When Morgan read the postcard carefully, he thought he could just barely detect an apology. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

He also kept the letter he’d received three days ago from The Chattahoochee Review. They’d accepted the poem Morgan had written about smoking the cigars for the old man.

Morgan had tried to call Jones to tell him about it, but the number had been disconnected. The next day, Morgan had found a note from the old man in his mailbox. Jones had written that his “government friends” had been upset. Jones’s picture had been in the paper the day after the poetry reading. Evidently that was a no-no, and Jones had been “relocated.”

It made Morgan sadder than he’d anticipated. He missed the old man and wished him well.

Dirk Jakes walked into Morgan’s office without knocking. “Hey, hey, Morgo-man. Just wanted to stop by and say no hard feelings on losing my Mercedes.”

“I sure am sorry about that, Dirk.”

“No biggie,” Jakes said. “The insurance check finally came, and I just bought this sweet Lexus. Did I mention they found a severed hand in the back of the Mercedes?”

“It’s a crazy world,” Morgan said.

“Cops say maybe some kind of whacko gang ritual.”

Annette Grayson walked in, put her hand on Jakes’s arm. “Come on, Dirk, you’re taking me to lunch, remember?”

“Sure, babe. Just let me catch up to you in a minute.”

She looked at Morgan. “See you later, Jay.” There was a message in her eyes Morgan didn’t understand, but he suspected it was supposed to be some kind of joke on him.

After Grayson left, Jakes said, “Just between you and me, Morgo-man, I’ve been banging her for three weeks. Yeah!” Jakes made hip-thrusting motions and stuck his tongue out. “I’m sure you can imagine what that’s like.”

“I can imagine.”

“Listen, don’t sneak out of town until we can grab a beer, okay?”

“Right,” Morgan said.

Jakes waved and was gone.

Morgan took his last box of personal belongings out to the car and drove home lost in thought. The old man was gone, Jenks was gone, even Valentine had found a new place to hide. Morgan would leave Fumbee the way he’d come in, alone and a stranger.

But he smiled when he saw Ginny waiting for him on his porch. A week after the blizzard, Ginny had shown up drunk and lonely. They’d fucked for five hours. The next day she’d said it was a mistake, and four days after that they spent a weekend in Dallas. Once Morgan had the pattern down, she’d been easy to cope with.

He stopped in front of her on the porch. “Hey.”

The weather had turned warm. She wore a dark green tank top and denim shorts. “Hey, yourself. All packed?”

“Almost.”

She took his hand, stood, brushed off the bottom of her shorts. “Did you pack up the bed?”

“Not yet.”