Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

Three beers later, and Morgan left Valentine’s office, drifted back down to the inhabited floors of Albatross Hall. No sign of Ginny.

Morgan felt woozy. Beer on an empty stomach, and he still wasn’t in top shape from the night before. He needed to go home, get a bite to eat. He needed to shower again after the cloying experience of Valentine’s smoke-filled office.

On the way out of the building he heard Ginny’s high, clear voice chasing after him. “Professor Morgan!”

He ran to the parking lot, started his car, and almost smacked a coed while backing out of his space. In his rearview mirror, he saw Ginny fumble with car keys, gallop toward a half-rusted, silver Toyota. Morgan gunned the Buick, squealed the tires, and scraped pavement on his way out of the parking lot.

He tangled himself in traffic on Garth Brooks Boulevard but thought he could still see her a dozen cars back. He yanked the Buick down a side street, found himself in a maze of student slums. He came out on Old Highway 12 and made the long, slow curve back to the house he rented. Morgan kept an eye in the rearview mirror, lips curving smug and satisfied when he didn’t see Ginny’s car.

Not today, junior newshound.

Morgan shuffled back into his little house. Not even 11 A.M. and he was beat, a little nauseous, skin slick with alcohol sweat. He’d begun the semester recklessly, unprepared. He didn’t even have syllabi finished for his two undergrad classes.

Sleep. He’d sleep away the rest of the day and start fresh tomorrow. And exercise. Sit-ups. He’d start doing sit-ups. He was a wreck.

“You look like shit, Doc.”

Morgan leapt back against the door, yelped, a high-pitched bleat like a puppy or a little girl.

“Take it easy, Doc.” It was Fred Jones. He perched like a ghost in the shadowy corner of Morgan’s living room, a bony apparition in a billowy sweater, sitting in a wooden rocker but not rocking.

“You can’t just barge into a guy’s house,” Morgan said.

“Whittaker sprang the deal on you,” said Jones. “I understand that. You wasn’t ready, so I figured I’d come talk to you one-on-one.”

Morgan had almost forgotten. He’d agreed to participate in something and wasn’t sure what it was. Still, Whittaker might have wanted him to humor the old fart, but if he couldn’t escape this shit in his own home, well, something would have to be done. First thing was to toss this old bag of sticks out on his ear. He started to tell the old man to take a hike when the giant walked in from the kitchen.

“Hey, boss, you want a beer? Imported.” He was six and a half feet easy, shoulders carved of granite. His blue-stubbled chin was an anvil. Sleepy eyes. He chewed slowly, half a sandwich still in his fist. Morgan reconsidered his plan. Maybe he should politely ask what he could do for these fellows.

Jones craned his neck, looked up at the bruiser. “You know my doctor said to lay off, meathead.”

Assorted protests tumbled in Morgan’s brain. The one that came out was “That’s my beer.”

“Your cheese went bad,” the giant said. He looked mournfully at the rest of the sandwich, then finished it in one bite.

“I can’t digest dairy,” Jones said. He handed Morgan a manila folder filled with loose paper. Thick. “How long to look at those?”

The folder was heavy. Morgan opened it. Poetry. Tons of it. Handwritten in feeble, shaky scrawl. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” He felt hungover-sick and confused. His stomach boiled. Head swimming.

Those beers in my stomach. I need food. The thought of the bad cheese put him off. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Jones leaned forward, frowned, put his gray hands on his knobby knees. “Dammit, man, are you on the dope? You can’t seem to focus on what we’re doing here. I’m getting impatient.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket, shook it open, and blew his nose. “By the way, you got a dead girl in your bedroom.”

“What?” Morgan felt hot in the face. His ears buzzed. He took halting steps toward his bedroom.

“Hey, Doc.” It was the giant.

“I’m not a doctor. I have an MFA from Bowling Green.” He was trying to think.

“I just wanted to tell you-”

“Don’t tell me anything. Just shut up a second.” He felt dizzy, blood pumping in his ears, mouth pasty. Did he just tell that hulk to shut up? What had happened to the girl? Annie. Was she…?

“What’s the matter with you?” asked the old man.

Had Morgan done something to her? No, some kind of misunderstanding. But he couldn’t feel his legs. Head… spinning…

The giant said, “I just thought you’d want to know that there’s this chubby girl looking in your front window.”

Morgan turned. Ginny Conrad had a hand cupped against the glass, trying to see into the dim living room.

The room tilted. Morgan’s mouth fell open, his jaw working but nothing coming out.

Darkness.

Morgan blinked, moaned, belched acid. His eyes focused on the giant kneeling over him.

“You fainted.”

“I didn’t faint,” Morgan said. “I’m not feeling well.”

“You look like you’re gonna barf.”

“Look, Mr.- Who are you?”

“Bob Smith.”

Morgan sat up. “Where’s Fred Jones? I want to know- Wait a fucking minute. Fred Jones and Bob Smith?”

“The boss went to get help. He says we got to smooth over some of your problems for you.”

You are one of my problems.

Morgan swallowed another belch, rubbed his head. “The dead girl.”

“And the live one.” Bob jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the rocking chair in the corner.

Ginny sat forward. “Professor Morgan, will you please tell this enormous wad of muscles that I know you?” Her chin was out, defiant. It was a good act. Morgan could hear the little tremor in her voice.

“For Christ’s sake,” Morgan said. “She’s a reporter for the university paper.”

“I know,” Bob said. “We searched her.” He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “She threw her shoes at me.”

“They took my notepad and my tape recorder,” Ginny said.

Morgan climbed to his feet, swayed a little, then headed for the bedroom. “Back in a minute.”

Ginny made a little disgusted noise. “Professor, what’s going on? This guy won’t let me leave.”

“Just shut up a minute, okay?”

He kept his eyes averted from the girl in his bed and went to the bathroom. He splashed water in his face, leaned on the sink.

He went back out and looked at Annie. Eyes closed, lips slightly apart. She could have been sleeping. Somebody’s child gently napping. Perhaps it had been a mistake. Maybe she was fine, and Morgan moved toward her as he thought this, hand outstretched to touch her cheek. If she was warm…

But he jerked his hand back. If she was cold, he wouldn’t be able to stand it. It would break him. He’d lose it. Had she still been alive earlier or not? Had she been dead when they were under the covers together?

He went back in the bathroom, closed the door, and sat on the toilet.

What in holy hell was he going to do? After that business with the provost’s daughter at UNLV two years ago, Morgan was lucky to be working at all. Another disgrace might relegate him to a community college in backwoods Mississippi for the rest of his career. He hadn’t published a collection in seven years. He hadn’t published a single poem in two. All he could do was teach. The thought of a nine-to-five job in some Dilbert office twisted his stomach again. A dead coed would seal his fate.

A knock on the bathroom door startled Morgan. “Yes?”