Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

The old man pushed his way in, frowned down at Morgan like he was looking at a dumb little kid. He handed Morgan an empty pill bottle. “Found this on her side of the bed. Looks like she couldn’t handle her shit. You give this to her?”

“Of course not.”

She’d overdosed. Pills on top of the alcohol. Crazy. But the more Morgan thought about it, the more he wondered. He did feel pretty goddamn awful. Had she slipped him something? Last night was hazy at best, especially toward the end when they closed down the pool hall across from campus. Stix, it was called.

Oh, hell, if somebody saw me with her…

“Come on,” Jones said. “I’ve got some plastic. Let’s get her out of here.”

Morgan followed him into the bedroom.

Giant Bob turned Annie on her side, a big roll of clear plastic over his shoulder. It was an awkward arrangement. Annie’s arms flopped.

Ginny stood off to the side, eyes big, watching them wrap Annie in the plastic. “Oh my God.”

“What’s she doing in here?” Morgan’s voice had climbed two octaves. Almighty God, Morgan realized, was finally getting him. An old man with reams of tattered poetry. A fearless reporter ready to expose his scandals. Plagues upon Egypt.

“We’ll handle that later,” Jones murmured in his ear.

Bob wrapped Annie in the plastic, sealed her up with duct tape.

Ginny stood near the chair, hands clasped in front of her. “Why do you need the plastic?” Curiosity fighting anxiety.

“Routine,” Bob said.

“Would you shut up,” Jones said. “This ain’t routine. We’ve never done this before.”

“Right, boss.”

Jones nudged Morgan with a pointy elbow. “Get her feet.”

“What?”

“I can’t carry her with my back. Grab the feet.”

Morgan took Annie by her plastic-bound ankles, Bob at the other end. Morgan’s breathing went shallow. The girl was heavy. They made sure nobody was looking, then quick-walked her out to the trunk of an old Plymouth Fury. Jones explained that they’d swiped a car specifically for this errand.

Morgan turned green as he listened. Sweat on his forehead.

“There’s two shovels in the backseat,” Jones said. “There’s a peach orchard six miles south of town. Take the dirt road and bury her in the middle.”

Morgan choked. “Me?”

“For chrissakes, Doc, I can’t be involved,” Jones said. “I’m in a very delicate situation. Besides, she’s your dead girl, not mine.”

“But-”

“You’d think you’d be grateful I was fixing this up for you.”

“But-”

“Make sure you ditch the car someplace out of the way when you’re done.”

“But-”

“And don’t worry.” Jones jerked a thumb at Ginny, who watched from Morgan’s porch. “We’ll take care of the kid.” He made a trigger-pulling motion with his finger.

“No!” Morgan’s eyes bulged. “Let me worry about her.”

“Want to do it yourself, huh? Sure, put her in the same hole as the other one.” Jones slipped something cold and hard into Morgan’s hand.

Morgan looked. A little blue-metal revolver with a stubby barrel. “What the fuck’s this?” He’d wanted to sound tough and outraged, but it came out like a squeak.

“It’s a.38. You said you’d handle her.”

“Right.” Now wasn’t the time to argue. He’d take Ginny with him and figure what to do with her later. But he wasn’t going to shoot her.

Maybe himself, but not her.

Morgan waved Ginny into the Plymouth. He took the keys from Jones and climbed behind the wheel. The car’s interior reeked of stale cigarettes, and he told Ginny to roll down the window. The cold wind steadied him.

They were a mile from the peach orchard when Ginny spoke.

“They wouldn’t give me back my tape recorder, but I have my notepad.”

“This will not be a newspaper story,” Morgan said. “You must know you can’t say anything about this to anyone ever.” And how do you shut up a chatty undergrad newspaper reporter? The old man’s revolver nudged cold against his thigh in his front pocket.

“I know. It wasn’t your fault, right? I mean, you’d be fucking ruined if they found out. I mean, with a student and everything. Not that I find it offensive, but a lot of the establishment types like to maintain this artificial hierarchy.”

“Right.”

“Besides, I figure if I help you, you might be able to help me, right?”

“Maybe.”

“I asked for this assignment specifically because I wanted to speak to you,” Ginny said. “What I really want to be is a novelist.”

Maybe Morgan would shoot her after all.

He turned the Plymouth into the peach orchard. The narrow road petered out, and he found himself zigzagging among the trees. He parked in an arbitrary spot. He and Ginny took the shovels and started digging.

Morgan began sweating again, rings under his armpits, stomach queasy. His hands ached with the cold, fingers rubbing raw on the shovel’s handle. He hadn’t done anything this physical in a long time. He stopped digging, leaned on the shovel. His chest heaved, short breaths puffing out like fog. “Okay, good enough.”

“That’s way too shallow,” Ginny said.

“It’s fine.”

“I’m telling you it needs to be deeper. One good rain and up she comes. All that topsoil will wash right downhill.”

Morgan sighed. He looked at the shovel, back at the hole. They kept digging.

When Ginny was satisfied, they muscled Annie out of the trunk and dropped her facedown into the hole. Morgan thought she looked unreal in the plastic, a dime-store mannequin. He could still fish her out of the hole, unwrap her. He wasn’t too far into this yet. He could explain. Take her to the police or a hospital.

But there would be questions. What had happened? Who had she been with and where? Morgan leaned on his shovel, eyes unfocused with thought.

Ginny grabbed a shovel and started scooping in dirt.

And it was as if his hands lifted the shovel on their own, scooped the dirt. It was the heaviest thing in the world. He tossed in the dirt, and it landed on Annie’s back. The second scoop was easier, then a third, his problem returning to the earth. He wondered how long it would take him to forget he’d done this thing, that he’d crossed some line from which there would be no return.

Soon there was only the moist mound of fresh soil. Ginny flattened it down hard with the bottom of her shovel. Steam came off her.

Morgan thought about Ginny. Jones had made it clear what he wanted done, but Morgan had no intention of killing the girl. But she was a time bomb. Morgan’s hand slipped into his pocket, fist closing over the revolver’s handle.

Ginny turned, saw him watching her. “What is it?”

“Just thinking.” He let go of the gun, put his hands on his hips.

She searched his eyes, moved toward him. “I’m not going to say anything.”

“I know.”

She stood very close to Morgan, her erect nipples brushing his belly. “I want you to believe me.”

“I believe you.”

Ginny shrugged, lowered her eyes. “Maybe we can seal the deal. Some kind of show of trust.”

She unzipped his pants and reached in for him. He stiffened, and she stroked him, the cold air washing over his groin.

Morgan cleared his throat. “I think we can work something out.”

Her hands were very soft, her mouth warm.

Harold Jenks got off the bus, took one look around, and said, “Fuck this.”

What the hell was he doing in this one-horse, Okie shithole? He stood with his duffel over his shoulder, took another look up and down University Boulevard hoping it would seem better this time.