Victor Gischler: The Pistol Poets

Copyright © 2004 by Victor Gischler

For all of my parents (biological, in-law and step)

Thanks for being there.

Time to whip some gratitude onto some people, lather them with niceness. Beer and Skittles to Anthony Neil Smith, Sean Doolittle, and Scott Phillips for sage advice on rough storytelling. Many thanks to Irwyn Applebaum for bringing me on board. Thumbs up to Bill Massey for kick-ass editing. A bouquet of tulips to Andrea Nicolay for keeping things organized. And many thanks to bionic, super, turbo-agent Noah Lukeman.

Finally, it must be noted that some folks will inevitably try to draw comparisons between the fictional Eastern Oklahoma University in Fumbee, Oklahoma, and Rogers State University in Claremore where I teach creative writing. Don’t bother. The denizens of this novel are in no way based on the fine faculty, staff and administration of Rogers State. Relax, people. You’re safe.

Moses Duncan was in the barn up to his elbows in the fried engine of his Harley-Davidson when he saw the girl driving too fast down the dirt road to his ranch, her Toyota pickup kicking dust, the dogs barking. He knew who it was. The girl, one of those college kids. Sexy.

He looked at himself. Wiry arms sticking out of his sleeveless AC/DC T-shirt, greasy jeans. It was freezing in the barn, but he couldn’t work on the bike in a jacket. He hadn’t shaved or bathed in two days. Damn, he hated to look so shitty when the pretty ones came around to make a buy. He pushed back his shaggy dishwater hair, accidentally smearing grease on the side of his head.

He wiped his hands on a rag, stepped out of the barn just as she parked her truck. Moses squinted at the sky. Clouds rolling in. It would rain soon, sleet maybe if it got cold enough.

“Hey,” she called. “Remember me?”

“Of course.” The name came back to him just in time. “Annie.”

She smiled big and electric. “You have time for me right now?” She hugged herself in a leather jacket, huddled against the cold.

“Come on in the house.”

Inside, they were immediately hit with the heat and stuffiness. He’d left the thermostat up too high again. The house smelled like old beer and socks.

“Have a seat.” Moses gestured at a badly stained sofa.

“It’s okay,” Annie said. “I’ll stand.” She peeled off her leather jacket, wiped sweat already forming on her forehead and neck.

“Sorry about the temperature,” Moses said. “The thermostat’s a tricky bastard. It’s either freezing or hot as hell.” He walked to the wall and flicked the heat off.

She stood, one hand on a hip, the other swinging the leather jacket over a shoulder. “It’s okay. I won’t be here too long. I was just hoping for maybe a little grass.”

He looked at her. Nice. Red hair cut short and mean. Long legs. With her jacket off Moses could see she wore a cut-off tank top that exposed her flat, smooth stomach. Nice curves. A gold belly-button ring. Yeah, he had her figured for one of these wild college chicks. She could probably fuck his dick raw all night.

Sometimes when one of the college girls would come in looking for a bag of weed, he’d trade the stuff for a blow job or a quickie. But he was pretty funky at the moment. He doubted she’d go for it. Better just to take the cash.

“Just a minute.”

He went back in the bedroom, opened the closet door, looking over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t snooping. He pried up the floorboards and fished out the old suitcase where he kept the merchandise. The crystal-meth boys were big in this part of the country, but they left Duncan alone. As long as he sold everything but crystal meth, they chose not to notice. He picked out a Baggie of marijuana and took it back to her.

She paid him. She shuffled her feet.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Big night tonight,” Annie said. “I thought I’d see if you had anything special.”

He scratched his head, spread the grease around. “What do you have in mind?”

“Dancing, drinking, partying.” She put her hands in her back pockets, arched her back. “I want to get this guy in the mood. You know?”

“Party drugs. Got it.”

He went back to the suitcase, looked at his selection. What did these kids think? He had special custom drugs for every occasion? He had weed, uppers, downers, and now and then some coke. Pretty much the basics. Nothing fancy.

He picked some random pills, shook the plastic bottle, and looked at them. Where had he gotten these? They’d been in the case for a while. What the hell? The girl would never know the difference.

He took them back to her. “Here you go. Perfect. Pretty colors. Hot times.”

“Yeah?” She took the bottle, held it up to her eyes.

“You bet. Party all night with these,” Moses said. “Makes your orgasms like fireworks.” Sure, why not? “Good for orgies.”

“Okay to take with booze or will it fuck me up?”

The hell if he knew. “No problem. Alcohol ramps up the effects.”

“How much?”

“Fifty.”

She balked.

“For you, thirty-five bucks.”

“Okay.” She handed him the cash.

Moses watched her butt as she walked out. If she didn’t like the pills or got sick, he’d apologize when she came back, give her a discount on the next bag of grass. Hell, it wasn’t like he was selling kitchen appliances.

Moses Duncan didn’t give money-back guarantees.

Morgan’s eyes flickered open, and he realized that his naked ass was touching another naked ass under the covers.

Annie.

Visiting Professor Jay Morgan sat up in bed slowly, tried to remember how he’d hung himself over. The slim girl in a fetal curl under the covers next to him, Annie Walsh, didn’t wake. A whole semester had slipped away on his one-year contract at Eastern Oklahoma University before he’d struck pay dirt.

She was nice, young and fit. Eager.

Morgan was short and soft around the middle. His black hair, sharpened into a deadly widow’s peak, was long, pulled into a tight ponytail. But he had good cheekbones, and his eyes were a haunting blue. Morgan knew how to flash those eyes at young students.

Last evening’s dark blur streaked with neon. The dance club on University Drive. Annie packed tight in denim and a black tank top, red hair shaved close. First-year master’s student, a Sharon Olds wanna-be.

Morgan found boxers on the floor, slipped into them. He crept to the kitchen, tile freezing under his bare feet, started a pot of coffee, and watched it drip itself into existence. He filled a mug, drank with his eyes closed.

The phone rang. He grabbed it quickly. “Hello.”

“Morgan? It’s Dean Whittaker. We had an eight o’clock appointment.”

“That’s Wednesday.”

“This is Wednesday.”

Morgan’s wristwatch said 8:37. “I’ll be right there.”

Morgan ran in and out of the shower, threw on black pants and a green Hawaiian shirt with a picture of flowered Elvis playing the ukulele. Brushing his teeth almost made him puke. He grabbed his pea coat, shrugged into it.

Oklahoma winter, not so much snow but plenty of ice and cold rain. How had he ended up in this redneck backwater? Oh, yeah. He needed the job. Every year a new campus, the life of a gypsy professor.

A flash of skin caught his eye as he passed through the bedroom. The girl.