The Pistol Poets

Jenks jogged down to him, grabbed the other end of the twenty-foot pole. It was heavier than he'd thought. He grunted, tucked it up under his arm. "What's this for?"



Eubanks's laughter segued into a wheezing grunt. "A little project for the professor."



They waddled down the hall. Jenks started to sweat. He asked, "What's his deal anyway?"



"Valentine?"



"Uh-huh."



"He's crazy," Eubanks said. "Oh, not in a bad way. Not dangerous-like. I think he just likes it on campus. I think he's unhappy with the rest of the world. Here on campus he's an important genius."



"How's that?"



"Pulitzer Prize."



"Oh." Jenks had heard of that one.



"Personally, I can't see it," Eubanks said. "I borrowed some of his poetry books, ones he'd wrote hisself. Do you know them poems he wrote don't even rhyme?"



Jenks started to say something, bit his tongue.



"I mean, hell now, I may not be college educated, but I know poems should rhyme. Any first-grader knows that."



The custodian kept yakking about it. But the more Eubanks talked, the more Jenks didn't want to listen, the more he felt the distance.



thirty



The black Mercedes devoured the miles, State Highway 75 leading them over the line and into Dallas, where they picked up Interstate 45 south. Night fell. They'd run through Jakes's CD collection: Stones, John Prine, Willie Nelson, Freakwater, Steely Dan, the sound track to Footloose, and Tony Orlando's Greatest Hits. At Reams's insistence, they'd taken only one short break from the music to listen to All Things Considered on NPR.



Jakes had a little routine. He'd doze in the backseat awhile, start awake, launch into a story about some girl he'd fucked in college, take a slug from his flask (refilled periodically from a bottle in the trunk), then drop off to sleep again.



Morgan drove now, had the cruise control set to eighty-five.



Reams couldn't leave the dome light alone. "Why won't this infernal thing shut off?" He reached above his head, thumbed the switch without success, clicked his tongue.



"Leave it alone," Morgan said.



"It's bothering me."



"You've been screwing with it for an hour. Forget it."



Reams reached around the wheel, fussed with the switches on the steering column. The wipers came on.



Morgan slapped his hand. "Knock it off. I'm trying to drive."



"I know the button's over there somewhere for the interior lights," Reams said. "Try that switch over by that dial wheel thingy."



"No. I've tried them all already. Just leave it. And don't mess with the speakers or the radio. The balance is fine. The bass is fine. The treble is fine. Everything is fine. The heat is fine. Your seat is fine."



Jakes stirred in the backseat.



"Great." Morgan forced himself to unclench his teeth.



Jakes sat up, fumbled off the cap of his flask, and took a big slug. He belched, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He rubbed his eyes with a knuckle, took another short drink.



Morgan and Reams braced themselves.



Jakes cleared his throat. "Did I ever tell you guys about this red-haired chick I knew at UCLA? Man she had tits-"



"White as snow with nipples like dark raspberries," Morgan and Reams said together.



Jakes blinked. "Yeah."



"You told us," Reams said. "This is the third time."



"She was the best one. I looked her name up on the Internet and got her phone number. Sometimes I think about giving her a call." He finished the flask, upended it again like he couldn't believe it was empty. "But I don't call. It's been maybe twelve years."



Jakes hiccuped. "Jesus, I don't feel so good."



"Lay off the bourbon," Morgan said.



"It's empty." Jakes tossed the flask onto the floor of the backseat. It clanged harshly. "What the hell is this?" He bent, looked. "Some kind of drill thing and a hammer. What is this shit, Reams?"



Reams twisted, looked over his shoulder. "Blast. I meant to take all that back to Sears when I was out gassing the car. The tools for the gazebo."



"You're cluttering up my brand-new Kraut car with this shit."



"Sorry."



Jakes threw his head back with sloppy laughter. Loud. "Hey, Morgo, you hear about Bob Vila? Almost chopped himself in half."



"I heard," Morgan said.



Jakes squinted at the ceiling. "Why the hell's the dome light on?"



Morgan muttered.



"We can't figure how to turn it off," Reams said.



"It's one of them fucking buttons on the steering column," Jakes said.



"We tried them," Morgan said.



Jakes snorted. "Well, try them again, dammit. It's a brand-new car. I know the buttons work."



"They don't."



"Hell." He grabbed the hammer from the floor. "I'll fix it." He flicked his wrist, and the claw part of the hammer shattered the dome light with a loud pop. Glass rained, peppered Morgan and Reams. Reams covered his eyes, turned away.



Morgan jumped. "Shit!" He jerked the wheel, spilled into the next lane, nearly smacking a Honda Civic. It blared its horn, flashed its lights.



Morgan pulled back into his lane, heart thumping. "Christ, Jakes!"



"It's out."



"Idiot." Morgan gulped breath, held it, let it trickle out slowly.



"I don't think that was necessary," Reams told Jakes. "I could have taken the bulb out."



A lapse into angry silence.



But it was good to have the light out. Morgan could see better now. The road was nearly deserted, only a single set of headlights several car lengths behind, and the Honda, which had elected to speed up and put some distance between itself and the carload of morons.



Morgan included himself as one of the morons. How could he have thought a road trip with these two was a good idea? God was punishing him.



"Guys." It was Jakes.



Nobody spoke.



"Guys, I think I'm going to be sick."



Great. Morgan wondered if he should pull over. This stretch of road was very, very dark. I don't want to die in Texas.



"Try taking deep breaths," suggested Reams.



"Fuck the breaths, I'm... Jesus, I don't feel good."



"Take it easy," Morgan said. "We'll find someplace. Maybe drink some water. We'll stop and get some water."



"Oh, shit." Jakes groaned. "My stomach. Rough seas."



"Hang on," Morgan said. "Just take it easy."



Morgan prayed for an exit. Let Jakes puke all over an Amoco station.



"Jesus, here it comes. Oh, shit." He bent over, gagged, coughed. His gut heaved, and he spewed liquid, sprayed a good portion of the backseat.



"Not on the tools!" Reams yelled.



Too late. Jakes heaved again, coated the tools with gunk. The smell filled the car, acidic and boozy. Morgan almost puked too when it hit his nose. "Oh, my God." He hit the window buttons, lowered all four of them. At eighty-five miles per hour, the wind washed through the car quickly.



A blue sign ahead. Morgan squinted at it, crossed his fingers. It was a rest area.



"Yes!" Morgan mashed the accelerator.



Jakes lay in the fetal position, a thick strand of scummy saliva draped from his lower lip to the edge of the seat.



Reams said, "He doesn't look well at all."



Morgan flew down the off-ramp, skidded into a parking space near the rest rooms. The rest area was deserted except for the headlights that had been following. The other car pulled into the rest area too, parked on the far side. Shut off the lights.



Morgan shut off the Mercedes, flung the door open, and leapt out. He took a dozen quick steps before gulping clean, cold air.



"I think he's passed out," Reams called from the car.



Good, thought Morgan. Let's dump him in the bushes and leave.



Morgan walked into the men's room, unzipped at the first urinal. He finished, washed his hands.



Reams walked in, grabbed two fistfuls of paper towels, and left again without saying anything.



Morgan splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. Bags under his eyes. He started laughing. Shook his head and laughed more. He looked at himself like a stranger. Poor dumb bastard. He was still chuckling when he left the rest room.



He stood in the lit doorway of the rest room, hands in pockets. He let the cold wash over him. Winter had started to ease these last few days, but at two in the morning, it was sharply cold. Damp. Refreshing, but it would get cold soon if he stood outside for very long.



Reams approached with an armload of something wrapped in newspaper. He frowned, eyes hard, his enthusiasm for the trip apparently spent.



"What's that?" Morgan asked.



"The drill, the saw, and the chisels," Reams said. "How am I supposed to return these goddamn things when they're covered in Jakes's vomit? It's revolting."



"Throw them away," Morgan said.



"They were expensive," Reams said. "Keep an eye on that idiot, will you? I left the doors open to air out, and I don't want him stumbling off. I'm going to try to clean these."



Morgan eyed the saw. "Please be careful."



"Give me some credit."



"Reams," Morgan said. "Be careful."



Reams frowned, walked past with the armload of pukey tools.



Morgan stood, looked at the night, heard the night sounds, the occasional car on the interstate. He rocked heel to toe with hands in pockets, the night air cloying on his face, damp on his ears, the back of his neck. His thin ponytail hung loose and limp. The cold air stung his throat and lungs.



He checked the Mercedes. Jakes hadn't budged. Morgan cast about for something else to look at.



Across the lot sat the car that had followed them into the rest area. Strange, thought Morgan. The driver hadn't got out to use the rest room. Morgan thought he could just see the outline of the driver's body behind the wheel. He watched for a moment. There. The red-orange pinpoint of a cigarette flaring in the front seat. The guy had pulled off to have a smoke.



The bright glow of the cigarette went out. It came back a second later, hovered in the implacable darkness a moment, then faded.



Morgan's gut grew heavy. Worry crawled up his spine, found a home in his brain. He hadn't thought about Ginny's attacker for hours. The endless string of minor annoyances perpetrated by his traveling companions had distracted him.



Ginny said he was after me, Morgan thought. This dangerous fucking freak wants something from me, and I don't even know what. Something to do with Annie? Morgan's eyes shifted nervously. Jakes's Mercedes and the other car were the only ones in the rest area.



Morgan kept his eyes on the strange car, reached behind him, and knocked on the men's room door, which was propped open. "Let's speed it up, okay, Reams? I want to get back on the road."



"Just a moment."



Morgan heard the water running, the tools clanking in the sink.



"I'll be in the car." Morgan fast-walked back to the Mercedes, took the keys out of his coat pocket with trembling hands. It's just cold. That's all.



He climbed in, cranked it. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror at the other car. No movement. Not even the glow of the cigarette. The back door was still open, but the dome light wasn't on since Jakes had smashed it. The car was still thick with the reek of vomit.



Reams returned and startled Morgan. Morgan had been watching the rearview mirror and hadn't seen the professor coming. Reams shoved Jakes's head back into the car. He dumped the tools onto the floor of the backseat, then slammed the door. He climbed into the front next to Morgan.



Reams's hand was wrapped in multiple layers of rest room paper towels. A little red spot forming where the blood seeped through.



"What happened?" Morgan asked.



"Nothing."



"Did you cut yourself again?"



"Never mind," Reams said. "Just drive."



Morgan backed the Mercedes out of the space, then took the on-ramp back to the interstate. He kept one eye on the other car in the mirror. It didn't turn its lights on, didn't follow. Morgan drove ten minutes. The interstate was long and dark and quiet. No other cars.



Maybe he was being paranoid. It was natural he'd be nervous, overcautious. He eased into the driver's seat, relaxed his grip on the wheel. Reams was quiet, Jakes passed out. Maybe the rest of the trip south would pass in relative peace.



He glanced at the mirror again, and his breath caught.



Distantly, a pair of headlights, two dots of light hugging the road behind.



This is a major interstate, Morgan told himself. Even at this hour there'll be lots of people traveling. That doesn't have to be the car from the rest area.



But deep in the pit of Morgan's belly, he knew it was.



Deke Stubbs kept his distance.



He figured the professor had almost made him back at the rest stop, but now he wasn't sure. He'd stay well behind them for a while. Creep up slowly with the daylight, mix in with the other cars as the morning traffic increased. No problem.



Stubbs unzipped himself and pulled out his pecker, he leaned, reached, grabbed an empty beer can off the passenger-side floor. He brought it to his pecker and pissed. He'd already filled two other cans. It sure would have been nice to use the pisser back at that rest stop, but Stubbs couldn't risk Morgan getting a look at him. Stubbs might want to get closer later on, and he wouldn't want the guy to recognize him.



Stubbs rolled down his window, tossed out the nearly full can, rolled his window back up.



The detective was tired and half-hungover and sick of driving. How far were these sons of bitches going? He thought about popping another couple of caffeine pills, but his stomach was already burning.



When he sold the drugs, maybe he'd set himself up in some other line of work. Being a private detective sucked.



thirty-one



The Houston Santa Anna Sheraton was nice, expensive, full-service, four stars. Morgan had been to several regional conferences where he'd stayed at whatever budget motel had been near the campus.



But the Thirteenth Annual International Interdisciplinary Conference of the Humanities & Fine Arts was something special. Scholars and writers from all fifty states and twenty-two countries stampeded like hypercaffeinated lemmings to the host city, where they delivered mind-numbingly complex papers on obscure subjects in their desperate bids to rack up points toward tenure. Morgan had been to more than one panel where the panelists outnumbered the audience.



Morgan had never stayed at a hotel nicer than the Holiday Inn Express. So he stood next to the Mercedes in the valet roundabout with his bag in his hand and waited for somebody to tell him what to do. Reams rummaged the trunk for his own bags.



The parking valet's red uniform reminded Morgan of a cartoon. The valet hovered, waited for somebody to hand him a set of keys.



The back door of the Mercedes swung open. Jake's empty bourbon bottle fell out, clanked alarmingly on the cement but didn't break. It rolled underneath the car.



Jakes stumbled out. "Jesus Christ." He rubbed his eyes, belched. He looked like death in a sports jacket, skin slick and ashen, hair matted, eyes dark.



Then Jakes took charge.



He dipped into his pocket, came out with a wad of ten-dollar bills big enough to choke a bison. "Morgan, give Junior the keys."



Morgan handed the keys to the valet.



Jakes gave the kid twenty bucks. "Don't park it next to any shit-mobiles." He peeled off two more bills and gave them to the valet. "Some kind of stench in the car. See what you can do."



"Yes, sir." He hopped into the driver's seat and drove away.



"Let's go, fellas," Jakes said. "Chop-chop."



A brace of bellboys leapt into action. They'd been unclear if Morgan and Reams were worth fawning over, but clearly Jakes was a man used to first-class service. They scooped up the luggage in a heartbeat. One took Morgan's bag away from him like Morgan had no business touching it.



The professors followed the luggage into the lobby. Jakes identified the bell captain and waved him over.



"I'm going to need a cold six-pack waiting in the room," Jakes said. "Also a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and whatever fruit is fresh. I don't know the room number yet, but you'll find that out. Name's Dirk Jakes." He shoved a wad of cash at the bell captain.



"Very good, Mr. Jakes. What kind of beer?"



"Does the bar have Red Stripe?"



"I'm sorry, no."



"Find some."



"Yes, sir." The bell captain sped away with his orders.



Morgan could only stand with his hands in his pockets and wonder where his bag had been taken.



It was only 7 A.M., and the desk clerk was sorry to inform Jakes that check-in wasn't for several hours.



Jakes gave the man hell.



Nine minutes later Morgan stood in the room he was sharing with Reams. The luggage had been waiting for them. Jakes had his own room down the hall.



"I'm going to the conference rooms to check in, get my badge, and all that," Reams said.



"Uh-huh."



After Reams left, Morgan stripped down to his boxers and crawled into bed. His head hit the pillow, and he was out.



Morgan dreamed.