The Pistol Poets

It was the updated version of a recurring dream he'd had in high school. In the high school version he drove his father's Pontiac. The steering was noodle loose, his arm muscles wouldn't work. The Pontiac was barely in control, all over the road, the fifteen-year-old Morgan paralyzed with cold-sweat fear. Not for his life. He feared what his old man would do to him when he wrecked the car. The brakes wouldn't work.



Inevitably, he'd be heading for a tree, a mailbox, another car, and his eyes would pop open right before impact. He'd awake with a strangled cry caught in his throat, heart pounding out of his chest.



The new version of the dream was similar but more terrifying. He was behind the wheel of the Mercedes, trying to turn it around, so he could get back to Fumbee.



But when he tried to pull off the highway, the car refused to obey. He couldn't control the steering, kept missing the exits. Jakes yelled unintelligibly from the backseat. Reams wouldn't help.



Finally, Morgan wrenched the wheel. The Mercedes spun into an unreal blur. He pulled out of the spin, headed back the wrong way on the dark interstate.



He headed straight for a pair of headlights. Strangely, Morgan had control of the car now. He beeped his horn, flashed the high beams. The oncoming headlights remained on course, arrow-straight and fast. Morgan wouldn't budge either, but this time he had control of the car. He was committed to the deadly collision.



The headlights grew enormous in the windshield.



Reams grabbed his arm. "Morgan. Morgan."



Morgan wouldn't swerve, hands clenched to the wheel, teeth grinding. The engines roared, the monstrous headlights only a dozen feet away.



Reams screamed, "Morgan!"



"Morgan." Reams kicked the side of Morgan's bed. "Come on, now. It's noon. Let's grab a bite and catch the first session."



Morgan sat up in bed. He felt cold and not much rested.



Reams had showered, slipped into a pair of khakis and a navy polo shirt. A badge hung from the collar. It had his name and the name of the conference on it.



"I checked you in as well." Reams held up Morgan's badge then dropped it on the dresser. "It's 150 bucks for the whole weekend." Reams waited, looked expectantly at Morgan.



"I'll pay you back. Thanks."



Reams smiled relief. "Oh, I knew you would. We're supposed to meet Jakes in twenty minutes. Better snap to it."



"Right."



In the shower, Morgan leaned heavily against the tiles, let the hot water pelt him. Memory of the dream was already fading, but the sick feeling of worry stayed. And he hadn't forgotten about the man at the rest area or the headlights that dogged him until dawn. After sunrise, traffic had picked up, and he couldn't tell if he was being followed or not.



He tried to explain to himself rationally that he was being paranoid-a bit timid and pathetic, in fact. But the worry clung to him. He thought about Ginny's bruised face. He thought about the old man and Sherman Ellis and the upcoming poetry reading. He thought about the whole long, bad list of things he didn't want to think about. Annie and the peach orchard.



For the hundredth time, Morgan thought, It's time to come clean. Time to explain it all to the police, tell them I panicked. It was all a series of bad mistakes.



But could he do that now? He hadn't detected any sign of sympathy or understanding in Officer Hightower. The cop had seemed only smug, like he resented Morgan for some reason. And how would it look now to go to the police, when Hightower had been right there in his living room? That had been the time. It would have been so easy. Look here, Officer Hightower, here's the whole story.



And Ginny. If he went to the police now, he'd have to drag her into it, and she'd suffered enough. Worse, she might turn on him, blame him for everything.



The hot water ran out and Morgan shut off the shower. He dried himself, dressed in jeans and a green-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt with hula girls on surfboards. The conference was in the hotel, so he wouldn't need his jacket.



In the elevator on the way down, Reams said, "I've narrowed it down to two panels that start at the one o'clock session. Either one sounds interesting."



"You pick," Morgan said.



"No, no. Wait and hear the choices." Reams thumbed through the program. "We can either see Homosexual Transmogrification in Androgynous Eighties Techno-Pop or we can go to Pimple and Blemish Imagery in Victorian Fiction."



The elevator opened and saved Morgan from deciding. They stepped out into the lobby. It writhed with activity. Conferencegoers with dangling clip-on badges swarmed the place. It was like a tweed bomb had exploded in the Sheraton.



"This way," Reams said. "Jakes said he'd meet us in the lounge."



The lounge was crammed with scholars bracing themselves for the upcoming sessions. Jakes perched at the bar, chatted up a busty woman with her coppery hair piled in a tight bun. Morgan and Reams stood behind him.



"So I go out to the mailbox one day, and there's this check for 132,000 bucks," Jakes told her. "I didn't know what the hell it was for, so I called my agent. Turns out they'd sold the Asian rights to my last three novels. That's when I ran out and got the Mercedes."



The woman looked bored. She wore a pair of old-fashioned, black-framed glasses, which reminded Morgan of Ginny. Morgan thought he should maybe call her, but discarded the idea again. Her parents would be with her.



"So what do you do?" Jakes asked her.



"I compile bibliographies for Restoration drama criticism," she said.



Jakes broke into barking laughter, wiped his chin where he'd dribbled some beer. "Jesus, is there any money in that?"



"Not much." She stood, put money on the bar. "I have to get ready for my panel." Not a lot of warmth in her voice. She left, and Morgan took her stool.



Jakes looked like a new man, hair combed, close shave. He wore an expensive checkered sports coat and creased trousers with cuffs. He ordered another beer. "Lots of tail at these conferences." He winked, sipped his beer.



"Right."



"I got a program for you." Reams handed it to Jakes.



"Thanks." Jakes threw it on the floor.



The bartender came over, indicated that the lounge was too crowded just to lounge. Reams ordered a draft beer. Morgan desperately wanted a giant, double vodka martini but ordered coffee instead.



"Big cocktail reception tonight," Jakes said. "Good place to snag some snatch."



"Let's talk about which panels to see," Reams suggested.



Jakes frowned. "Stuff that idea."



Morgan stood, tossed money on the bar for the coffee. He couldn't stand it, not if these two were going to start in again. "I'll catch up with you guys later. I'm not feeling so well."



Reams looked hurt, opened his mouth to say something, but Morgan was already making his escape. He eased his way through the bar crowd and headed for the elevators. He felt a tap on his shoulder.



If it were Reams, he'd tell the man as firmly as possible that he was not going to attend a panel on Victorian zits. He turned.



And looked into the smiling eyes of Annette Grayson.



"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Did you come to see my presentation?"



thirty-two



Morgan confessed he didn't know Grayson was going to be there. He told her that Reams had badgered him into attending.



Annette Grayson seemed glad to see him. Her eyes glittered, and Morgan soaked her in. He'd forgotten how pleasant she was to look at. Smile big, radiating, reaching her eyes, and lifting her whole face. Her hair was golden silk, loose about her shoulders. Skin tan and glowing. Annette Grayson was the brightest thing in the lobby of the Sheraton, and the sight of her hit Morgan in the gut. Took the wind from his lungs.



"Let me get you a drink," Morgan said.



"I can't," she said. "My old roommate from Bennington is giving a paper in a few minutes, and I'd promised I'd go."



"Later then?"



She bit her thumbnail, looked at Morgan, squinting her eyes. "Well..."



Morgan smiled. "What happens on the road, stays on the road. Besides, I feel I owe you an apology drink."



"Maybe you do," she said. "After dinner. Call my room." She told him the number.



"Okay."



She turned, headed through the crowd. She glanced back once, smiled over her shoulder, and was gone.



Morgan felt light. On some level, he knew his problems hadn't gone away. But they all seemed distant. Annette's scent still hung in the air where he stood. It wasn't a heavy perfume, not sickly sweet. More like a body splash. He sniffed the air. Citrus.



He chewed up the rest of the afternoon. Anticipation. Fluttering stomach. The look in Annette's eyes had promised something. Morgan wasn't sure what. Maybe another chance.



He ate dinner with Reams. The professor had launched into a tedious summary of the panels he'd attended. It went on all through dinner, but Morgan was in better spirits and tolerated Reams fairly well, even managed to contribute a few comments that made him seem interested. They'd gone to a steakhouse about a block from the hotel. A good porterhouse.



Once or twice Morgan's brain tried to remind him about Ginny and the headlights that had followed him to Houston and all the stone-hard troubles that awaited him beyond the out-of-focus, fuzzy-soft unreality of the conference. He beat the bad thoughts down, kicked them into the corner. Not tonight. Tonight he was having a drink with Annette Grayson.



Morgan shook loose of Reams back at the hotel, told him he wanted to go back up to the room for a while.



"You sure?" Reams asked. "I was going to that cocktail reception. The one Jakes was talking about."



"I might catch up later," Morgan said.



Morgan took the elevator up, let himself in the room with the plastic swipe-card. He went to the phone, grabbed it, put it down again. Too soon. He felt nervous about calling her and liked it. He hadn't felt nervous about a woman in a long time.



He went to the window and pushed the curtains back. It was just getting dark, and Houston was flickering to life.



He picked up the phone and dialed Annette.



One ring. "Hello?" Her voice was warm milk.



"It's Jay."



"Give me an hour," she said. "Down in the lounge."



"Okay."



He hung up and jumped in the shower. He got out and dressed, a clean blue shirt. He ironed a pair of tan slacks. He thought about cologne and wondered if it would be too much. All he had was Old Spice. He was embarrassed but liked the smell.



He combed his hair four times. There wasn't too much to comb. He tied his little ponytail fresh and tight.



He went down the elevator, stepped into the lobby. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes early. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled the hotel.



A little shop. He went in.



Gifts. Cigarettes, toothpaste, aspirin, postcards of glorious Texas. Morgan spotted a wood-and-glass cabinet behind the counter. He looked through the glass at cigars. He was feeling sporty and whimsical and called over the smarmy cashier.



The cashier lifted an eyebrow, the rest of his vanilla pudding face sagging with disinterest. "Sir?"



"I'm looking for a type of cigar." He tried to remember what Fred Jones had given him the day they broke out the Wallace Stevens. "It's Mac something."



"Macanudo?" The cashier said the word through his nose.



"That's it. I'll take three."



"They're twelve dollars each, sir. Do you still want them?"



"Of course." Little bastard. "I said I'll take three." He handed over his Visa card.



Was it Morgan's clothes? Something about the way he carried himself that suggested he couldn't-or wouldn't-shell out for a good cigar?



The little man rang him up and Morgan left the shop. He took the cigars out of the bag and smelled one. Nice. It was as long as the one the old man had given him, but thinner. He looked at the band. Same kind. Same rich, earthy smell. He put one in his mouth without lighting it. He didn't have any matches. He thought about going back to the shop but decided against it. The cashier's inexplicably superior attitude was strangely unnerving. That happened to Morgan sometimes. A waiter or barber or movie usher or some other underling would be rude to him, and Morgan would be intimidated because he couldn't figure out if he'd done or said something wrong.



It was only much later in such situations that Morgan always wished he'd had a sharp comeback. Or a quick slap with a dueling glove. Or maybe if he'd just spit on their shoes. He was getting tired of letting life roll over him.



He went straight to the lounge and ordered a vodka martini. He drank it in three gulps and ordered another. Only then did he glance around for Annette. She hadn't arrived yet.



That little prick at the gift shop had spoiled his mood. He half thought it would be a good idea to take Dirk Jakes back with him to rip the guy a new asshole. Jakes would do it too, just for laughs.



And then Morgan was mad because a guy like Jakes could handle himself in those situations and Morgan couldn't. He finished the martini and ordered another one. The voice in his head told him to slow down, but it wasn't very convincing.



"What in the world's wrong with you?"



Morgan spun on his stool, looked into Annette's soft eyes. They cast their warm light on him. He realized his face had been frozen in a deep scowl. He sat up straight, forced his jaw muscles to unclench. He cleared his throat.



"You don't want to sit at the bar," he said. "There's a table over there."



"That's fine."



He bought her a white wine and took it to the corner table. Soft light. Quiet. The lounge was pleasantly deserted, most of the conferencegoers at the big reception.



Morgan asked if she were enjoying the conference.



She said she was.



And had her friend's panel gone well?



It had.



Thus concluded Morgan's cache of small talk. He was bone dry.



The martinis took over.



"So what's wrong with me, huh?" Morgan asked it with a smile.



"There's nothing wrong with you."



"Then what's wrong with you?"



She laughed. "Nothing. There's nothing wrong with anybody."



"Afraid of me?"



"Not of you. That things won't work out like we want. That life will backfire."



"What's the solution?"



"Stick your head out of your hole once in a while," she said. "If it's clear, run out, grab a chunk of life, chew it up quick, and get back into your hole. A little at a time when the coast is clear."



"At Valentine's party, and when we had pizza, that was you coming out of the hole for a little look-see?" Morgan threw back his drink, waved at the bartender for another.



"That's right," Annette said. "I had a two-day hangover after Valentine's party, and I had to ride the stationary bicycle three hours to work off the pizza. Imagine living life that big all the time. Imagine the toll. It's like looking at God. You can't look directly at Him. You have to avert your eyes or look at a burning bush or something."



"What about Dirk Jakes?" Morgan asked. "Seems like he's going full blast all the time."



"He's an anomaly." She shrugged. "Or maybe a prophet. Cautionary example."



Morgan said, "This isn't your first glass of wine, is it?"



"I'm out of my hole for a look-see," she said. "I split a bottle of Chablis with my friend."



When the bartender brought the martini, Annette sent him back for more wine.



"What happened to you?" Morgan wasn't laughing now. He thought Annette's worldview sad and gray.



"I looked at life too directly the first time around. Good husband, good life, good everything, then I got the rug yanked. I'm lighter on my feet now. It won't happen again."



Morgan thought he understood, knew what it was like to have your guard up all the time.



The drinks came. Annette drank hers in two gulps. "Let's go upstairs and screw."



"Okay," Morgan said.



They leaned against each other in the elevator, her fingers light on his back. His heart fluttered, pumped hot blood to all the appropriate areas. His head swam. They went to her room.



Morgan had seen this before. There was something erotic and hypnotic about hotel lounges and hotel rooms. Maybe it was being away from home. Maybe it was the little soaps and shower caps and one-use shampoo bottles and everything that hinted how temporary it all was. You didn't even have to make the bed.



Or maybe it was the ultracold air-conditioning. Annette's tan, smooth skin broke out in gooseflesh when Morgan slipped her dress off her shoulders. It shrunk to the floor around her ankles. The bra was easy to unsnap. He took a nipple into his warm mouth, and she threw her head back, moaned, grabbed the back of his head, twirled his ponytail in her fingers.



They stumbled to the bed, and her hands went to his belt. She unfastened him. Soon both were naked. He entered her quickly, and her ankles locked behind his back. He found a rhythm, sped up. She thrust back against his hips, grunting, panting, all the pent-up frustration heaving out with each slam of him against her.



She screamed her orgasm. He shook, released, went limp on top of her.



The whole thing had taken about ninety seconds.



"I think you'd better go," she said.



"What?"



"It's just... I feel embarrassed." She scooted out from under him and ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.



Morgan crawled off the bed, schlong dangling wet. He was dazed, bewildered. He gathered up his clothes, cradled them. He noticed absently he still wore his socks.



Annette came back wearing a white robe. "It's not right. We work together."



"But-"



"We got carried away." She pushed his shoulder gently, herded him toward the door.



"Let me get dressed!"



She paused, let him get into his boxers and trousers, then opened the door. She pushed him out. He opened his mouth but couldn't get a word out.



"I'm sorry," Annette said. "But we let the moment overcome our good judgment."



And the door was closed.



He put his shirt on, started down the hall, mouth still hanging open. Stunned.



Just that quickly Annette Grayson had scurried back to her hole. She'd been out for only a glimpse, grabbed herself a chunk of Jay Morgan, and was gone again. Would she pay for it like the cheese pizza? Could she work off the memory of him on the stationary bicycle?



He stopped walking, looked down at his feet. He'd forgotten his shoes.



thirty-three



One-thirty in the morning, and Morgan had painted himself into the corner of the hotel lounge. He knew he was in for an apocalyptic hangover but couldn't make himself care. He was maxing his Visa card on Sheraton martinis.



After Annette had kicked him out, he'd waited in his room for an hour in case she regained sanity and wanted to call. No call. He'd gone down to the bar in his socks. He'd kept drinking, hunched over the table, eyes going glassy and unfocused.



He stumbled to the house phone, dialed his room.



Reams answered, sleepy, mumbled something that might have been "hello."



"Reams, buddy. Any calls for me?" Morgan heard his own voice loud in his ears. Good. A time to be loud. Let the trumpets sound.



"Morgan?"



"Morgan."



"Glad you phoned." Reams woke up, spoke more clearly. "I scheduled a breakfast with a Professor Klein. That one-year job I told you about. Klein runs things over at San Gabriel College. He can get you on the short list."