Pistol Poets

thirty-four

Moses Duncan unlocked the door to his dark little farmhouse, Eddie right behind him. He was tired and pissed and cold and hungry. He felt for the light switch.

Then the hands.

They grabbed him from all directions; Eddie too. Moses tried to twist away and earned a fist on the side of the head.

A voice. “Be still, bitch.”

He was thrown to the floor, facedown. A kick in the ribs. Moses whuffed air, heard Eddie mumble fear noises. Somebody turned on the lights.

“Damn,” Moses shouted. “Take what you want.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Another kick, but halfhearted this time.

A black man in a purple suit knelt in front of Moses. He grinned, no humor touching his eyes. Moses felt hands and feet along his body, keeping him pinned down. He wouldn’t have tried to move anyway. He froze, kept his mouth shut, waited to be told what to do.

“They call me Red Zach. You heard of me?”

“No, sir,” Moses said. He chanced a look, swiveled his eyes around the room. A bunch of coons. Hell. Just his luck. Some kind of damn poetic justice maybe to die in the hands of a mob of coons. Maybe they were with that Ellis son of a bitch. Maybe they knew Moses had been looking to splatter some buckshot across Ellis’s face, and these coons were here to kill him.

No, that didn’t make sense. Ellis was hanging with those two white guys. The mob in his living room was strictly an all-coon outfit. Hell and shit.

“Well, you going to hear a lot more about me real soon,” Zach said. “As a matter of fact, we’re going to get acquainted because you work for me now.”

Moses opened his mouth to protest, but a heavy hand on the back of his head pushed him down. Moses kissed the floor, bumped his front teeth against his upper lip. A trickle of blood.

“Think of this like a hostile corporate takeover,” Zach said. “Just how hostile is up to you, but maybe you should consider the perks.”

Moses Duncan was not going to work for no goddamn nigger coon in a purple pimp suit. Daddy would roll in his grave. But he shut up and kept his ears open.

Someone dropped a bag next to his head, a suitcase. He looked at it from the corner of his eye. It was his, the one he used to stash his merchandise. They must’ve gone through the whole house. Maybe even found the sawed-off, single-shot.410 he kept duct-taped to the back of the toilet in case somebody came at him when he was on the crapper.

“The bad news,” Zach told him, “is that your freelance days are over. You answer to Red Zach now. That piss you off? I see it in your eyes. Don’t try to hide it. Good. I’m glad. I don’t want no cunts working for me. But I don’t want no fools either. You play it smart and it works out for everybody. You hear what I’m saying?”

Moses thought a second before answering. “I hear you.”

“Good,” Zach said. “Now here’s the part maybe you’ll like. Once you start working for me, you going to do a lot more business than what you got in your little suitcase here. We going to talk about some real greenbacks. You got a college town here. Ripe. I’ll show you how to work it. Somebody else starts poaching your territory, I send my boys down, stomp it out quicker than a forest fire. You see the potential?”

Moses said that he saw.

“You got any objections?” Zach asked. “Can you see any reason this business arrangement won’t be mutually beneficial?”

The hand on the back of his neck tightened just slightly.

“Sounds like a good deal to me,” Moses said.

“Excellent. What happened to that guy’s face?”

It took Moses a second to understand he’d meant Eddie. “Glass. Cut him all up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I get up now?” asked Moses.

“Nope. We got just one more thing to talk about first.”

“Okay.”

Zach softened his voice, friendly, put his hand on Moses’s shoulder. “I think a brother maybe came to you recently with a big score. A shitload of premium coke. Why don’t you tell me all about it. Start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

thirty-five

Don’t you ever go stir-crazy in here, man? Don’t you ever want to stick a gun in your mouth and blast your fucking brains out?” Jenks asked.

Tad Valentine scratched his wild, white beard and considered the question. This Sherman Ellis/Harold Jenks person obviously didn’t like being cooped up. He’d offered him the pick of his library, had even suggested some Langston Hughes or Etheridge Knight that Valentine mistakenly believed would appeal to Ellis/Jenks’s ethnicity.

But the young man had instead latched on to a copy of Jerzy Kosinski’s The Painted Bird. The novel’s nonstop atrocity fest seemed to hold a special horrified fascination for him. Jenks frequently consulted a Webster’s Dictionary between chapters. Valentine decided-not for the first time-that he was simply not in tune with the multicultural complexities of today’s youth. Ellis/Jenks puzzled him not only for being black, but for being young and part of a world that did not need or want men like Valentine. They wanted MTV and PlayStation and the Internet and soft drink commercials with half-naked teenagers and many other things that scared the hell out of Valentine.

And this young black man made him nervous, on the lam and in some kind of peril from what Valentine could gather. It wasn’t that he disliked Ellis/Jenks. But the kid was a bold symbol of everything out there, and now he wanted to hide in here. Valentine worried Ellis/Jenks would bring the world and its troubles with him.

And just what the hell was the kid’s name anyway? Sherman Ellis or Harold Jenks. It seemed there was a halfhearted effort under way to conceal the man’s identity. Wayne DelPrego had started with Sherman Ellis and had gradually abandoned it for Harold Jenks.

Valentine had decided to think of the black kid as Sharold Jenkis. It seemed a reasonable compromise.

“Sometimes,” Valentine said.

Jenks looked up from The Painted Bird. “What?” He’d forgotten that he’d asked Valentine a question.

“Sometimes,” Valentine repeated, “I think about putting a gun in my mouth. But it’s not because I’m cooped up as you say. It’s the thought of going out there.” He pointed at the rest of the world through the dirty window. The glass was badly smudged.

Jenks looked out the window. “It’s just a parking lot.”

“Hmmmm, yes. Where’s Mr. DelPrego today?”

“Snuck out,” Jenks said. “He’s stir-crazy too.”

“It wouldn’t fit anyway,” Valentine said.

“Say what?”

“The gun. I couldn’t get it into my mouth.” Valentine went to the other window, the big one. A thinly padded bench ran the length beneath it. He flipped the lid, hinges squealing, and pulled out three and a half feet of something wrapped in cloth. He lowered the bench lid again and set the bundle on top, peeled away the cloth slowly, and revealed a long, double-barreled shotgun.

“It’s a twenty-gauge,” Valentine said. “I wouldn’t be able to reach the trigger.”

Jenks set the book aside, came over to look at it. “It’s pretty.”

“My father gave it to me as a graduation present. We hunted duck quite often before I went off to New Haven.” He picked up the shotgun, cradled it lovingly, broke it in half, and looked down each barrel. “Still clean.”

The darkly polished wood gleamed, ornate silver scrollwork. An expensive firearm. Valentine had not held the weapon in over a year. The cold metal in his hand sparked a memory. A duck blind before dawn, the sun rising pink-orange over the lake. The last morning they’d gone hunting before Valentine had left for the East. His father had wanted him to be an engineer. Oklahoma oil had paid for the shotgun, the private lake, Valentine’s education. Father had been bitterly disappointed when his son turned poet. Poet. The word had struck his father like a tomahawk between the eyes. Poet was code for communist-faggot-slacker to an Oklahoma oil man. His father had died before the Pulitzer Prize, before the New York Times interview, before everything.

Jenks took the gun from his hand. “Cool. Let me see.”

Valentine let go reluctantly, watched Jenks sight along the barrel.

“What you shoot with this?”

“Ducks,” Valentine said. “Or geese.”

“What you use?” asked Jenks. “Slugs?”

“If you want to scatter the bird across the county.”

Jenks’s eyes shifted back to the bench seat. “Any shells in there?”

Valentine followed Jenks’s gaze to the bench seat. He looked back at Jenks and said, “I’ve made it a point not to pry into your business.”

“Good.”

“But maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on, eh? Perhaps I could even help.”

Jenks bit the end of his thumb, looked out the window. After a long pause, he shook his head. “I think you’d rather not know.”

Valentine lifted an eyebrow.

“But I appreciate it,” Jenks said. “Thanks for letting me and Wayne crash here. And thanks for trying to show me about the books, letting me look at Painted Bird. It’s wasted on me but thanks for trying.”

“Education is never a waste on anyone,” Valentine said.

Jenks smiled, shrugged. “Okay, man. Sure.”

Valentine nodded. He was a patient man. Perhaps he could pry some information out of DelPrego upon his return.

Wayne DelPrego left campus at a fast walk, looking over his shoulder as he slunk back into the knot of woods that bordered Eastern Oklahoma University. He didn’t venture deeply, not like when he and Jenks had hidden from Red Zach’s crew. He skirted the edge, stopped and knelt in a thick patch of shrubs when he saw his trailer.

He watched.

Be damned if these gangster shitbags would run him out of his home. He’d been wearing the same clothes-same underwear-for three days. And he wanted his truck. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

Watching the back of the trailer didn’t show him anything. Jenks was sure they’d watch the place, but how? Sit in a car on the street, or would somebody wait in the trailer for him with a loaded gun and the lights out? Or both? Maybe this was a mistake. He’d mentioned to Jenks he might try to sneak back for his truck, but Jenks had put his foot down. He’d said just to grab the cocaine and get back quick.

Fuck it.

DelPrego bolted from the shrubs, sprinted, his breaths huffing little clouds into the cold air. He dove under one of the trailer windows, pressed his back against the half-rusted wall. He listened.

Nothing.

He thought about crawling through the gap in the aluminum skirting and getting under the trailer, but shivered at the thought of what might be under there. Oklahoma was lousy with all kinds of spiders and scorpions. DelPrego hated the thought of escaping gangsters only to have a brown recluse scuttle up his jeans and bite him on the gnads.

Voices.

DelPrego held his breath, cocked an ear toward the open window above him. A conversation. He felt footsteps shaking the flimsy trailer, coming toward the window. DelPrego pressed himself as flat and as low as possible.

“What’re you doing?” The first voice.

“Mmmpgh Mmbf Mmmmmm.” The other.

“No, leave it open. It stinks in here.”

“Mmmph. Mmmm.”

“Then put your jacket back on, but leave it open.”

The footsteps retreated from the window. “Mmmph mmmmm?”

“Because Red Zach said so. If they come back, we grab ’em if possible or call his boys in for backup.”

The other voice uttered a string of garbled nonsense.

“I don’t like it either, Eddie. You think I want some coon giving me orders? But once we straighten this Jenks kid out, they’ll go back to St. Louis and we’ll be sitting on a gold mine. No more small-time.”

“Mmmm mmmph mmmm.”

“Me too. What you want?”

“Mmmph.”

“We had fucking Taco Bell yesterday.”

They argued five minutes about lunch. The first voice told the mumble voice he’d be back in thirty minutes. DelPrego heard the front door slam. A few seconds later an engine cranked, vehicle noise fading on the road out front. A second later the TV went on. DelPrego listened. It sounded like a game show.

Anger. Someone was in his home watching his damn television. Probably drank his last beer. He found himself getting up. Some remote bastion of intelligence shouted to the rest of his brain that a truck and a trailer and a ten-year-old RCA television were not worth dying for. But there he was crawling under the window, heading for the back door.

At the back door he stopped, took the little oilcan out of his jacket pocket. The old redneck janitor Brad Eubanks had gotten it for him last night. Even then, DelPrego had been thinking, putting the plan together in his mind. He squirted oil on the hinges, made sure to use plenty. He squirted oil into the lock, anyplace that might make a noise.

He took the back-door key from his pocket. He’d removed it from his key ring so it wouldn’t jingle against the other keys. He inserted it in the lock. Slowly. He pinched the key between thumb and forefinger, froze, listened. The game show drifted from the open window. DelPrego made himself breathe. Then he turned the key.

The lock slid back and DelPrego cracked the door an inch. No sound. He put his ear to the crack to make sure the game show was still going. It was. He looked inside but couldn’t see very far down the hall. The hall went past a little place where a washer and dryer would go if DelPrego had them. Then past the kitchen and opened up into the living room/dining room combo area. The TV was against the far wall in the living room. The whole trailer was like a cramped miniature version of a real house. A strong gust of wind would blow the whole thing over. It was a flimsy dwelling. The floor creaked. DelPrego would have to step lightly.

He opened the door, stepped into the trailer. He pulled the door closed behind him, each movement in exaggerated, agonizing slow motion. He took one step toward the kitchen and the floor groaned. He took his weight off the spot. He slipped out of his tennis shoes, set them aside. He walked along the side of the hall, inching forward until he saw the kitchen around the corner.

Beyond the kitchen, the living room and the TV.

Someone was in the easy chair, the battered La-Z-Boy he’d picked up from a junk heap and patched with duct tape. He couldn’t see who, only an elbow on the armrest, a hairy hand holding the remote control.

The hand was white.

DelPrego frowned. This didn’t make sense. He’d been expecting one of the gangsters who had chased him and Jenks into the woods. In his mind, he replayed the conversation he’d heard under the trailer window. One of the voices had specifically mentioned Red Zach.

Okay, never mind. White or black, this guy was in his house, waiting to kill him.

He walked through the kitchen, looked at the counters. No knives in sight, and he couldn’t risk the noise of opening a drawer. He grabbed a saucepan. He’d come up behind this guy and bash his brains in.

He started toward the easy chair, careful steps, slow, quiet, get within arm’s reach, and let him have it. DelPrego screwed up his courage, gathered it into a tight, hot ball in the center of his gut. He had to crack this dude’s skull with everything he had. He didn’t want the guy to get up again.

The guy swiveled the chair, looked square into DelPrego’s eyes.

DelPrego looked at him and screamed, dropped the frying pan.

The guy in the La-Z-Boy screamed too. It came out ragged and muffled. His head was completely bandaged, only big, frightened eyes showing from slits. The mummy-faced guy had the chair in the recline position. He thrashed in the chair, struggled to sit upright and turn the chair back to the pump shotgun leaning against the wall.

DelPrego regrouped, launched himself before the guy reached the shotgun. He smacked into Mummy-man, tumbled over, chair tipping. They landed on the floor in a clinch, clawing and grabbing.

Mummy-man rolled on top of DelPrego, a hand going over DelPrego’s face, pushing. A pinkie finger slid into DelPrego’s mouth. He bit down hard. Mummy-man’s hoarse scream died in the cotton bandages. He jerked his hand back. DelPrego punched, but Mummy-man twisted away. The blow glanced to the side.

The skill level of the fight went from bad to idiotic. Pulling at clothes, rolling. They bumped against a coffee table, tipped over a lamp.

Mummy-man pulled free, kicked away DelPrego’s fumbling hands. He belly-crawled across the dirty shag toward the shotgun. DelPrego lunged and grabbed one of Mummy-man’s ankles. Mummy-man kicked. He was two inches from the butt of the shotgun. He reached, stretched, strained against DelPrego’s hold.

DelPrego cast about. He needed something to hit with. A large glass ashtray had fallen from the coffee table. He reached. Two inches.

Both men stretched in opposite directions, gritted teeth, grunted.

DelPrego got to his knees, readied himself before letting go of the ankle. He grabbed the ashtray, turned, and leapt back on Mummy-man, who had the shotgun in his hand. DelPrego crashed into Mummy-man hard, pinned the shotgun against his chest. DelPrego landed a knee into the Mummy’s gut, heard air burst out of him. He raised himself, the ashtray high over his head. He brought it down hard.

It smacked hard into the Mummy’s forehead. Mummy-man jerked.

“Fuck you, King Tut.” DelPrego hit him again.

Mummy-man went slack, sank into the shag. DelPrego sat on him, chest heaving, sweat. He shook. His hands especially trembled out of control. He dropped the ashtray, fell off of Mummy-man’s body, and lay on the carpet, sucking for breath. Another dead guy. He’d bashed in another guy’s head. For the second time DelPrego was a killer. No. Three times. He’d killed the guy with his shotgun when the drug deal had gone bad. But somehow that had been different. Not up close like when you bash a man’s skull into jelly.

He stood, knees like water. He’d need to think what to do. He had his truck keys, so he wouldn’t have to flee on foot. He ran back to his bedroom, found the stash of 280 dollars he’d been saving for an absolutely life-and-death emergency situation. This qualified. He grabbed a knapsack, filled it with two changes of clothes (four changes of underwear) and his father’s Purple Heart from Vietnam. He left the knapsack on the bed and went to put on his shoes.

The sight of Mummy-man’s loose-limbed body disturbed DelPrego. Maybe he should do something with the body, hide it somehow. Or maybe just the thought of the dead man in plain sight on his shag carpet gave DelPrego the willies. He didn’t want to think of himself as the kind of man who’d bash a guy’s skull in, then just leave the body lying around. He bent over the Mummy, grabbed him by the jacket lapels. Touched his chest.

Breathing.

DelPrego gasped, put the palm of his hand over the guy’s heart. It beat. Crazy, relieved giggling bubbled up in DelPrego’s throat, spilled out of his mouth. Mummy-man was alive, his breathing seemed regular, normal. Of course, he hadn’t hit him that hard, not enough to kill him. Mummy-man had only been knocked cold. DelPrego didn’t know why he was so happy. The son of a bitch had been waiting to blow a giant hole in him with a shotgun.

DelPrego shook his head. He was glad he hadn’t killed the guy. He didn’t want the memory, didn’t want to see the man’s mummy face haunting him in his dreams. He already got chills whenever he thought about the man he’d killed with the golf club.

DelPrego grabbed Mummy-man under the arms, dragged him into the little bathroom. He dumped him into the tub, made sure he was faceup and could breathe okay. He’d need something to tie the guy up. All DelPrego wanted was a head start.

DelPrego heard a car door slam. He froze.

He rushed to the window, peeked through the blinds. It was the other one. Shit. The face seemed familiar. He tried to remember. It came to him slowly like a grainy movie slipping into focus. Holy fucking shit. The guy from the drug deal. That fucking redneck who’d tried to steal Jenks’s coke. And while DelPrego had stood gawking, the guy had reached the front door. Shit shit shit.

The shotgun! Too late. DelPrego had left it in the living room.

Think, dumbass!

He looked at the Mummy-man in the tub.

Moses Duncan was halfway to get food when Red Zach had called him on the cell phone. He’d said to forget about watching the trailer. Get back to the farm quick. Change of plan.

Right. Sure. For the thousandth time Duncan thought about cutting loose, hitting the road. On the one hand, he did stand to make a lot of cash working for Red Zach. On the other hand, the thought of Red Zach moving into the old farmhouse, setting up shop like it was a goddamn Motel Six, probably had Daddy spinning in his grave. So Duncan was going to bite his tongue and bide his time. Someday, in a month or a year or ten, he’d have the last laugh on these coons.

Duncan tried the front door. Locked. He knocked. No answer.

“Come on, Eddie. It’s me.” Nothing.

“Hell. Now what?” He banged on the door louder, shook the trailer.

Duncan sighed and walked around behind the trailer. The back door was open, and he went inside. “Eddie?”

Duncan heard a flush. The bathroom door creaked open. Eddie came out, tugging at his face bandages.

“What’s up?” Duncan asked. “Stitches itching again?”

Eddie nodded.

“Get your shit together. We’ll eat later. The coon squad wants us back home.” He tossed Eddie the car keys and picked up the shotgun. “I got the twelve-gauge. Your turn to drive.”

Eddie stared at him, didn’t move.

“Don’t just stand there, dummy. Come on.”

“Mmmph. Mmmm,” Eddie said.

“What?”

“Mmmmph Mmmmm Mmmmph.”

“Your tongue must be swelled up or something,” Duncan said. “Suddenly I can’t understand a damn thing you’re saying.”

thirty-six

The ride back from Houston was uneventful and unhappy.

Reams’s anger at Jay Morgan was of the slow, brooding variety. Morgan realized the professor had gone to some trouble to arrange the morning job interview, but Morgan had simply not given a rat’s ass. The police had kept him until nine in the morning.

Dirk Jakes’s anger at Jay Morgan was more of the ranting and raving variety. Jakes’s brand-new Mercedes had been “stolen” according to the story Morgan gave the police. But more than anything, Jakes seemed hurt and angry that he hadn’t been invited to the titty bar when Morgan had “borrowed” the Mercedes for his midnight drive.

All in all, Morgan was damn unpopular for the duration of the cramped ride back in the Geo Metro, the only rental available on short notice. They made it back into Fumbee late Sunday night, and Reams dropped him off without a word.

For all Morgan cared, Jakes and Reams could go fuck themselves. With corncobs. He had no energy left for apology. The night and early morning with the police had left him wrung out. He couldn’t tell them the real story without it leading back to Annie Walsh. He’d tried to keep it simple. After the titty bar, he’d gone, so he claimed, to the beach for some air so he could sober up. A bunch of Mexicans had beat him up and thrown him in the water, then taken the Mercedes.

“We found the car ten minutes ago,” a big detective had told Morgan.

Morgan had shrugged. “Those crazy Mexicans.”

“What about your shoes?” one cop had asked.

“I wanted to walk in the sand.”

“Then shouldn’t you have taken off your socks too?”

“I told you,” Morgan had said. “I was drunk.”

Morgan had claimed the whole incident had happened about a mile down the coast and away from the pier. The situation seemed impossible and hopeless. Nobody had mentioned a body. Morgan had watched the car go down. There’d been no sign of the man.

Perhaps Morgan should flee the country. A former colleague made good money teaching English in Asia. Morgan had seen the job listings before. English teachers needed in Japan and South Korea.

But that would take time to arrange. Surely recent events would catch up and overwhelm him before then. At least he was home. For a while, the world could wait. He went to bed, slept like a cold, dead stone.

Monday morning he went to Albatross Hall. He was five minutes late for his poetry workshop. He noticed three empty chairs in a row, didn’t have to think too hard about it. Ellis, Lancaster, and DelPrego.

“Has anyone seen our missing comrades?” He gestured at the empty seats.

The class shook its collective head, mumbled ignorance.

“Never mind. Let’s get on with it. Tammy, read us your poem.”

A thin girl, sandals with socks, dishwater hair, and no makeup. “It’s called ‘The Aftertaste of Love.’ ” She stood and cleared her throat, read from a pink sheet of paper. “How he clings, like the orange dust from cheese puffs. How he screams the silent, dog-whistle need of his generation. But nobody hears…”

Ah. It was as Morgan thought. God had started punishing him already.

Morgan closed his office door. It had been a long morning. He switched on the radio, then rummaged his desk drawers. The radio announcer spit out the local news, then switched to the weather. Mild for most of the week, but winter’s last hurrah gathered up north and west in Colorado. A cold front. It threatened to slide south by the weekend and dust Green County with a few flakes.

Morgan found what he was looking for in the bottom drawer. A flask of Jim Beam. Not his usual poison, but it would do in a pinch. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. The familiar warmth again in his belly. Morgan decided that not only had he officially fallen off the wagon, but that the wagon had also backed over him and parked on his head.

He took another swig.

The phone rang in midswig, startled him. A mouthful of booze spilled down his chin. He grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

“Morgan? It’s Dean Whittaker.”

Morgan sat up straight. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Good news, Morgan. Lots of press going to be there all the way from Tulsa and Oklahoma City. We pulled some strings. Going to be great press for the university.”

“Uh…”

“Also, we have the honors college assigning the poetry reading as mandatory extra credit for their freshman composition and humanities classes. I know these sorts of events aren’t generally well attended, but we want to put our best foot forward, eh? I think we can fill up the whole damn auditorium.”

“That’s fifteen hundred seats.”

“Well, the press, faculty, most of the administration, the graduate students from the writing program, the usual collection of community art-fags-you didn’t hear me say that-and about a thousand freshmen. I know most eighteen-year-olds don’t usually go in for this sort of thing, but the seats will be filled and it’ll look good. That’s what counts. The eyes of the entire university will be on this show. Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Sure.” Morgan found his hand reaching for the Jim Beam.

“You are going to put on a good show for us, aren’t you, Morgan?”

Morgan cleared his throat, picked his words carefully. “I promise a professional reading with excellent and innovative poetry.”

“Right,” Whittaker said. “Just so long as we get the right message across. You know what I mean.” He said good-bye and hung up.

Morgan drank whiskey, rubbed his eyes. He thought about Ginny. Maybe he should call her. He was surprised to wish he could be with her. She had a soothing effect. She’d been right. People who have a secret together need each other. He picked up the phone, put it back down again. No, she might still be with her parents, and Morgan didn’t have the spine right now to explain himself.

He called Sherman Ellis at home. The phone rang and rang.

Morgan hung up, bit his thumbnail.

Morgan’s phone rang and made him jump. He grabbed for it quickly. Maybe Ellis had *69 and was ringing him back. “Hello? Hello?”

“Take it easy, Professor,” Fred Jones said. “You sound like you just ran a mile.”

“I’m really pretty busy right now, Mr. Jones.”

“Busy my ass. I have four new poems, and we have an appointment.”

Morgan rubbed the bridge of his nose, bit off the first reply, and took a deep breath before saying, “You know, Mr. Jones, part of any good poet’s education is to accumulate a myriad of poetry experiences. There’s a poetry reading on campus tonight. It might be a good experience to give your own work a rest and go hear some other readers.”

“Quit jerking me off.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. But seriously, there’s a guy on campus maybe you could talk to. A Pulitzer Prize-winning poet.”

Jones went quiet on his end for a moment, then said, “Who?”

Morgan told Jones how to find Valentine’s office. The image of the two strange old men amused Morgan. Let them drive each other nuts. The thought made his mouth twist up in a grin. It had been a long time since anything had made Morgan smile. His face muscles weren’t used to it. It almost cracked his face in half.

thirty-seven

DelPrego was sweating hard. The thermostat in the dingy little farmhouse seemed to be stuck on the ultrahell setting.

And the farmhouse was full of black guys with guns. They all seemed pissed off. DelPrego sat in a corner, tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. The sweat poured down his back, formed under his armpits, and dripped. The thick bandages on his face were heavy and damp, clung sticky to his face with somebody else’s blood and grime.

Duncan had gone to the kitchen with a black man in an expensive yellow suit. It was evident the man in yellow was in charge. He had the hard eyes and easy, cheerless grin of a man used to getting what he wants.

DelPrego’s eyes shifted toward the door. It was agonizingly close, but he was too scared to bolt. Maybe if he simply stood and strolled out like it was no big deal, they’d ignore him. Or maybe they wouldn’t.

The drive in Duncan’s truck had been nerve-wracking. Duncan had held the shotgun loosely in his lap. DelPrego had thought about grabbing it or leaping from the truck at full speed or a number of other things that ultimately all seemed like bad, bad ideas which would make him horribly, horribly dead.

He waited, closed his eyes. When he opened them again nothing had changed. He was still in a world of shit.

Red Zach sat at the kitchen table and drank Moses Duncan’s coffee from a Rebel flag mug. He paged through a J. Crew catalog and wondered how he’d look in a turtleneck. Something subdued. A nice taupe maybe. He liked earth tones. He was supposed to visit his mom at Easter, and he couldn’t go dressed up like no Huggy Bear motherfucker from Starsky & Hutch.

Duncan entered the kitchen, sat at the table across from Zach.

“Maurice saw Jenks on campus,” Zach said.

“Did he get him?” Duncan asked.

Zach sipped coffee, shook his head. “By the time he turned the car around, he’d lost track of him. But we think he must be hiding out someplace at the university. Maybe in somebody’s dorm.”

Duncan shook his head. “Don’t make no sense. If he knows you’re hot on his trail, why don’t he just leave town?”

“I didn’t ask for your peckerwood opinion, but I’ll explain. There’s only five roads out of this town, and I got them all watched. He’s got no car and no money and the next closest town is thirty-five miles. No, he’s tucked in someplace, lying low. You’re going to find him.”

“Me?”

“You deaf or something? You think a gang of brothers can roam your cracker campus without attracting some attention?”

“Eddie looks like a damn freak. You don’t think he’ll attract attention?”

“Good point,” Zach said. “You go by yourself.”

“Great.”

“Go tell your boy you’re taking a field trip.”

“Right.” Duncan left the table.

Zach waved Maurice over. The man stood straight as a blade, hands folded in front of him. “What’s the word, Red?”

“Follow that redneck. Make sure he’s obeying orders.”

“And if he tries to take it on the road?”

Zach’s face stretched into one of his trademark, evil grins. “Pull the plug on his sorry ass.”

DelPrego saw Duncan coming toward him. Duncan shrugged into his coat, so DelPrego stood. Maybe they were finally getting the hell out of here.

“You stay put, Eddie,” Duncan said. “I got to run an errand on my own.”

DelPrego’s eyes widened. He did not want to wait another minute in the farmhouse.

“Take it easy. I’ll be back when I can.” Duncan slapped him on the shoulder, then leaned in and whispered, “Just stay out of the way of these boys. We’ll get them out of our hair soon enough.” And then he was out the door.

DelPrego slowly looked around the room. One guy playing solitaire, two more watching television, and another two in the kitchen. He knew there were more someplace. DelPrego walked toward the bathroom. Keep it casual. He went in, shut the door behind him, and eased the dead bolt into place. He sat on the toilet and peeled off the bandages. The air on his skin was welcome relief.

DelPrego looked at the bandages and shivered. They were caked with dried blood, and some kind of slick goo DelPrego hoped was only ointment. The smell almost made him gag. He scrubbed his face in the sink, wiped off with a semiclean towel.

He looked at the window over the toilet. Small, but he was pretty sure he could squeeze through it, and be damned if he was going to wait around there until his luck ran out. He knelt on the toilet seat, pushed the window up. Cold air flooded the tiny bathroom. DelPrego breathed it in, filled his lungs. He’d always had an acute intolerance for heat, and the big gulps of cool air settled his nerves a little. But not much.

He put his arms through the window, wiggled his shoulders through one at a time. He hung half out the window, the drop down was a little farther than he’d thought but no big deal. He wiggled down to his hips and jammed himself in the window. He put his hands on either side of the window, set his jaw, pushed. He was just a fraction of an inch too wide. If he shucked his jeans, he could do it, he could just slither through, he was sure.

He backed into the bathroom, feeling for the toilet seat with his boot. His heel slipped on the slick porcelain and he fell backward, landed hard between the toilet and the sink. It made a good racket. DelPrego held his breath. Waited. Nobody came to investigate.

He grabbed the back of the toilet to pull himself up and his hand ran across something. He looked. A gun taped to the back of the toilet. He peeled it off, examined it. A.410 shotgun, a hack job. The barrel had been sawed almost to nothing, and most of the butt had been cut away, leaving only the pistol grip. He checked the breach, broke it in half. One shell. A fat slug.

Okay. Better than nothing. If he were going to get out of there, the shotgun might come in handy. But he hoped not. He wanted to sneak out without any trouble. He dropped the gun out the window.

He took off his boots, then slipped off his jeans. He remembered the drop and put his boots back on. He didn’t want to twist an ankle or land on something in the grass with his bare feet. He was still worried about the tight fit through the window. He’d probably scrape a little flesh. No big deal. As long as he squeezed through.

He shimmied back through the window, wedging himself again at the hips. But this time he detected a little more give. He pulled hard, felt his flesh bunch against the window frame. His flanks burned where they scraped against the wood but only for a second. He popped through, hit the ground hard. He stood, caught his breath and examined his raw, red hips. Scraped and bruised but nothing to worry about. Now all he had to do was put his jeans back on and-

His jeans were still in the bathroom.

“Fuck.”

He leapt for the windowsill but could only just grab it with his fingertips, not enough to pull himself back up. His jeans were gone. His ass was very, very cold. A frigid gust of wind shriveled his testicles.

He looked around, didn’t see anyone, picked up the shotgun, and ran for the barn. It was still cold inside, but at least he’d escaped the wind. He scanned the barn and saw an old horse blanket thrown over some lumpy machinery. He could wrap it around his waist like a kilt.

He pulled off the blanket, revealing the gleaming motorcycle underneath.

“Whoa.”

He wrapped the blanket around himself and knelt to examine the bike. A Harley, fat and low. It looked like it had recently been worked on and cleaned up. He checked the gas tank. Full. The bike was his ticket out, but he knew it would make a roar when he cranked it. He’d have to start the thing and ride fast before all those brothers poured out of the farmhouse to cut him down.

He straddled the bike, put up the kickstand. There was no way to ride the motorcycle and still keep the blanket. He was going to be cold no matter what. His ass stuck to the freezing leather.

DelPrego stood on the kick-starter. The engine sputtered. Smoke. Come on, come on. He kicked it again, and the engine howled to life. He twisted the accelerator, made sure it didn’t conk out. It sounded good, powerful. It took him a few seconds to figure the gears. The bike leapt forward, through the barn doors. DelPrego felt like he was riding a dragon.

An old memory flashed in his mind, senior year of high school. His only motorbike experience, an old dirt racer. Every weekend out with his cousins, to the bottom of the dried-out quarry and back. It was coming back to him now. He leaned into the turn, coming around the farmhouse. Once on the other side, he’d break for the road. The cold wind bit hard into his naked flesh.

He sped past the front porch, black guys spilling out, white eyes wide. But they didn’t have guns drawn. He was going to make it.

A car parked at the end of the drive. The driver’s door swung open. Another black guy stepped out. He wore a red suit, black shirt, and no tie. He flicked a cigarette away, and his hand went into his jacket. DelPrego knew it would come out with a pistol.

DelPrego still had the.410 across his lap. He took it in one hand, kept the bike steady with the other. He lifted the shotgun level with his chest, arm outstretched. Even hacked down, the shotgun was heavy. He pointed it directly at the red suit blocking his path. He spurred the bike faster. It shot forward, a thundering mechanical warhorse.

Ivanhoe. I’m fucking Ivanhoe.

The red suit pulled a silver automatic, thumbed off the safety, and squeezed two shots. DelPrego heard and felt the second slug whizz past his ear.

He pulled the trigger and the shotgun belched fire, kicked out of his hands, and tumbled back along the dirt driveway. The slug knocked the red suit back across the car, his chest exploding in blood.

Shots behind DelPrego now. But he was already leaning low over the handlebars. He’d found the road and opened the bike up for all she had. A wild, bare-assed streak across eastern Oklahoma.

thirty-eight

For Christ’s sake.” Jones panted. “You trying to give me a fucking stroke here?”

Bob Smith slowed down halfway up the flight of stairs. “Sorry, Boss. We’re almost there. One more flight.” Sometimes the boss scared him. Smith didn’t know what to do those times the old man overexerted himself, the blood draining from his pinched face. Smith had made the mistake once of suggesting the boss hire a nurse. Jones had chewed him out good for that one.

“Fucking Mount Everest.” Jones sucked breath.

“You want a hand, Boss?” Smith reached for the old man’s elbow.

Jones swatted him away. “Lay off. I can make it.”

They made the fifth floor and Jones took a minute to catch his breath. Professor Morgan had told the boss to listen for the music. It had sounded goofy to Smith, but he cupped a hand to his ear and listened. A faint tune echoed through the halls.

“Benny Goodman,” Jones said.

Smith would have to take the boss’s word for it. The big man stood quietly with his hands folded in front of him. A minute later, the old man stood straight, nodded at Smith. They followed the music, and Smith let the old man set the pace.

Not for the first time, Smith wondered how he and the boss had ended up in bumfuck, Oklahoma. But it wasn’t Smith’s job to wonder such things. The boss still had a lot of connections and more than a few enemies. So when it was time for the relocation, Smith packed his bags. There had never been any question that Smith would go wherever Jones went.

They arrived at an office door. Jones knocked, didn’t wait for an answer, and pushed the door open. Smith’s hand drifted into his jacket, a habit from the old days. He always itched for the feel of his gun butt when they walked through a strange door. Never can tell what’s on the other side.

A wild-haired man scribbled fiercely at his desk. He looked like a cross between Santa Claus and Charles Manson. There was a colored kid on the sofa reading a book. Both looked up as Smith and Jones entered the room.

Jones asked, “You Valentine?”

“Who are you?”

“Jones. I’m a friend of Professor Morgan,” the old man said. “He said you’d look at my poems.”

“He lied.”

“What?”

“I don’t do that. Look at poems, I mean.”

Jones frowned. “Maybe I made a mistake. You’re the professor?”

“Yes.”

“You won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry?”

“Yes.”

Jones threw up his hands. “Then what the hell is this?”

Smith stirred behind the old man. He didn’t like it when the boss was unhappy. The colored kid watched the whole thing with big eyes.

Jones said, “Morgan mentioned you enjoyed your privacy. Maybe I should pay the dean a visit.”

Valentine blinked. “Hell and blood.” He held out a hand. “Let me see the poems.”

Jones nodded. Smith handed the folder of poetry to the professor, then stood in a spot where he could see the door and the whole room.

Jones sat on the couch and turned to the colored kid. “Who are you?”

“Harold.”

Jones pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket, handed it to Harold Jenks. “Smoke that, will you?”

Jenks shrugged, unwrapped the cigar, and bit off the end. He lit it, puffed. The old man closed his eyes, let the cigar aroma wash over him.

Jones opened his eyes again, looked Jenks up and down. “So what’s your story?”

Morgan got Sherman Ellis’s address from the registrar’s office and drove to his apartment. Nobody home. He called four more times and left a note on Ellis’s apartment door.

It was getting down to crunch time, and Morgan was getting desperate. He had no idea where students kept themselves, where they hung out. Blindly roaming the campus looking for Ellis didn’t seem too productive. He needed some help.

Morgan parked on campus and went to Albatross Hall. He locked his office door behind him, slumped at his desk. He didn’t turn on the light, didn’t want people to see it shining under the door and know he was there. He especially wanted to avoid Dean Whittaker.

He got on the phone and dialed the hospital, where some clerical person told him Ginny Conrad had checked out.

His fingers hovered over the Touch-Tone pad, and Morgan realized he didn’t know Ginny’s home number. It had never occurred to him to ask for it. She’d always just been there, showed up on his doorstep. Another call to the registrar produced her number.

Morgan looked hard at the phone for a long time. Ginny had said her parents were coming. Morgan didn’t want to talk to Ginny’s father, but he needed somebody to help him track down Ellis. Ginny probably knew all the student hot spots.

Morgan found the bottle in his desk drawer. A few belts would help him think. The booze splashed harshly in his gut. He hadn’t eaten anything, and his stomach made little dying sounds.

He grabbed the phone, dialed quickly before he changed his mind or puked.

Morgan was ready to hang up, but Ginny answered after twelve rings. “Hello?”

She sounded good, Morgan thought, voice strong. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Morgan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Maybe Ginny didn’t want to talk to him.

“Hello? Helllloooo.”

“It’s me,” Morgan whispered. He didn’t want anyone walking by his office to hear him.

“Professor Morgan?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in the library or something? I can hardly hear you.”

Morgan raised his voice slightly. “How are you feeling?”

“The doctors said it looked worse than it really was. A lot of bruising.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My parents were here, taking care of me,” Ginny said. “But I sent them home.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean sometimes my mother can be so smothering. And my father has this anal streak. He’s always-”

“Ginny, I need a favor,” Morgan said. “And I need it fast.”

A pause. “What is it?”

Morgan explained.

“Have you tried the Black Student Union?” Ginny asked.

“There’s a Black Student Union?”

“Let me make a few calls,” Ginny said.

“Great,” Morgan said. “What then? Call you back in an hour?”

“No. I’ll meet you.”

thirty-nine

Wayne DelPrego could not feel his ass. His frozen balls had shriveled and retreated. But he didn’t dare stop until he reached Lancaster’s apartment. The motorcycle roared.

A few wide-eyed motorists had gawked, but so far no cops. Some luck.

He parked the Harley in front of Lancaster’s place, looked around, didn’t see anyone. He sprinted to Lancaster’s door. His bones ached, teeth chattering. He pounded on the door. “Come on, Tim.”

No answer.

He knocked louder, looked over his shoulder. So far nobody had seen, but sooner or later somebody would notice the crazy pervert.

He tried the knob. It turned. He pushed the door open and darted inside, shut it behind him. He let himself warm up, breathed easy, relieved. “Tim?” Nothing.

He walked through the little apartment, found the bedroom, and pulled open Lancaster’s dresser drawers. He found a pair of boxers. Sweatpants. He put them on.

He walked around the apartment, tried to get some idea where Lancaster had gone. DelPrego couldn’t remember his friend saying anything about leaving town, visiting his parents, anything. He went to the bedroom closet to see if Lancaster’s suitcase was gone.

He slid open the closet door. When the body fell out, it took DelPrego a split second to realize what he was looking at. He screamed, stumbled back, tripped on the corner of the bed, and spun into a rack of compact discs. Scattered them. DelPrego landed hard on the floor, breathing hard, heart kicking its way out of his chest.

He crawled to the body. “No,” he whispered.

Lancaster looked like he was made of wax, pale and shiny. His eyes were open, looking up, jaw slack. DelPrego studied his face. It somehow didn’t look like Lancaster, the life sapped out of him, no light in his eyes. DelPrego grabbed the body, shook it wildly, without reason. “Tim. Tim.” The skin was cold.

“Oh, no.”

He gathered Lancaster in his arms, a strained, animal noise rising in DelPrego’s throat, coming out a wheezing grunt, the sound of raw, disbelieving pain. His fingers dug into Lancaster’s clothes, his skin. He willed this not to be true. But Timothy Lancaster III was dead. Gentle, silly, pretentious, naive, kind Tim. Timothy.

DelPrego leapt to his feet, raged into the kitchen. He flung the refrigerator door open, and it slammed against the counter. He jerked open the lettuce crisper at the bottom where he’d unpacked and hidden the cocaine. Lancaster never had any food in the refrigerator. He’d never used the crisper. He looked at the stash of coke, the throaty, strangled growl still coming out of him. This was the stuff that had killed his friend. And DelPrego had killed him by putting it there.

He pulled out the crisper, went through the house, and flung it into the bathroom. The thin plastic shattered on the tile floor, the little Baggies of white powder spilling. DelPrego started grabbing Baggies. He tore them open, a white frenzy of powder. He dumped them into the toilet, spilling, powder caking the side of the bowl, the sink, getting it all over his clothes.

He didn’t stop. He screamed and sobbed and cursed and dumped the cocaine. “You goddamn cocksuckers, you fuckers, fuckers, sons of bitches.” The tears and snot ran down his face, left tracks in the white dust on his skin.

He sank against the tub, drew his knees up to his chest. He cried and felt dizzy, his throat raw and dry from screaming, his eyes red and hot.

forty

Moses Duncan sat in his pickup truck in the university’s south parking lot thinking about Mexican whores. Duncan preferred blondes, big Swedish honeys with long, long legs and giant milky tits. But Mexican whores were cheap. That is to say, Mexico in general was a cheap place to be. He’d been to Juarez once with his dad. The American dollar went a long way, and a guy could get anything-anything-down there if he had cash.

Duncan had been thinking he could still get his hands on the coon’s cocaine and split town for Mexico. He could disappear and set himself up good south of the border. On his way down, he could unload the stuff in Oklahoma City or maybe Dallas.

He sort of felt bad about Eddie, but these were desperate circumstances. It was every man for himself. Even as he walked out of the old family farmhouse, he sort of knew he wasn’t going back. He couldn’t. Too much had changed. Too much was different than he had thought. The world wasn’t right, and Moses Duncan didn’t know how to live in it. In Mexico, cash and pistols would make him The Man. A system he could work with.

He tucked his dad’s revolver into the front of his pants. He popped open the glove compartment, took out the Old-West-style, single-action Colt, and stuck it in the back. The corduroy coat hung low enough to cover both pistols. He put on his Harley-Davidson cap, tugged the bill down to hide his face.

He got out of the truck, walked toward the cluster of buildings at the heart of campus. Nothing to do now but keep his eyes peeled. That was important. He wasn’t on an errand anymore for that fucking pimp Zach. He was on his own mission.

Maurice sat in his parked Lincoln Town Car two rows from Duncan’s truck. If Zach wanted him to keep an eye on Duncan, then the peckerwood must be up to something or giving off a bad vibe. Anyway, Zach was suspicious. Then again, Red Zach was always suspicious of everyone and everything. Maybe that’s how the man got to be boss.

Duncan was on the move, and Maurice watched him. He got out of the Lincoln but kept his distance. Maurice was aware he didn’t exactly blend in. He checked his gat, his cell phone. He buttoned his coat and headed for the long yard in front of campus. He lagged behind, but kept Duncan in sight.

Zach hadn’t said anything specific, but Maurice knew this peckerwood’s time was short. Zach would use him to track down Jenks, then Maurice or one of the others would put a bullet between Duncan’s eyes. And if Zach still thought it was worth setting up an operation in Fumbee, he’d pick his own man.

A few of the college kids looked sideways at Maurice, but most simply shrank into their coats, gritting their teeth against the sharp wind that had risen sudden and bitter from the west. Maurice craned his neck. The weather looked bad, clouds collecting low in the sky. But he didn’t look at the sky for long, kept his eyes on Duncan.

Duncan wandered without plan, strolling a lazy circle around the campus buildings. Maurice shook his head. Amateur. When you’re waiting to spot somebody in a situation like this, the better strategy was to stay put in a good location and let the crowd cycle under your nose. Eventually, whoever you’re trying to find will drift by. But this was Duncan’s turf. Maybe he knew what he was doing.

Duncan stopped, so Maurice stopped too. Maybe Duncan had seen something. Or maybe the motherfucker was just stupid and lost. Maurice backed up close to a tall bush. Watched.

That guy in the denim jacket and the sweatpants looked familiar, Duncan thought. A white guy, but Jenks had brought a couple of white boys with him that day at the barn. This looked like one of them, maybe the guy driving the truck. He looked harder, trying not to seem obvious. Yeah, he was pretty sure it was him.

The guy was walking fast, not really looking around. Duncan could follow no problem. The guy beelined for a building, and Duncan stopped to read the sign. Albatross Hall.

Maybe this was it. He’d go in, find Jenks, put the grab on the coke, then fill these shits with lead and head to Mexico. It was a perfect fucking plan. He touched the butts of his two pistols through the coat’s heavy material. Okay. He was ready.

Moses Duncan entered Albatross Hall, followed Wayne DelPrego to the stairway that led up to the building’s dead floors.

DelPrego trudged the steps up to the fifth floor. There was no anger left in him, no pity or sorrow, no grief. His capacity to feel anything at all had burned away in the fire of his rage. He was hollow and exhausted and each step was a test.

He found Valentine’s office, pushed his way in without knocking. An old man was there, a giant behind him. Jenks sprang from the couch.

“Where the fuck you been, boy? Where’s the bag?”

DelPrego said, “I flushed it. I flushed it all. It’s gone.”

“Are you crazy?” Jenks blinked. “What am I supposed to tell Red Zach now, motherfucker?”

“Tim’s dead.”

“What?”

DelPrego stumbled past Jenks. “Somebody got to him.” He fell on the couch, waited for Jenks to start yelling. DelPrego didn’t care. His eyelids were so very heavy. He felt the long blackness pulling him down. He only wanted to sleep.

forty-one

Morgan sneaked out of his office and drove home. He grabbed the mail on the way in. His house was cold, and he turned on the heat.

His life had somehow spun out of control. Maybe it would be okay. Possibly Dean Whittaker would not fire him on the spot when Sherman Ellis failed to materialize at the reading. Perhaps Ginny Conrad would not be scarred for life. Ginny.

Morgan was hungry.

The kitchen was not a happy place. Cupboards bare. The refrigerator wasn’t much better. Some butter. Two eggs left in the door. He took them out, shook them next to his ear. Morgan couldn’t remember how long he’d had the eggs. They looked fine on the outside, white and smooth. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the market. It was possible the eggs had been there when he’d moved in.

This was ridiculous. Now he was afraid of eggs.

He popped open a beer and looked at his mail. A letter from Kenyon College.

Morgan had applied for a Visiting Poet position at Kenyon. He read the letter. Although they found his credentials impressive, Morgan should go stick his head up his own ass and die. Other pieces of mail wanted to sell him life insurance, pizza, and seeds.

He drank the beer.

Tired.

He went into his bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and fell on the bed. He could not immediately fall asleep. He kept thinking there was something he should be doing. His head spun with loose ends. But he couldn’t tie up any of them. Nothing was in his power anymore.

He slept and dreamed he was at the poetry reading. He had to introduce the poets to the capacity crowd, but he was naked. This was when he realized he was dreaming, naked in front of people. Even his subconscious had run out of ideas. He laughed, started stroking himself in front of the audience. Stroking and stroking and not getting anywhere at all.

When Morgan awoke it was dark. Panic jerked him out of bed. He thought he’d overslept, that the poetry reading had started. But it was only six o’clock. He checked the window. The sky looked serious about ruining everyone’s plans.

He flipped on the TV news. The meteorologist’s plastic smile beamed at him. The cold front, said the weatherman, had shifted somewhat, and Green County was going to get a bit more snow than expected. However, the heavy stuff was going to pass north.

Morgan showered. He stood under the hot water a long time, trying to compose a poem in his head. He was still thinking about the eggs, about fear of the unknown, but it came out adolescent and silly. Then he tried a poem about dreaming and nudity, but that didn’t go anywhere either. The hot water started turning cold, but Morgan stood there pretending it wasn’t. At last, he couldn’t kid himself anymore. He turned off the water, dried himself.

He looked in his closet. How did one dress for a doomed poetry reading? The blue suit was too formal. A shot of Jim Beam helped him decide. Tan slacks and his brown tweed jacket with a black turtleneck. Now he looked his most professorial. Another shot of booze. He could feel it on his breath when he exhaled.

It was still a little early to meet Ginny, but he didn’t want to hang around. He took his long coat and went to the car. It was cold, and he almost went back for his gloves and a hat. To hell with it.

He unlocked his car door, felt a wet pinprick of cold on the back of his hand. He looked up. One or two flakes, then another. It was light but steady, swirling in the wind like ash.

Morgan parked on the street across from the administration building. There was a dark tavern across from campus that catered to professors. The drinks were just expensive enough to discourage students.

The snow was coming heavier. A few light flakes my ass.

He went in, took a table in the corner. Morgan no longer cared if anyone saw him with a student.

Morgan ordered three vodka martinis. “Keep them coming.” He looked at his watch. The poetry reading started in twenty minutes. He was screwed.

Ginny walked in. Morgan saw her and waved her over. He looked her over. The bruises around her eyes were already fading. A scab on her bottom lip.

She sat. “I have something important to tell you.”

“You found Ellis!”

“Huh? Oh no, I made a few phone calls, but nobody’s seen him,” Ginny said. “Don’t worry. He’ll turn up.”

Godamnsonofamotherfuckingbitchshit-

“I want to talk about us.”

Morgan blinked.

Ginny said, “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

“Jesus.”

“I don’t want you to take it hard,” she said. “But don’t worry about me. I’m a strong person. I’ve always been strong.”

“Sure.” Morgan wished it were true, but he didn’t think Ginny strong. He didn’t think himself strong. Nobody he knew was strong. Maybe people weren’t strong anymore. In the 1950s maybe folks were strong. Eisenhower.

The next martini arrived. Morgan took half in one gulp. He waved at the waiter and pointed at his glass, a gesture meant to indicate you’re too goddamned slow.

“It’s just that this thing has run its course,” Ginny said. “We both knew it couldn’t work. We’re from different worlds.”

Morgan realized he was hearing a prepared speech. He decided to ride it out.

“I just don’t think we should be… involved.”

“I understand.” Morgan finished his drink just as the third martini arrived.

“But I want us to be friends,” Ginny said.

Morgan was a little slow remembering his lines but finally said, “I want that too.”

She stood, dramatic, jaw set. Morgan could almost hear the music swelling. Ginny looked like a chubby Scarlett O’Hara. “Farewell, Professor Morgan.”

Morgan flipped her a wave. “So long.”

“Well, you could at least act a little upset.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “I’m in a shitstorm here. I don’t have time for this.”

“Fine.” She began to stomp out of the tavern.

“Ginny,” he called after her. When she turned around, Morgan cleared his throat, and said, “I’m sorry about that guy. Sorry you got hurt.”

Her features softened. She nodded once and left.

Morgan tossed his drink down and took the empty glass to the bar. He took a stool next to an elegantly dressed black man and ordered another drink from the bartender.

Morgan turned to the black man. “Some snow, huh?” A little random small talk would get him back on track.

“I’ve found the local forecasts to be wildly inaccurate.” The black man had a deep, articulate voice. Chin up, bright eyes. He carried himself well. “It will get worse, I think.”

Morgan suddenly felt clumsy, his fingers thick and stubby. He reached for his glass and knocked over a bowl of peanuts. “Shit.”

“I’ll get that for you, sir,” said the bartender.

“Yeah, thanks.” Thanks came out thanksh. The vodka had hit his tongue. “It better not get worse,” Morgan said to the black man. “Big dog and pony show tonight. Poetry reading across the street.”

“I know.”

“Bunch of crap,” Morgan said. “A big public relations show.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Professor Morgan.”

“Yeah, well I can’t really say- Have we met?” The man did look familiar.

The man stood, dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “I’m Lincoln Truman. President of the university.”

Morgan’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a trout out of water. President Lincoln Truman walked out of the tavern, his back straight. He didn’t look back at Morgan.

Hell.

forty-two

Moses Duncan lost DelPrego going up the stairs. Did the guy get off at the third or fourth floor? Or did he keep going all the way up? Shit.

Duncan stopped on the fourth and drew his dad’s revolver. If he couldn’t find the guy after a quick sweep there, he’d head up to the fifth to look for him. He thumbed back the revolver’s hammer. Be damned if they would catch Moses Duncan with his pants around his ankles.

He listened for footsteps but didn’t hear any. He didn’t hear anything at all as a matter of fact. The floor looked deserted. Dust. Only one in four light fixtures had a bulb in it. No signs on the doors. He went down one hall, crossed over, found himself in a similar dusty corridor. Who designed this place, some goddamned retard?

Duncan heard footsteps behind him and froze. He spun around, pressed back against the wall, pistol out in front of him. Come on, son of a bitch. Show your ass.

The steps came closer. Duncan extended his arm, gun aimed at the corner. Soon as that guy came around, he was toast. Duncan had come gunning for the guy, but now the guy was coming up behind him. Maybe he had his coon buddy with him. Wouldn’t matter. Moses would get the drop on their sorry asses and blast them to hell.

The guy rounded the corner, and Duncan’s finger tightened on the trigger.

It was Maurice.

Duncan pulled the gun back, blew out a ragged breath. “What the hell you doing here?”

“Zach thought you might need some backup,” Maurice said.

It occurred to Duncan that Maurice would severely fuck up his plan. He should have pulled the trigger, dropped this sucker when he had the chance. As a matter of fact… Duncan considered the pistol at his side, his hand squeezing the butt, tensing.

But Maurice had his automatic in his hands, brought it up, and pointed it at Duncan’s head. “I don’t like that look in your eyes, peckerwood. You’re looking twitchy. You’re not thinking bad thoughts, are you?”

Duncan looked down the barrel of Maurice’s gun. Could he get his pistol up in time? Probably not. Duncan forced a weak smile. “If I’m twitchy it’s ’cause you’re sneaking up on me. Makes a fella nervous, don’t you think?”

“I hear you.” Maurice held out his free hand, kept the pistol steady with the other. “Why don’t you hand me that peashooter? I’ll give it back when maybe you ain’t so nervous.”

Duncan laughed, shrugged. “Okay. No need to get all suspicious.” He turned the pistol around, handed it to Maurice butt first.

Maurice took it, put it in the big front pocket of his long coat. Then he looked around, took in the fourth floor, the dust. “This place ain’t even being used. What the fuck you up here for anyway?”

“I think he might’ve gone in there.” Duncan pointed at a door across the hall.

Maurice turned his head, examined the door. “Don’t look like anybody’s been in there for a long-”

The Colt thundered, filled the hall, bucked in Duncan’s hand. The.45 slug tore into Maurice’s shoulder, spun him around, a spray of blood dotting the walls and floor. Maurice grunted, went down. He struggled to lift the automatic.

Duncan stepped on Maurice’s wrist, and the gangster’s gun clattered on the tile. Duncan thumbed back the Colt’s hammer.

Maurice’s face was sweaty, contorted with pain. “F-fucking p-peckerwood.”

The Colt roared again and a red splotch bloomed in Maurice’s gut. Blood spread over him. Maurice clapped a hand over the gushing wound, warm blood seeping sticky between his fingers. “Oh, shit. Y-you redneck fucking… shit.” Maurice’s eyes glazed. He couldn’t keep his head up.

Duncan hovered over him, kept the Colt pointed at the man’s face. Maurice’s head sank to the cold tile. He twitched, gasped for breath, then didn’t move. Very slowly, Duncan reached into Maurice’s front pocket, retrieved his daddy’s revolver. He stepped back, watched the body for another moment. For some reason he thought it would spring back up, come after him like in a horror movie. It didn’t. He’d finished the dirty son of a bitch.

Duncan tucked his guns back into his pants. Now he needed to find his way off this floor. He looked up and down the hall, trying to remember how he’d come in. All these damn doors and hallways looked the same. He made his decision and set off to find the stairs.

He didn’t see Maurice roll onto his side, coughing blood. Didn’t see the gangster pull the cell phone out of his pocket with shaking, blood-soaked hands.

“Boss?”

“I heard. Go check it out,” Fred Jones told his big bodyguard.

“Shots,” Jenks said. “Sounded like the floor below us.”

“Right.”

“You going to be okay without me?” Bob Smith asked.

“Just go,” said the old man. “Find out what the hell’s happening.”

“Okay.”

The bruiser checked his pockets on the way out of Valentine’s office. Brass knuckles, sap, the.38 on his belt, and the.44 magnum in his shoulder holster. A British commando knife in his boot. He was traveling light that day.

Smith moved well for a big man, walked easy down the hall, head tilted, listening for approaching footfalls. He took the.38 out of his belt holster and put it in his jacket pocket. He wanted a hand on it without flashing the gun in the open. He held the sap in the other hand.

He positioned himself back against the wall near the corner of the hallway. Anybody on the way to Valentine’s office would have to pass right under his nose.

He waited, listened.

It was after business hours, so there was a good chance nobody else had heard the shots. Maybe a couple of professors working late or maybe not. Smith shifted from one foot to the other. He didn’t like standing for long periods of time, but often it was part of the job.

He was hungry. Jesus, this was going to be a long night. First he had to wait around twiddling his thumbs while that old professor gave the boss poetry advice. Then he’d have to hang around for the reading, then make sure they got home okay. Probably wouldn’t be until midnight that he could build himself a nice pastrami sandwich on rye. Some BBQ chips too.

Smith heard footsteps coming. They were shuffling and irregular. The intruder was maybe looking around, trying to get his bearings. Smith stood rigid, hands in front of him ready with the sap.

He’d thought about ordering a pizza, but no way a deliveryman could find his way up to Valentine’s office. And he wasn’t about to leave the boss alone to make a Burger King run.

The guy was close now. Smith heard him breathing.

Smith tried to remember if there was still a MoonPie in the glove box of the car. No. He’d eaten it two days ago. He made a mental note to stash some snacks in the car. The boss had been keeping an odd schedule lately, and Smith needed to be prepared. Hunger, after all, caused distraction.

A hand came around the corner. The hand had a gun in it.

Smith brought the sap down hard across the guy’s wrist. A snap. The guy yelped. The gun flew, slid across the floor. Smith slapped a meaty hand on the guy’s forearm, pulled him around the corner.

He knocked the Harley-Davidson cap off the guy’s head, patted his coat down, and found an Old-West-style revolver. Smith smelled the barrel before sticking it in his belt, gave the guy a shake. “Who are you?”

“Jesus, my wrist’s busted.”

“I asked you a question,” Smith said.

“I don’t feel so good.”

“That’s a shame. Hold still.” Smith had him by the back of the coat.

The guy sagged, wanted to lie down. He groaned, leaned forward, and vomited.

“Christ!” Smith let go of the coat, stepped back, puke splashing on his shoes. The smell almost made him heave too.

The guy took off, running hunched over, clutching his busted wrist to his chest.

“Shit.” Smith took one step after him, planted his shoe square in the puddle of puke. His feet flew out from under him. He landed on his back. Hard. The air knocked out of him. He tried to suck in breath, but it was a long few seconds before he could breathe normally. He sat up. A raw spot on his hip where he’d fallen on his brass knuckles. He’d be sore for a week.

He gathered the pistols, limped back upstairs, wondering how he’d explain this to the boss.

Smith lumbered back into the old professor’s office. Valentine and Jenks looked at him expectantly.

But Jones read Smith’s face, saw the pistols in his hand. The boss could always size up a situation in no time. “Who was it?”

Smith sighed. “Some guy. He got away.” He dumped the pistols onto Valentine’s desk. Smith didn’t need any more guns.

“For Christ’s sake,” the old man said. “What happened?”

“I fell down.”

“What’s that on your pants?”

“Vomit.”

Jones stood, joints creaking. “Forget it. I want to hear the poetry reading. Let’s go.”

Red Zach was sick and tired of Oklahoma, farmhouses, rednecks, and being jerked around. He had to take care of this shit quick, or he’d look weak. He couldn’t go back to St. Louis without his property and Harold Jenks’s head on a stick.

But it was taking too damn long. How hard could it be to find a man in this two-bit town?

Okay, he was getting tense. He closed his eyes and began his breathing exercises. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Long, controlled breaths. It wasn’t working. Damn. He hated being on the road so long. Everything he needed was at home. His yoga workout videotapes, aroma therapy candles, the really good CD with the ocean noises. He needed all of it to keep from going nuts and getting an ulcer.

His cell phone bleated in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open. “What?”

It was Maurice on the other end. He sounded strange, weak, like maybe it was a bad connection. Maurice told him to get a pencil. Zach wrote the words Albatross Hall on a paper napkin. A building at the school.

“What is it?” Zach asked. “Dormitory or something?”

Nothing.

“Maurice?” Zach looked at the cell phone’s display, made sure he still had battery power. “Maurice, you there?”

Must have lost reception, thought Zach. That happened too often with these cell phones. Hit a dead patch and everything goes quiet.

forty-three

Morgan drank another martini, then walked out of the tavern and into the blizzard. Snow flew sideways, stung his face. He walked across the street bent almost in half against the wind. This was bullshit.

The snow was ankle deep, seeped into his socks. The lampposts along the main sidewalk were fuzzy blurs of light in the driving snow. It took fifteen minutes to trudge to the auditorium, a trip that usually took five. Morgan had to keep stopping and looking around to make sure he hadn’t taken a wrong turn. The campus looked unearthly and strange in the whirling mix of snow and pale lamplight.

They’ll cancel the reading, thought Morgan. How can they not? A sudden, unexpected, freak blizzard. The roads would be a mess. He had heard, in fact, a siren in the distance. Emergency services would be caught back on its heels. Nobody would risk the roads for poetry. Nobody would know Ellis had never even shown.

He finally made the auditorium and ducked into the lobby, stomping his feet and huffing for air. His vodka breath burned up his throat and out of his mouth in a toxic cloud.

He heard the crowd. Morgan cracked the door to the auditorium, peeked inside. The seats were filled. He scanned the throng. Professors and administrators in the front two rows. Bored students packed the rest of the place, chatting among themselves. A paper airplane sailed from the back row. A guy in a university sweatshirt leapt up from his seat and snatched it out of the air to the scattered applause of the adjacent rows.

The freshmen. Morgan remembered what Dean Whittaker had said about filling the seats with honor school freshmen. They’d only had to come from the dorms, didn’t need to drive or hunt for a parking space.

Jesus Christ Almighty. Morgan was well and truly fucked. A crowded auditorium and no Ellis. Morgan belched, tasted vodka, felt slightly dizzy.

He had to do something. The dean and the rest of the administration were expecting something special.

Well, fuck them. Morgan hiccuped. It wasn’t his goddamn fault Sherman Ellis was missing in action. What was he? A miracle worker? He couldn’t find a kid who’d disappeared off the fucking planet.

Still, just to show up empty-handed was pretty feeble.

Morgan scanned the crowd. There, in the back row, just coming through the door, were Bob Smith and Fred Jones. The big bruiser helped the old man into his seat.

Morgan suddenly had a bad idea, but it was better than no idea at all.

Dean Whittaker fidgeted in his seat, tugged at the band of the silk panties through his trousers. He usually liked wearing the panties, red with a little bow, and lace trimming. But he’d been shifting nervously, and the panties had crept into his ass crack. They also had a stranglehold on his scrotum.

Lincoln Truman sat to the dean’s right, a random vice president on his left. Various other department heads and community big shots in the front row, and someplace there was a chancellor.

And where the hell was Jay Morgan? The show was set to start any minute.

President Truman looked impatient and cross. Whittaker opened his mouth to say something reassuring to the president, but a young woman in a long, black dress came onstage and modest applause signaled the reading was under way.

Whittaker recognized the woman as one of the graduating MA students in creative writing. She had a pierced lip and eyebrow, bright orange hair pinned elaborately into sprouting tufts of hair that sprang out at odd angles. How the hell did she expect to get a job looking like that? Whittaker thought about his own daughter, who was in her third year at Kansas State. Would she come back pierced, covered with tattoos, trailing some long-haired “dude” who fronted a speed-metal band? The thought made him shudder. What the hell was going on with the world?

He fingered his panties, watched the orange-haired woman approach the podium.

“Good evening everyone, and thanks for attending Eastern Oklahoma University’s annual graduate poetry reading,” she said. “Usually we give this reading in the big classroom in Albatross Hall, but this year it’s been moved to the auditorium, because, as you can see, we’ve had one heck of a turnout!”

She paused for a burst of applause that never came.

She cleared her throat. “Our first reader will graduate with his master’s in English this spring. His poems have appeared in Word Junkie, Gas-hole, and Pea-Pickin’ Potpourri. Please welcome David Blanding.”

The pale young man took the stage amid a sluggish ripple of golf clapping. He began to read, his voice a hypnotic murmur blanketing the audience like a high-tech sleep ray from a dime-store science-fiction novel. He wove his poems like elaborate spells designed by some evil wizard to suck all that was interesting and beautiful out of life. If his poems had been music, they would have been the same note over and over again. If his poems had been a meal, it would have been a plate of wet cardboard.

Dean Whittaker watched Lincoln Truman stick his fist in his mouth to stifle a yawn. Whittaker’s panties were so far up his ass, he had tears in his eyes.

Morgan got the old man’s attention and waved him into the lobby.

“What’s with sending me to see that old loon?” Jones asked Morgan. “Guy’s got a screw loose. You know some fucked-up people.” Jones sniffed, wrinkled his nose. “You smell like a damn distillery.”

Morgan couldn’t disagree. “Mr. Jones, I need your help.”

“It’ll have to be quick,” Jones said. “Bob’s saving my seat. I don’t want to miss the reading.”

Morgan took Jones by the elbow, started easing him down the hall. “How would you like to be a little more closely involved?”

“Like what?”

Morgan said, “One of our readers can’t make it, and we need somebody to-”

Jones dug in his heels, pulled his arm back from Morgan. “Oh, shit no. Are you fucking crazy?”

Morgan latched onto the old man, started dragging him. “I’m desperate, Mr. Jones. Please.”

Jones looked like a little terrier being dragged on a leash. He looked side to side for some help, his eyes round with terror. “There’s like a million people in there. I’ll piss myself.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t have my poems. Bob has the folder.”

“I’ll get them for you,” Morgan said.

“Oh, God. I can’t breathe.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Morgan floundered backstage until he found the girl with the orange hair. He told her about the change. She didn’t understand. Morgan said what the fuck was there to understand? The old guy would read instead of the black guy. She looked unhappy but said okay.

Morgan had fetched the old man’s poems from the big bodyguard. It had taken much goading and pleading, but Morgan convinced Jones to read. Jones looked pale and terrified. Morgan had never seen the old man afraid of anything. He wished Jones good luck and left him backstage.

Morgan’s stomach groaned. He belched acid. I should have ordered a sandwich. He went back into the lobby, found the men’s room. Inside he bent over the sink and turned on the cold water, splashed his face. He leaned on the sink awhile, took long deep breaths.

Behind him, a toilet flushed. One of the stall doors creaked open. Morgan turned and looked into the bloodshot eyes of Professor Larry Pritcher. He stood stiff, neck still in the brace. The professor had tacked up a “wanted” poster offering a reward for information leading to the person or persons who’d assaulted him with Finnegans Wake.

“Oh, hello, Morgan.” Pritcher talked through clenched teeth. “Hope you don’t mind if I don’t shake hands. I can barely lift my arms.”

“Did they… uh… ever find out who attacked you?” Morgan asked.

“No. I suspect a disgruntled undergraduate. I was rather free with the F’s last semester. My own injuries are of little consequence, but my Italian ten-speed was damaged beyond repair.”

“How’s the reading going?”

“Every poem feels like a punch in the face,” Pritcher said. “I’d go home except for the blizzard. Take care, old boy.”

Pritcher left the men’s room. Morgan splashed more water on his face, scooped some into his mouth, and swallowed. He dried himself with a paper towel.

Back in the lobby he flagged down two kids, torn jeans, skateboarder haircuts. “Who’s reading?”

“Some fag,” said the kid. “It sucks. We’re leaving.”

Wouldn’t that be nice, thought Morgan. To live such a simple life. It sucks. I’m leaving.

He stopped at the door to the auditorium. Maybe he could. Why not? Why couldn’t he just leave? Why should the skateboard kids have more freedom than he? Jones didn’t need him anymore. He’d make or break on his own. The dean expected him to make an appearance. Ostensibly, this was Morgan’s show. It had been his responsibility to get Ellis into shape for the reading. But there was no Ellis. The show, apparently, was a drag and would go down in history as the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened in Green County.

The hell if Morgan would stick around for that. He headed for the door but stopped when he heard the girl with orange hair back at the podium. The first two readers were done, and she was getting reading to introduce the old man.

Okay, Morgan told himself. He’d stay for one poem, see if the old man fainted or what. Morgan could at least do that.

The orange-haired girl said, “I’ve been asked to read this before we introduce our final reader.” She had a card in her hand. “The national weather service has issued a severe storm warning for eastern Oklahoma and parts of western Arkansas. I’ve been told that Fumbee city workers are now getting the plows out of the garages, but it will be a while before the roads are safe for travel.”

A low, hopeless groan rose from the crowd.

“But not to worry,” she said. “We have another fine poet for your entertainment. Originally, Sherman Ellis was scheduled to read, but there’s been a change. I’d like to introduce our next reader, Mr. Fred Jones.”

It took the old man long seconds to cross the stage. He looked ridiculously small and frail from the back of the auditorium. Someone giggled. The old man reached the podium, shuffled his papers, and wiped sweat off his forehead with a bony hand. Morgan’s heart broke a little bit.

He couldn’t quite see the bigwigs in the front row, but Lincoln Truman’s head leaned toward the dean’s. Confused murmurs.

“I’m Fred Jones,” he said into the microphone. He cleared his throat. “My first poem-”

Morgan couldn’t stand it. He closed the door, turned around, and headed for the nearest exit. He felt queasy, guilty. His hand reached for the door and froze when he heard the laughter. Aw hell, they’re laughing him off the stage. Aw, shit.

Go, get out the door, he told himself. You didn’t ask for any of this. But Morgan couldn’t move, couldn’t leave the old man. He went back, flung open the door in the back of the auditorium.

And the cheers washed over him. Students on their feet, howling.

Morgan blinked, rubbed his eyes to see if somehow Metallica had appeared and taken the stage. No. It was the old man. He shuffled his papers again and leaned toward the microphone. “My next poem is called ‘The Zydeco Gangster.’ ” He read:

The old man’s narrative unfolded. He read it like a pro, voice spinning its magic over the crowd. Morgan too was mesmerized. Jones was a natural. His gift radiated from him like a beacon.

The poem was sad and sweet and nostalgic, yet comic at the same time. Morgan did not remember this one. It hadn’t been in the stack of papers the old man had handed to him weeks ago.

The crowd roared, the applause shaking the building. It was right up their alley. A whole generation who’d thought poetry had to be about flowers and bumblebees. Now they’d heard poetry on steroids. Gritty. Extreme poetry like in a Mountain Dew commercial.

Morgan stayed to hear three more. The old man’s voice had found strength.

Perhaps they enjoyed it for the wrong reasons. Maybe there are no right or wrong reasons. It might not have been the reading Dean Whittaker wanted, but Morgan thought it was beautiful.

forty-four

Even over the blizzard, Morgan still heard the kids cheering.

The snow mixed with a little sleet. Morgan didn’t care, didn’t mind that it stung his face. His smile was a mile wide. Something good and right had finally happened.

Morgan ducked his head into the wind, put one foot in front of the other toward Albatross Hall. He wanted to find Valentine, have a drink, toast to Fred Jones’s success.

It was after working hours, and the main doors were locked. His keys jingled in his shaking hands. Finally, he found the slot, inserted, turned the key, and pushed the door open.

They grabbed him by both arms, rushed him into Albatross Hall, and shoved him to the floor. Morgan hit hard. He flipped over, looked up at ten black men in long coats. All had pistols out.

A man in a bright yellow suit pointed down at him. “Stay put, motherfucker.”

Morgan nodded. “Okay.”

“Anybody else in this building?”

“I don’t think so,” Morgan lied.

“What’s up there?” The black guy in charge pointed his gun at the ceiling. “Dorms or something?”

“Offices.”

“What you doing here?”

“My office. I left something. A book.” Morgan looked at the guns pointed at him and felt sick. “There’s nothing here of any value. What do you want?”

“We’re gonna go upstairs and kill everyone we see.”

Morgan gulped. What the hell’s going on?

“What you want to do, Zach?” one of them asked.

The man in yellow said, “Fan out and search the floor. We’ll work our way up. If Maurice said they were here, then they’ve got to be here someplace.”

“We ain’t seen Maurice.”

“We’ll find him,” Zach said.

“What about this guy?” Zach’s henchman indicated Morgan with a trigger-pulling motion to the head.

“Don’t shoot. They’ll hear it upstairs,” Zach said. “Just knock him a good one.”

The henchman leaned over Morgan. The butt of his pistol came down sharp and fast across the back of his skull.

Morgan’s eyes flickered open. He saw only darkness. He closed his eyes and opened them again. No change. He rubbed the back of his neck, climbed to his knees. He tried to stand and lost his balance. His hand flew out and he grabbed something wooden. It wasn’t attached to anything and didn’t offer any support. He fell forward into a pile of clattering items, metal and wood. Something fell on him, plastic and heavy.

He didn’t try to stand this time, crawled forward, a tentative hand in front of him. He found a wall, no, wait. It was wooden. Hinges. A door. He felt his way up until he found the knob. He twisted it, fell forward into the light, a clattering wad of brooms and mops. An empty metal bucket rolled out in front of him.

He staggered and stood, felt the back of his head again. Swelling. He looked at his hand. No blood.

How long had he been in the closet? Morgan checked his watch. No more than five minutes. They’d expected him to be unconscious longer, out of the way. Who the hell were those guys?

What had the gang leader said? He’d ordered a search floor by floor. If Morgan acted quickly, he could make it upstairs in time to warn Valentine.

Or he could save his own ass and run away like a little girl.

It shamed him a little that he paused an extra few seconds to decide.

He bolted for the stairs, legs still wobbly. He didn’t pause at any of the lower floors although he wished he knew where the gangsters were. Possibly they were already ahead of him. Perhaps he would find only bodies on the fifth floor. He didn’t stop to think about it, bounded up the steps two at a time.

When he reached the fifth floor, he collapsed, lay sprawled on his back, heaving for air. His lungs ached for breath. His stomach churned and burned with alcohol. His brain spun with the knowledge of imminent death.

He willed himself to his feet, jogged the maze to Valentine’s office.

He threw open the door, stumbled in, startled a “whoa” out of Jenks.

“There’s a bunch of black guys coming up here with guns,” Morgan said.

Morgan leaned heavily against the doorjamb, out of breath, sweat sticking his shirt to him, his heart nearing terminal velocity. His eyes took in Valentine’s office, darted around the room, and landed on Wayne DelPrego, who sat in a corner chair with his head in his hands. Morgan frowned. What was his student doing there?

Then Morgan saw Jenks. His eyes shot wide. “You!”

Jenks looked confused. “Yo, Professor. What are you doing-”

Morgan leapt, hands outstretched, a feral scream splitting the air. He hands went around Jenks’s throat, and both men tumbled to the floor.

“Where have you been, you stupid son of a bitch? I’m going to get fired because of your sorry ass.”

“Get him off me,” Jenks yelled. “Get him off.”

“Professor Morgan!” Valentine leapt on Morgan’s back, heaved him off Jenks.

Jenks rubbed his throat. “He’s crazy.”

DelPrego had watched the whole altercation unfold, hadn’t moved.

“I’ve looked everywhere for you!” Morgan deflated in Valentine’s grip. “Fuck it. Just fuck you.”

“These young men have been hiding here with me,” Valentine said. “Those men downstairs are killers.”

“No time for this story now,” Jenks said to Valentine. “We need a way out of here.”

Jenks went to Valentine’s desk, where Bob Smith had dropped the revolvers. Jenks had been glad to see the guns because he was afraid he’d need them. He tucked the.38 into his belt and checked the load on the Old-West Colt.

Wayne DelPrego sat up from his chair. He looked pale and distracted. In a low, even voice, he said, “Give me one of those.”

“No way,” Jenks said, without looking at him. “You’re not straight in the head.”

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

Maybe it was the eerie calm in DelPrego’s voice. Jenks nodded and handed the Colt to DelPrego.

Valentine thumbed two shells into the double-barreled shotgun. “I know a way downstairs. Follow me.”

They followed Valentine out of the office, zigzagged the crazy turns of the fifth floor, and stopped at a door with the word ELECTRICAL on it.

“Here?” asked Jenks.

Valentine opened the door, and Jenks recognized the fireman’s pole he’d helped the custodian carry. It descended through a wide hole in the floor. Before Jenks could say anything, Valentine leapt on the pole and slid down.

Jenks followed.

The fourth floor whipped past and the pole ended. There was an alarming second of free fall, and Jenks landed on a dusty mattress. It was the third floor.

Morgan landed on top of him.

“Get the fuck off.”

“Excuse me, Batman,” Morgan said. “I don’t have a lot of pole experience.”

They managed to roll out of the way right before DelPrego hit. The four of them were in an abandoned classroom. Valentine cracked the door to the hall, took a peek.

“I don’t see anyone,” Valentine said. “The stairs are directly at the end of the hall. We go down to the first floor, and there’s an exit outside right there.”

“Let’s go,” Jenks said.

They filled the corridor, stalked the hall with long, determined strides toward the stairs, guns at their sides, jaws set, eyes hard.

The door to the stairwell flew open and three gangsters filled the other end of the hall. Jenks recognized Red Zach’s men. They saw Jenks and the professors, and their hands went into their coats.

Valentine, Jenks, and DelPrego lifted their guns as one. The gangsters fired at the same time. The hallway erupted, shook with gunfire. Dust fell from the ceiling, plaster flying where lead hit.

Morgan hunched against the wall, arms over his head. He felt his coat jerk where a slug ripped through the fabric. He heard yelling, realized it was him.

Birdshot from Valentine’s twenty-gauge sprayed the first gangster. He dropped his gun, screamed. The other two fired back. Jenks fired three times. The first bullet went wide. The next two struck home.

The gangster who’d been sprayed with the birdshot lifted off his feet, a new red hole in his chest. The thug next to him fell back, his head spraying blood. He twitched on the ground a long second before going still.

The last of Zach’s men bolted back for the stairs, firing wildly over his shoulder. The door banged shut behind him, and he was gone.

Smoke and cordite hung in the air.

“Dear God,” Morgan said.

“We got to move,” Jenks said. “They heard the shots.”

They ran for the stairs.

DelPrego paused over the bodies of the dead black men. He stuck the Colt in his belt and picked up the two fallen pistols, heavy automatics, one nickel-plated.

Jenks looked back. “Fuck that shit, Wayne. Let’s go!”

They flew down the stairs, feet barely touching each step.

The exit led them out to the blizzard. It still howled, wind flinging snow and sleet.

“Where’s DelPrego?” Morgan shouted over the wind.

Jenks turned around, saw DelPrego wasn’t behind him. “Shit.”

These were the men who’d killed Timothy Lancaster.

DelPrego held the pistols like white-knuckled death. He’d scour Albatross Hall, and all would fall before him. Nothing mattered but his white-hot vengeance.

He found them on the second floor. They stood in a cluster, a half dozen of them, one gesticulating the story of the shooting on the floor above. DelPrego ran toward them, picking up speed with each step, arms extended and guns leading the way.

Their faces turned, eyes wide, screaming. They pointed guns back at him. Curses. DelPrego didn’t hear. There was only the hot buzzing, blood pressure pounding hot in his ears. He squeezed the triggers as fast as he could.

The hail of lead shredded the group, one gritting teeth, grabbing an arm. Another pitched forward. Two ran. Three returned fire, big automatics spitting fire.

DelPrego caught a slug in the leg, he screamed, went down, but twisted to keep his pistols aimed at the group. He kept squeezing the triggers even after his gun was empty. His head swam, stomach heaving. Another bullet plowed a deep groove into his left shoulder. Blood gushed with each heartbeat.

He lay on his side, dropped the empty pistols, and pulled the Colt from his belt. He cocked it, fired along the tile floor, and shattered the ankle of one of the gangsters. The gangster screamed, collapsed to the floor, squirming to get ahold of his ruined ankle. The puddle that formed under his shoe was thick and red and spread rapidly.

Two more bullets smacked into DelPrego’s chest. He no longer felt the pain, only the dull impact. He fired the Colt one more time, but the bullet went wild.

He was shot again. Again. His eyes looked up, dull and unblinking. The smile was faint and oddly peaceful.

forty-five

The three of them huddled against the blizzard, looked back at the door they’d used to escape Albatross Hall. DelPrego did not come out.

“Maybe he took a wrong turn,” Morgan shouted over the blizzard.

“H-he was r-r-right b-behind us.” Valentine had fled the building with only a light jacket. He was turning blue.

“His eyes,” Jenks said. “He had a crazy look. I think he’s going to do something.”

“Can someone please tell me what in the hell just happened?” Morgan asked.

“Get himself killed,” Jenks said, still thinking of DelPrego. “I better find him before-”

“D-don’t be a f-fool,” Valentine said. “You can’t go back in-”

Valentine’s head jerked around. Morgan and Jenks followed his gaze.

Distantly, figures took shape. They manifested out of the fog like floating stones, great, hard, square chunks of granite. Shoulders. Hands deep into the pockets of their long dark coats, hats pulled low to cover eyes. A ragged line of them moving forward, taking form as they stepped into the feeble lamplight. They did not heed wind or cold, only advanced like a silent, grim tide. Eight of them; no, ten. A dozen square-jawed ghosts.

“Jesus,” Morgan said.

“He ain’t going to help you.” Jenks’s hand tightened on his pistol.

Valentine clutched the shotgun to his chest. “No shells l-left.”

They marched toward Morgan, Jenks, and Valentine. Behind the line of men came another figure. He was small, bent against the cutting wind, thin hand holding a cloth cap on his bald head. He held on to the arm of one of the bruisers. The small man came within three feet of Morgan and stopped.

“The reading went well,” Fred Jones said. “I should kick your ass, but I enjoyed it.”

“Who are these men?” Morgan asked.

A blast of wind sprayed the group with sleet. Bob Smith had to use both hands to keep Jones from flying away. Jones’s thugs continued to march past.

“The kid told me about his troubles.” Jones nodded at Jenks. “I called a few old pals to come help.”

Jones turned to Valentine. “A guy from University of Arkansas Press was there. Asked me if I had enough stuff for a whole book.”

Morgan’s mouth fell open.

“That’s m-most fortunate,” Valentine said.

“You’re going to freeze your balls off,” Jones said. “Bob, bring the car around and pick us up.”

“Right, boss.” Smith lumbered back into the blizzard.

“The weather’s going to keep the cops off our backs for a little bit, but we got to move fast,” Jones said. “My guys will finish here. They know what to do.”

Jenks yanked on Morgan’s sleeve. “Wayne.”

Morgan said, “One of my students is still in there.”

“I got to look for him,” Jenks told Jones.

“Nunzio!” Jones waved over one of the long coats.

The guy had big, red cheeks, black eyes. “Mr. Jones?”

Jones jerked a thumb at Jenks. “Take this guy inside. He lost a lamb. Make sure he ain’t shot by accident.”

“Right. This way, kid.”

Morgan watched Nunzio lead Jenks back into Albatross Hall. The building looked like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe tale-dark stone, windows like vacant eyes, the snow piling at the corners. Morgan looked down, saw that Jones had latched on to his arm. He’d been holding the old man up. Morgan hooked arms with Jones, stood close to shield him from the wind. Jones let him.

Jones craned his neck, lifted his mouth toward Morgan’s ear. The old man was trying to tell him something. Morgan leaned forward, cupped his free hand around his ear to block the howling storm.

“You got to help me get my book into shape to show this Arkansas Press guy,” Jones said. “He says he’ll leave a slot in the schedule open this fall.”

Morgan said he’d help.

Dull gun blasts echoed from within Albatross Hall. Blue light flashed in the windows.

“W-what are they doing?” asked Valentine.

“Sweeping up,” Jones said.

A sudden flurry of shots like a spurt of microwave popcorn, flashes from the third floor.

Jones’s car pulled up on the sidewalk with Smith at the wheel. The big sedan carved dirty furrows in the white snow. Morgan opened the door for Jones. Valentine went around the other side. They climbed into the car, sighed relief at the warmth.

“Are they going to be okay?” Morgan looked at the dark windows of Albatross Hall.

“They’ll be fine,” Jones said. “I need some soup.”

Under the car’s interior light, Morgan took a good look at the old man. His lips were blue, breathing shallow.

Morgan took his hands. They were lumps of hard ice. “You okay?”

“I can’t feel them.”

Morgan put the hands between his own, rubbed hard.

“It was like you said,” Jones muttered. “When I knew I had the crowd. They loved it. I could feel them. It was the best I ever felt.” His voice was fading.

Morgan pulled the old man close, tried to give him body heat. This little, gnarled poet. Morgan’s deus ex machina hero.

Jenks knelt on the cold tile next to DelPrego’s body. His head ached from holding back the tears. Finally, he gave up, let them roll hot and salty down his cheeks and over his lips. Down the hall, Nunzio dragged a gangster’s body by the ankle, pulled him to the edge of the pile of bodies the hoods were making. It had been at least five minutes since Jenks had heard gunshots.

Jenks pushed himself to his feet. He felt tired, a hundred years old, like he’d been awake for a week. He looked at the last body Nunzio had put on the pile.

“You know any of these?” Nunzio’s hand swept over the pile.

“A few,” Jenks said. “The one on top is Red Zach.”

Jenks studied Zach, the slack, expressionless face. Eyes glassy and dull. It seemed impossible that this man had ruled his life. It was a hundred years ago he’d been Zach’s go boy, running errands. He had even hoped to be like Zach one day, but now the man was only cold bones and loose flesh and an already fading memory of fear.

The cocaine was gone. Red Zach gone. Even Sherman Ellis was gone, with no family to remember him. It was all gone. For Harold Jenks, only the whole, wide world remained.

forty-six

It took an hour for Bob Smith to drive Morgan home. None of Fumbee’s stoplights worked. Power was out in various neighborhoods. Fortunately, the roads were nearly deserted, most folks having enough sense to stay at home.

Jones regained some of his color and his voice was stronger. The sedan had good heat and Smith flipped it to full blast. Jones offered Valentine a spare bedroom and the old professor gladly accepted.

Morgan’s porch light told him he was one of the fortunate few who still had electricity. He bid everyone good night, rushed up the steps and into his little house. He found the thermostat and thumbed the heat up until it clicked on. He stood over one of the vents, let it blow warm air up his pant legs.

He moved into the kitchen, rummaged every cabinet until he finally tuned up a half-full bottle of Cutty Sark he didn’t remember buying. He filled a juice glass and sat at the kitchen table still wearing his coat. Valentine had told Morgan about Jenks. That was the kid’s name. Harold Jenks. Morgan still wasn’t sure he understood what had happened.

He wondered if Ginny were okay, vaguely wished she were with him. He didn’t feel like being alone, wasn’t really sure how he felt. His night had been a horror of dead bodies, yet Morgan felt relief he wasn’t one of them. He’d begun this mess with Jones bailing him out, hiding Annie Walsh’s body. Morgan could no longer remember Annie’s face. It didn’t seem like part of the same life.

Now Jones had bailed him out again, even given him a ride home. A strange, sweet, odd old man. Morgan drained the Cutty Sark.

He was so tired but forced himself to shower. The hot water felt good.

No towel on the rack when he stepped out of the shower. He dripped and shivered as he walked to the hall closet, feet slapping wet on the floor.

Morgan didn’t even see the lamp until it was an inch from his nose. It shattered against his forehead, and Morgan went down, blinked blood out of his eyes. He climbed to his knees, shaken, opened his mouth to yell. A fist caught him hard on the jaw, rattled teeth. He bit his tongue, more blood.

Morgan lay on his back, legs curled awkwardly under him. He looked up into the grinning face of the man over him. Stubble. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles. All disturbingly familiar.

The man’s left arm ended at a red stub, which had been wrapped in white gauze, blood spots seeping through.

“Oh, no.” Morgan heard his own voice, small and without breath. It sounded like fear.

Deke Stubbs laughed, a low wicked mix of scorn and amusement. “I thought you might remember me, Professor.”

“I thought…” Morgan rolled over, wiped the blood out of his eyes. His head throbbed.

“You thought I was dead?” Stubbs shook his head. “Nope. But I can see how you might think that since you left me trapped in the back of a goddamn car that was sinking into the fucking ocean.”

Stubbs kicked Morgan hard in the ribs, and Morgan whuffed air, went into a fetal position. Stubbs kicked again. A third time. Morgan felt something give along his side, wondered if a rib had cracked.

“I want to tell you something, Jay old boy,” Stubbs said. “When you’re halfway through your own arm with a saw, you really learn how to hate. I’ve killed you so many times in my imagination, I’ve lost count.”

“Please.” Morgan backed away, tried to stagger to his feet but froze when he saw the automatic in Stubbs’s only hand.

“In one scenario, I shove broken glass up your ass for an hour before I put a bullet in your head.” Stubbs stood close to Morgan, stuck the barrel of the automatic against Morgan’s temple. “But that’s too quick. After what I been through, everything’s too quick for you. You’re going to learn about a whole new bright world of pain. There’s going to be jagged things and sharp things and fiery hot things, and it’s all for you.”

Morgan said, “I just wanted out of the car. I thought it was sinking.”

Stubbs slapped the barrel of his gun across the side of Morgan’s head. Little fireworks went off behind Morgan’s eyes. Bells. Morgan felt something cool on his cheek. It was the floor.

Morgan was dizzy, couldn’t get his bearings. He lost track of Stubbs, allowed himself the fantasy that Stubbs had left, changed his mind for some reason.

But Stubbs was too in love with vengeance. Morgan felt his wrists being bound together. Some kind of thin cord. Then he was being dragged into the bedroom. Morgan could only get one eye open, the other caked closed with blood. He tried to twist around, see what Stubbs was doing.

Morgan felt himself lifted by his wrists. He was half on his bed, half on the floor. The cord holding his wrists had been lashed to the bedpost. Stubbs’s footsteps retreated into the next room, but his voice carried. He was still talking, telling Morgan his gruesome story.

“After I sawed off my hand,” Stubbs said, “I think I was in some kind of shock. The memory is a bit hazy, but I think I climbed out of the Mercedes.” Stubbs voice was closer now. “I threw up too. My gut was tossing pretty bad. Like I said, shock. Also, I swallowed about a gallon of salt water.”

Morgan smelled smoke, heard Stubbs inhale. A cigarette.

“Anyway, I wasn’t much good to swim with only the one hand. I couldn’t work against the tide. I floated along even with the shore for a while until my feet touched bottom and I trudged ashore.”

Morgan felt the white-hot cigarette butt grind into his left ass cheek. He screamed, tried to twist away, but Stubbs held it in place. Finally, he let go.

Stubbs flicked the butt away. “Look at that. My cigarette went out for some reason. Guess I better light another.”

The burn throbbed, made Morgan nauseous with fear and pain.

“I had to tie a tourniquet with my belt, pull it tight with my teeth,” Stubbs said. “If things slow down, I’ll tell you how I cauterized the wound. By the way, as if you couldn’t guess, yes it was pretty goddamned awful.”

Morgan realized with cold dread that this was only the beginning. Stubbs had nursed his hatred since Houston and wouldn’t be satisfied until Morgan suffered every possible agony Stubbs’s warped mind could generate.

Morgan filled his lungs with air, screamed as loud as he could. “Help! Help! Police! Call the-”

Stubbs’s body crushed against Morgan’s. Stubbs forced the professor’s face into the mattress. He clubbed Morgan twice more with the butt of the automatic pistol.

“No, no. That’s not how we do this.” Stubbs’s breath was hot on Morgan’s ear. “I know what you think. Maybe the police will hear or maybe not, but anyway maybe I’ll panic and kill you quick and clean. No way. I got plans for you. You’re going to beg for a quick death before this is over. And, buddy, just scream your fucking head off because nobody’s going to hear you over that blizzard out there.”

Morgan only half heard, was only half-conscious. Black spots claimed his vision. He didn’t think he could take any more blows to the head. Maybe that was better anyway than being awake for Stubbs’s torture session.

“Session,” Morgan said out loud.

“What?” Stubbs lifted Morgan’s head off the mattress by his hair. “You trying to say something, Professor?”

Morgan wasn’t paying attention. He’d stepped one foot into a dreamland, saw Valentine smoking his bong, DelPrego and Lancaster in his writing workshop. Was this what they meant by your life flashing before your eyes? If so, Morgan was disappointed.

“Disappointed,” mumbled Morgan.

“What?” Stubbs frowned. “Dammit, don’t you go out on me. I need you awake for the fun.”

And this Harold Jenks son of a bitch, thought Morgan. This is all his fault, getting me involved with drug lords and gunfights and cocaine.

“Cocaine,” Morgan said.

Stubbs shook Morgan, slapped him lightly on the face. “Come on, now. Wake up. What was that about the cocaine?”

Morgan didn’t move. Stubbs shook him again. “The cocaine, Professor?”

“What?” Morgan’s good eye flickered open.

“Don’t play dumb. You were talking about the cocaine. Where is it?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Morgan said.

“Did I mention I was going to put things up your ass?” Stubbs said. “Now start talking, goddammit!”

Morgan forced himself to concentrate. “You’ll let me go if I show you where the drugs are?”

Stubbs laughed, a sick wheezing sound. “Hell, no. But I promise not to do all that sick shit. Show me where you’ve stashed the coke and I’ll kill you clean. No pain.”

“Untie me,” Morgan said.

“Fuck you.”

“Untie me and I’ll show you.”

“Just tell me.”

“No,” Morgan said. “I don’t like being bent over like this. You’ll do something to me.”

“Tough shit.”

“Untie me.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Stubbs said.

He unlashed the cord from the bedpost but left Morgan’s wrists bound. As Stubbs did this, Morgan turned his head, saw that Stubbs had stuck the gun under his other armpit so he could use his good hand to untie the cord. Morgan saw what was probably his only chance. He wanted to hit Stubbs in the face, make him drop the gun, surprise him, anything. If he could get past him, Morgan would even run out into the blizzard naked, maybe try to flag down a car.

Morgan lurched to his feet and lunged, swinging two-handed at Stubbs.

Stubbs sidestepped easily, popped Morgan in the nose with a right cross. Morgan felt cartilage snap, felt warm blood pour down his face and over his lips.

Stubbs laughed, took the pistol from his armpit, and dropped it into his coat pocket. “What? You think since I got only one hand, I can’t take a pussy like you?”

Morgan rolled onto his stomach, tried to crawl under the bed.

Stubbs shook his head. “Now that’s just pathetic.”

Morgan got halfway under the bed. Stubbs bent over, grabbed Morgan’s ankle, and pulled him back.

Stubbs tsked. “Looks like we’ve got to do this the hard way now. Doesn’t bother me none, but you’re- Oh, fuck!”

Morgan had rolled onto his back, Fred Jones’s little revolver in a two-handed grip held out in front of him. Stubbs fumbled for the automatic in his coat pocket, but Morgan squeezed the trigger.

The first shot was unsteady, shredded Stubbs’s groin. The private eye went down, his one good hand clutching his balls, blood pooling. Morgan pulled the trigger again, blasted a hole in his bedroom wall. The third shot caught Stubbs in the top of the head, sprayed bone and brain.

Morgan dropped the gun, crawled away from the body. He watched a long time, waited for Stubbs to get up, but nothing happened.

Morgan limped into the kitchen. The adrenaline rush was rapidly leaving him. The aches and pain flooded in, head and ass throbbing, ribs screaming with every breath.

He found a kitchen knife, sawed the cords awkwardly until he was free.

Morgan went into the bedroom one more time. Looked at Stubbs to make sure he was still dead. He looked at his bedroom, the blood. A mess. He looked at the gun on the floor, the one Jones had given to him so long ago. It seemed like forever.

Then he picked up the phone, dialed.

“Bob,” Morgan said. “Is he still awake? Okay, put him on.” A pause. “Mr. Jones? I know it’s late, and it’s been a long day. But there’s just one more loose end I need you to help me tie up if it’s not too much trouble.”