Pistol Poets

the class was about. You read your poem, then let everyone talk you down.

Fuck that.

Whenever Morgan asked the students who’d like to comment on the poetry, the professor’s eyes always landed on Jenks briefly before Jenks looked away. This wouldn’t play for long. Sooner or later Jenks would be expected to speak up.

Another grad student read his poem. Jenks had tuned out. These people were all speaking some other language. His poem didn’t sound anything like theirs.

“Mr. Ellis!”

Jenks blinked. The professor had to say Sherman Ellis’s name twice. Jenks hadn’t been listening. “Yo.”

Morgan frowned. “Yes, yo to you too. We have just enough time left to workshop your poem.”

Jenks cleared his throat and read:

If it weren’t for family,
Sister, father, brother, mother,
How would I know when I was home?

I thank God for my family
Each one is like no other
I take them in my heart wherever I may roam.

Jenks was still working on his masterpiece, but he’d needed a poem quick. So he’d taken this one from a greeting card he’d seen in the grocery store. He looked at the professor for a reaction. Morgan had his nose all wrinkled up like he smelled dog shit. That couldn’t be good.

“Well, isn’t that warm and fuzzy,” Morgan said.

“It is a bit saccharine,” Lancaster said. “I’m not sure such an abundance of sentimentality concentrated in so few lines is the best strategy.”

Jenks couldn’t tell if he was being disrespected or not.

DelPrego yawned, ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “It’s crap.”

Oh, yeah. Jenks was being disrespected all right.

Part 2

fourteen

Deke Stubbs had the kind of scruples one would expect in a private eye.

Which is to say he didn’t have any.

Stubbs leaned back in his office chair, heaved his thick, short legs upon the desk. He smiled his gray teeth, cradled the phone against his thick chunk of chin while popping open a warm Busch. He had a sucker on the line and smelled a payday. The sucker used to be a client.

But Stubbs needed a shave, a new suit, a muffler for his Dodge, last month’s rent, and a blow job. And all that cost money.

“I know you paid me to take these photos of your wife,” Stubbs said to the client. “But I was thinking your wife would pay more.”

The guy squawked angry on the other end.

“I’m not trying to put the bite on nobody,” Stubbs said. “I was just supposing out loud. That’s all.”

Stubbs sipped beer, listened to the client give him an earful. The guy called Stubbs every name in the book, made the usual threats. Stubbs didn’t care. He took it all in, waited. He knew the guy would cough up if he wanted the divorce case settled his way. No matter how much the client paid Stubbs, he’d save money in the long run by showing his wife was doing the dirty with the family dentist. Same old story every time. The client was really yelling now. He didn’t seem to want to let up.

“Listen,” Stubbs said, “I don’t like you talking to me like that, but I’m going to forgive you because I know this is a surprise. Maybe a little stressful. But normally I’d come over there and stick a long knife right into your fat belly. Maybe I will anyway. You ever stick a knife into somebody’s belly? The blood pours out all warm and sticky. And when you twist the knife, the blood keeps coming. Sometimes the blade gets into the bowel. The bowel juice gets mixed in with the blood, smells something awful.”

Silence on the other end.

Stubbs’s office door creaked open. Stubbs looked at his watch. His 10 A.M. appointment was fifteen minutes early.

A man and a woman entered. Upper-middle-class. Professionals. Good citizens. About two years ago, Stubbs had decided he needed a better class of sucker, so he’d sprung for a big advertisement in the Yellow Pages. It was a great ad. He’d used words like discreet, professionalism, and state- licensed. The ad had brought in a whole new kind of clientele. Half of them turned around and walked out the moment they saw Stubbs. But the other half more than paid for the ad.

“I’ll have to call you back,” Stubbs said into the phone. “Think about what I said.”

He hung up.

“We’re the Walshes,” the man said. “I’m Dave and this is my wife Eileen.”

“Have a seat, folks.” Stubbs waved a hand at the two rickety chairs across his desk.

They sat.

Stubbs said, “Now on the phone you mentioned something about your daughter.” Stubbs pawed through his top desk drawer. He was out of Winstons. “Either of you folks have a cigarette?”

“We don’t smoke,” the woman said.

“Annie,” Dave said. “She’s missing.”

The wife leaned forward, grabbed the edge of the desk. White knuckles. “It’s been two weeks!”

Stubbs nodded, pulled a legal pad out of his top desk drawer. “I’m just going to take some notes, okay? You tell me all about it.”

They talked. Stubbs listened.

The woman was obviously in charge. Dave would start a sentence, but Eileen would finish it. They were desperate. Annie had never gone this long without calling before.

Stubbs made concerned noises, wrote on his notepad.

When Eileen Walsh signaled she was done with her story, Stubbs set the notepad aside. He steepled his hands under his chin, looked deep into their eyes, and said, “I’m going to need some money up front.”

It was two in the afternoon the next day when Stubbs left Tulsa traveling east toward Fumbee. His Dodge sounded good. He wore a shiny new black suit (on sale at Sears). His rent was paid current, and his dingus still tingled from Lola’s all-night love fest. Stubbs made a mental note to buy her a dozen roses. No, make that carnations. Roses were too expensive.

He lit a fresh Winston, puffed hard and fast.

He unfolded the map, and found the little spec that indicated where he was going. Eastern Oklahoma