The old man shifted in his seat, glowered at Whittaker, spoke for the first time. “Is this guy on the dope? Don’t saddle me with no dopehead.” His voice strained like an old sedan trying to crank. A deep Northeastern accent. New York? Philadelphia? Morgan had no idea, but the old man wasn’t an Okie, that was for sure.
“You can count on Morgan, Mr. Jones. He’s rock solid.” Whittaker shot a look at Morgan that said
“That’s right,” Morgan said. “I was just deep in thought, trying to figure the best way to approach the project.”
Fred Jones stood, joints creaking. “It ain’t goddamn rocket science.” He made for the door.
Whittaker and Morgan stood as well. Morgan opened the door for Jones.
Whittaker said, “Morgan and I will work out the details, Mr. Jones.”
“Don’t take forever,” Jones said without turning. “I’m only getting older.” And he was gone, shuffling out of the office and down the hall, an old man a lot bigger than his bones.
“For Christ’s sake, Morgan, you could show a little interest.” Whittaker flopped back heavy in his chair.
“I’m interested,” Morgan said.
“Jones doesn’t think so. You better act fascinated as hell when you see him again. It’s not like folks walk in and hand the department a big fat check all the time.”
Morgan wondered why he was going to see Jones again. He couldn’t ask. Whittaker would know he hadn’t been listening. “So how do you suggest going about, uh, the project?”
“The hell if I know. Just keep him happy. Maybe the old buzzard will put us in his will. Don’t you have a class?”
Morgan looked at his watch. He did have a class. It had started three minutes ago.
Outside the dean’s office he saw Ginny the reporter coming for him with her hand raised. Fortunately, the department was crowded with undergrads trying to get their schedules changed before the end of the drop/add period. Morgan ducked into the flow of students, pretended not to see Ginny as he scooted down the hall. He didn’t quite run. But he walked very, very fast.
“DelPrego.” Morgan looked up from the roll sheet, saw a bored youth in a T-shirt and jeans lift his hand. Hair shaggy and over his neck, dishwater strands falling over his eyes.
He went through eight grad students like that, all dripping attitude. One actually wore an ascot. A goddamn ascot! What the hell was that kid’s name? He scanned the roll. Timothy Lancaster III. Christ. Morgan made a mental note to humiliate and demean the kid soon.
He called the last name on the list. “Annie Walsh.”
Morgan marked her absent, then asked the class, “Has anyone… uh… seen Annie Walsh?”
“She wasn’t in my eight o’clock class.” The kid in the white T-shirt. DelPrego.
The Lancaster kid cleared his throat. “It’s been my experience that Annie Walsh has some sort of allergic reaction to early-morning classes.”
Morgan wondered if the girl was still home in his bed. He supposed she might have a whale of a hangover.
Morgan pulled Lancaster’s poem from the bottom of the pile. “Okay, let’s start with you, Timmy.”
“Timothy, sir.”
“Eh? What?”
“I prefer Timothy to Timmy.”
The DelPrego kid snickered.
Morgan’s predatory smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Your poem’s called…” He squinted at his copy. “What is it?”
“‘The Fallible Quiescence of a Wrathful Jehovah.’ ”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s about the disparity between free will and-”
“What’s this about in line seven?” Morgan asked. “Fuzzy nut sacks…”
Lancaster’s lips moved as he counted lines. “Nut soldiers. It concerns-”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
DelPrego squirmed in his seat, bit his bottom lip. He couldn’t stand it.
Lancaster had a little sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I use
“Squirrels?”
Lancaster said, “It’s really a metaphor for a much broader-”
“It’s squirrels, isn’t it?” Morgan said.
“Yes, sir, but-”
“Your poem’s about squirrels, Timmy.”
DelPrego’s face had purpled, his shoulders shaking with barely controlled laughter. He stuck the heel of his hand in his mouth to stifle himself. Others in the class giggled openly.
Morgan sifted the pile of poems, moved DelPrego’s to the top.
two
Harold Jenks was one tough nigger, and everybody knew it. You had to be tough to work for Red Zach.
Jenks liked to call himself the King of East St. Louis, but that was sort of a joke too many of the neighborhood folks took seriously. More accurately, he was king of about seven square blocks between the bus station and the Missouri State Welfare Offices. But everyone knew Jenks was Red Zach’s boy. That made Jenks important.
Jenks and Spoon Oliver hung out in the alley near the bus station. They sipped beer and smoked and waited for something to happen. It was after midnight. When you worked for Red Zach, you didn’t keep regular hours.
Jenks’s boy Spoon nudged Jenks in the ribs and pointed down the alley. “Check it out.”
Some nigger coming down the alley, carrying big suitcases. Jenks watched a minute, puffed his cheap cigar, a Philly Blunt he bought at the convenience store along with a sixteen-ounce can of Bud Light in a little paper sack.
“So what?” Jenks drank his beer.
“Toll,” Spoon said.
Jenks shrugged. “Shit.”
“I say we toll him. This our alley or ain’t it?”
“We ain’t charged toll since we was sixteen,” Jenks said. “We work for Zach now.”
“I’m cash short,” Spoon said. “I say we do it.”
Jenks sighed, tossed down the cigar stub, and stamped it out. “Okay, but don’t go all crazy.”
Jenks backed up behind the Dumpster, gave the “stay down” motion to his partner Spoon on the other side of the alley.
When the victim got between them, Jenks and Oliver leapt. Poor nigger dropped the bags and tried to run, but Jenks had a fistful of his jacket, and Oliver tackled his legs. They all went down in a pile.
Jenks saw the kid was about his age, maybe twenty-two. He yelled, but Jenks twisted, got on top of him. He punched down hard across his face, twice. A third time broke the kid’s lip open, and dark blood smeared down his chin. Jenks let up when he saw the blood.
Oliver stuck a knife to the sucker’s throat. “Give it up, boy.”
“Let me go,” the kid said. “Take the bags. I got money. Take it.”
“Shut up.” Jenks gut-punched the kid. He pulled the wallet out of the kid’s jacket, counted the bills. “Eighty
