Pistol Poets

cabinets, closets, and drawers. She realized, even as she was doing it, that her actions were the result of a minor, quirky character flaw. She hated to be left out of anything, hated the thought that something was going on and she wasn’t in on it.

Once, when she was eleven years old, she’d painted a Magic Marker moustache on herself and taken her father’s Dodge. She’d picked up two friends and went to see an R-rated movie in which there was rumored to be nudity. The policeman who brought her home warned her father he’d better keep an eye on her.

The incident had only strengthened her resolve to get away with things. She made up her own rules as she went along, and damn the consequences.

Screwing Professor Jay Morgan was a thrill. He was older (a teacher!) and a writer. He hung out with dangerous criminals! Helping Professor Morgan stash the body of the dead girl had been one of the most exciting things she’d ever done. She’d been so horny in the peach orchard, she’d been unable to keep her hands off him.

But Morgan had been a bit of a dud since. He seemed timid, almost frightened, that he was going to be caught or that something would go wrong. Oh, the sex was halfway good, but she could get sex anywhere. And rummaging Morgan’s closets was dullsville. Pale blue Hanes boxer shorts, a half-used tube of BENGAY, and a clip-on tie from Sears were the highlights.

She thought about putting her clothes on, leaving a note for Morgan.

No, she’d wait. One more roll in the hay before cutting him loose.

Deke Stubbs screeched into the parking space in front of the convenience store. He shut off the engine, went in, hands shaking as he pulled crumpled bills from his pants pocket. He bought another six-pack of beer and a pack of cigarettes.

The girl behind the counter looked scared of him. Stubbs caught his reflection in the fish-eye mirror behind the girl. He looked distorted and evil, eyes red, skin waxen and moist. I’m a villain, thought Stubbs, like in a creepy foreign film or a Stephen King novel. Stubbs didn’t watch foreign films or read much beyond the sports page, but he knew he’d crossed some line and couldn’t get back.

On his way out to the car he ripped a phone book out of a booth. He sat in the front seat, flipped through the residential listings until he found Jay Morgan’s address.

He popped a beer, gulped half, lit a cigarette, and sucked it slowly. He let out a long gray breath.

There was nothing to do now but see this through. He nodded to himself, pleased with the grim finality of his decision. Yeah, he’d have to go all the way. The Lancaster kid wasn’t coming back, and it wasn’t like Stubbs planned to turn himself in and say he was sorry. Rage and craziness had killed the kid. Stubbs would have to get his shit together from there on out. It was all or nothing.

Tracking down the cocaine was his first priority. He’d look for Annie Walsh still, and he’d send the parents a bill of course. But following Annie’s trail might lead him to the drugs. He was way too deep into this shit not to get some kind of payoff.

Stubbs finished the cigarette, started the engine, and pointed the car toward Morgan’s house. No more kid gloves. He’d find out what Morgan knew about this the hard way or the easy way. It didn’t matter.

Stubbs was committed.

He found Morgan’s house and parked across from it on the street. He watched for ten minutes, but didn’t see anybody in the windows. He drank one more beer while he thumbed through the Hustler again.

When he finished the beer, he crushed the can and tossed it into the backseat. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out his.45 automatic. No spare clip or extra bullets. He hardly used the thing. But now it was a sign he meant business. All the way. He shoved it into his coat pocket and climbed out of the car.

The sudden cool air on his sweaty face was a shock. He woke up a little bit. Breathed deep. His chest burned with beer and too much smoking. He belched, tasted acid.

He spit and started up the short walkway to the house.

He knocked, waited. Nobody.

This might even be better if the guy wasn’t home. He could break in through the back maybe and poke around.

He knocked again. This time he heard movement. Somebody was coming to the door. One hand fell into his coat pocket, clutched the grip of the automatic. He heard locks turning.

The door opened a crack. A girl on the other side, hair tousled. Broad shoulders and a nice face. A hand holding up a bedsheet to her neck. Soft, round breasts floated underneath. They swung interestingly as the girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other and tried to get a better hold on the sheet. “Yes?” She looked through the crack at Stubbs.

“I’m looking for Morgan.”

“He’s not here. Can I take a message or something?”

“Who are you?”

A little frown from the girl, and Stubbs guessed what she might be thinking. She was young. Shouldn’t answer the door naked, honey. Not even in a sheet. Stubbs’s private-eye instinct kicked in, and he ran the possible scenarios through his brain. Maybe Morgan was married, had a little thing going with a student on the side. Anyway, she didn’t like being asked who she was.

“I’m just a friend of his,” she said. “He’s letting me stay here for a while.”

“Uh-huh.”

Stubbs pushed his way in. She didn’t know what to do, stepped aside for him. He looked around, gave the place the once-over. Not a lot of personal stuff, like maybe Morgan hadn’t lived there too long. “I need to see him. Maybe I’ll wait.”

The girl didn’t like that. “He didn’t say anything about when he might be back. Better maybe if you just left a message.”

“Where did he go?” Stubbs was still looking around the house, craned his neck to see back into the kitchen. He didn’t look at her. He bent over the coffee table, spread the magazines around and looked at the titles. “Paris Review. What’s that? From France?”

“No, it’s- Look, I don’t think you should wait,” she said. “He might not be back for a while.”

Now Stubbs turned his gaze on her, red-eyed, dark bags underneath. “Oh yeah?”

The girl realized her mistake. “I mean he might be back any minute. Just that you shouldn’t wait. In case he’s a little late.” She trembled now. She was talking herself into being scared. “But he might come through the door any minute.”

“I asked who you were.”

“Ginny.”

Stubbs stepped toward her, and she eased away from him, the sheet dragging on the floor. Stubbs stepped on it. She tugged gently, and Stubbs grinned. He breathed loudly through his mouth. Licked his lips.

“Please.” She tugged at the sheet again. Her voice was calm, but her hand shook worse where the sheet was bunched in her fist. “I’m stuck. You’re on the sheet.”

“Yeah.” Stubbs liked the soft, half-seen curves of her under the sheet. Big tits, round hips. He liked it when they were afraid.

He stepped on the sheet with his other foot. It pulled tight, and Ginny gasped, used both hands to pull back and keep herself covered. “Don’t.” She meant to shout it, but it came out plaintive. She couldn’t find breath, couldn’t raise her voice. A cold, paralyzing chill ran through her. “Don’t,” she said again, and she could only stare at him, feebly holding on to the sheet.

He moved close, grabbed the sheet in his free hand, and yanked it away. He still had the other hand in his gun pocket.

A scream rose up but caught in Ginny’s throat. She only made a sick, strangled bleating sound. She felt like lead, sank back against the wall. Stubbs crowded her, breathed his stink on her neck.

“So I think you’re ready to talk to me now, right?”

Stubbs touched her hip and she jumped.

“Yeah, you’re ready. I want to know about Annie Walsh.”

So that’s it, thought Ginny. He knows. He found out about the peach